“You fucking bitch,” he growled.
I wanted to hit him again. I wanted to tear his clothes off. I wanted both at the same time, and I didn’t care what that made me.
His hand shot into my hair and fisted at the root, yanking my head back so hard my scalp screamed. His other hand landed flat between my breasts and shoved. My back hit the counter edge, and pain bit into my spine. His hips pinned mine. He was hard—rock hard against my stomach—and his breath came hot and ragged against my cheek.
I grabbed his bottom lip between my teeth and bit down until I tasted blood.
He snarled. His eyes went black—fury and hunger tangled together until they were the same thing. He spun me around and slammed me over the counter so hard the air was forced out of my lungs, my breasts crushed flat against cold granite. One palm pressed between my shoulder, fingers digging in, holding me down. His other hand grabbed the back of my skirt and wrenched it up over my hips. The fabric ripped at the seam. He didn’t stop.
He stood still for one second.
“No panties?” A low laugh scraped out of him. “You reallyare a desperate little slut tonight.”
I tried to push myself up. His hand slammed me back down, pinning me flat.
I heard his belt buckle. The clink of metal, then the slow drag of his zipper coming down. Then his cock fell heavy and hot against the back of my thigh, and every nerve in my body lit up.
No easing in. Just the thick head pressing against my entrance, holding there for one agonizing second—long enough for me to feel exactly how exposed I was, bent over the counter in a torn skirt with my ass in the air.
He drove into me in one brutal stroke.
I cried out. I wasn’t ready, but it didn’t matter—I was wet, embarrassingly wet, and he sank in to the hilt while my walls clenched tight around him like a fist. Pain and pleasure hit at the same time, tangled up so completely that separating them became impossible. My fingers scraped uselessly against the granite, looking for anything to hold on to, and found nothing.
He fucked me hard. Mechanically. Each thrust shoved my hips into the counter edge with enough force to leave bruises I’d find tomorrow. There was no rhythm to it—just raw, punishing need, his hips slapping against my ass, the wet sound of it filling the kitchen.
“Fuck—Peter—” I didn’t recognize my own voice. Half-begging. Half-giving up.
His open palm cracked across my ass, and my vision went white. “Shut. Up.” Another slap. Harder. Then another. Each one landed on the same spot until my skin burned and I sensed the welts rising, and I pushed back into it like an animal because I needed it—needed the sting, needed thehurt, needed to experience something besides the empty ache he’d carved into me over years.
His fist tightened in my hair and pulled until my back arched and my throat was bared. His other hand wrapped around my throat. Not squeezing—pressing. His fingers found my pulse and pushed until my heartbeat roared in my ears and the room started to soften at the edges.
“You wanted to be wanted?” His mouth was right against my ear, his voice low and guttural, barely a voice at all. He didn’t slow down. Each word came between thrusts that bottomed out inside me until pain and pleasure blended. “This what you need? To be used like you’re nothing? To be fucked like you don’t even deserve a name? Is that what you want?”
I tried to answer. His fingers tightened on my throat, and the words died before they reached my mouth. But my body answered for me—I clenched around him so hard my thighs shook, my pussy wet and throbbing, slowly running down the insides of my legs. I could hear it with every stroke, the obscene wet sound of him driving into me over and over in the kitchen where twenty minutes ago I’d been holding a salad.
He slapped my ass again. Right on the welt. I sobbed—not from pain, from overload, from being so full of rage and need and shame that my body didn’t know what else to do. His fingers dug into my hip bone, nails breaking skin, using me for leverage as he fucked me harder, deeper, each thrust grinding me into the counter’s edge until I knew I’d be black and blue across my hips for a week.
And I took it. Every inch. Every bruise.
Because this was the most he’d looked at me in months.
“Take it,” he growled, his grip tightening around my throat until the kitchen started to go dark at the edges. The world shrank down to just his voice and the fullness of him inside me, stretching me, punishing me. “Take every fucking inch like the worthless whore you are.”
I came so hard I stopped breathing.
It hit like a seizure—my whole body locking up, my walls clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses that I failed to control and didn’t want to. Wetness flooded between my legs, hot and shameful, dripping onto the tile beneath us. The sound that came out of me wasn’t a moan. It was raw and guttural, choked down to a whimper by his hand on my throat. It sounded like giving up. It sounded like finally.
He didn’t stop.
He fucked me straight through it. Didn’t slow down, didn’t ease up, just kept driving into me while my body spasmed and clenched around him like it was trying to pull him deeper. I was shaking, oversensitive, every nerve screaming, and he used me like I wasn’t even there—like I was just someone warm and wet he was finishing into.
His rhythm broke. His hips jerked, fingers digging so deep into my throat that I saw stars. He slammed into me one last time and held there, buried to the hilt, and I felt him come—each hot pulse inside me, felt his cock twitch and empty in thick, explosive surges that filled me until I was unable to tell where his body ended and mine started.
He stayed inside me, panting, hand still around my throat. Aware of the last weak throbs from him, I sensed him softening slowly while his cum leaked around the base of his cock and dripped down where we were still connected.
Then his fingers loosened and pulled away from my neck.
The essence of them was still present, every single one, pressed into my skin as if they’d left permanent tattoos.