"There he is." Something fierce burns in those gold-flecked eyes, almost triumphant. "Stop holding back."
I stop holding back.
The first hard thrust makes her cry out, her head tipping back into the pillow. I do it again and her nails rake down my back hard enough that I'll feel it for days.
Good. Mark me. Claim me. Show me you want this.
"Yes—" She wraps both legs around me, pulling me deeper. "Like that. Don't stop."
I fuck her hard enough that the headboard cracks against the wall with every stroke. She is moaning loud and unrestrained and the sounds sink into my bones.
But I want more.
I pull out. She makes a sound of protest, reaching for me, and my cock twitches at the loss of her heat.
Patience. This isn't about what I want. It's about what she needs.
I grip her hips and flip her onto her stomach. She gasps, hands fisting the sheets, and I haul her backward off the bed until her feet hit the floor.
I bend her over the vanity across from the bed. Her palms slap against the surface, bracing herself, and the mirror throws her reflection back at both of us. Hair messy, lips swollen, mascara smudged, skin flushed all the way down her chest.
Seven years of watching her through screens, and nothing,nothing, compares to this.
She starts to turn her face away.
I grip her chin and turn it back toward the glass.
She wrenches against my hold, eyes squeezing shut.
I loosen my grip immediately. "What do you need?"
"It's not you." Her voice is tight, strained. "It's—I can't look at myself. Not like this."
Adrian taught her that too. Taught her that her own reflection was something to avoid.
"You can." I hold her gaze in the mirror, my chest pressed against her back. "When's the last time you wanted something that wasn't for Chesca? For the family? Just for you?"
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Nothing comes out.
"That's what I thought." I grip her hip with one hand, my cock pressing against her entrance. She doesn't freeze. A week ago, this position would have stopped everything. Tonight, she arches into it. "Be selfish, Angelina."
I thrust into her in one hard stroke.
Her mouth falls open on a cry, hands scrambling against the vanity. A small ceramic dish skitters toward the edge. The tight heat of her gripping me makes my focus blur.
"Take this for yourself." I pull back and slam in again, my fingers digging into her hips. The vanity rattles against the wall. "No one else. Just you."
"God—" Her voice breaks. "Cole—"
I set a brutal pace, fucking into her hard enough that her whole body rocks forward with each stroke. A bottle of perfume wobbles, tips, spills across the surface, jasmine flooding the room, thick and expensive.
"My Chanel—" she gasps, but she does not stop moving or even slow down. "That was—ah—two hundred dollars—"
"I'll buy you ten." I thrust harder, and whatever protest she was forming dissolves into a moan. "A hundred. I don't care."
She laughs, actually laughs, breathless and wild, and then the laugh cuts off into a cry as I hit something deep inside her.