nineteen
Harper Apple
I raise my hands to push Mr. Dolce away, but before I can, a hand shoots in front of me, throwing him across the room. Mr. Dolce flies backwards, slamming into his desk and reeling sideways, crashing to the floor. Royal grabs my arm and wrenches me out of the chair so hard my feet leave the floor. “What the fuck is your problem?” he rages, ignoring the groan of his father from the floor on the far side of the desk.
As he drags me out of the office and back down the hall to the stairs, I consider telling him that I’m not the one with the problem, and he should maybe be more pissed about the fact that his dad was hitting on his girlfriend, but then, he warned me. I just had to know more, though, just had to go sticking my nose in his business. It’s a curse, really, this wanting to know what makes people tick.
“Are you really so fucking desperate that if I won’t fuck you, you’ll go hit on my father?” Royal snarls as he stomps up the stairs, dragging me after him. I fight to pry my wrist free of his iron grip, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he manhandles me down the hall to his room like I’m no more than a ragdoll.
He shoves me through the door into his darkened bedroom, releasing me so suddenly I stumble forward. Before I can regain my footing, he grabs my arm and drags me backwards. I don’t have time to get my bearings before he slams me up against the wall beside the door. His eyes are wild, mad, unfocused as he thrusts a hand between my thighs, his other hand closing around my throat.
“Get away from me,” I snarl, shoving at his chest. He doesn’t seem to feel it, crowding in closer, his eyes blazing as he yanks at the drawstring on his pants. He slams the door closed with his palm, plunging us into complete blackness.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my breath hitching. I can’t tell if I’m afraid he’ll listen, or afraid he won’t. I’m terrified of what he’ll do to me, but at the same time, watching him lose control is addictive. There’s a careening thrill to it, like watching a train barrel toward you and knowing you can’t stop it, that it’s too late to get off the tracks.
Is this what I’ve always wanted, why I’ve kept pushing buttons, hoping to find the very one I just pushed?
“I’m fucking you,” he says, grabbing my jeans with both hands and wrenching them down with one quick motion.
I start to protest, but before I can even bend to grab them back up, he’s pinning me to the wall again, his broad shoulders holding me in place while he yanks my thighs open and rams his cock against my opening.
“Royal, no,” I gasp out, shoving at him as my body tightens, locking him out. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re not wet for that asshole?” he growls, a hint of triumph in his voice. He spits on his hand, slicking it over the head of his cock before pushing it to my opening. A hot throb of desire shoots straight to my core at the sensation of his smooth, warm skin over the unyielding hardness beneath. “If you weren’t planning to get fucked tonight, why is your pussy shaved?”
“Wait,” I cry, but he thrusts upward, tearing into my resisting flesh. A strangled cry chokes from my throat, tears of pain springing to my eyes as my walls clench around him. He leans his forearm on the wall over my head and drops his forehead against it, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. He doesn’t move, but I can feel his thick cock stretching me open, straining against my walls as they spasm around his length. I tremble at the knowledge that he’s only halfway in, that the pain is only beginning.
“Oh god,” I gasp. “Royal, stop. You’re hurting me.”
With a brutal thrust, he forces himself to the hilt inside me. “Did you think I was going to be gentle? You know me better than that, Harper.”
My body curls in on itself, a sob choking from me, choking off my words, my air. I can’t breathe, can’t speak. Pain spirals from my core, up through my stomach, wrapping its tendrils around my heart and squeezing until it cuts off all other feeling. I didn’t expect gentleness, but I didn’t expect this, either. It happened so fast, I can’t even comprehend what’s happening, that he’s fucking me.
He doesn’t though, doesn’t move further than penetration. He keeps me pinned to the wall like a butterfly, spread open and impaled on his cock. Part of me knew this would happen, was waiting for it, resisting it every bit as much as he was. And now it’s happening. I try to breathe through the pain, to adjust to this new world in which I’ve fucked Royal Dolce.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he ask, his voice edged with taunting. “You’re all over my dick every chance you get. You asked for it. Now you’re going to get it.” He rocks slowly, rhythmically grinding his pelvic bone against my clit as he speaks, until the pain subsides and tingles of pleasure begin to curl out from where he’s working me like the pro he is. The stretch of my walls around his thickness makes me lightheaded, and the way he’s rocking makes his cock hit all the right places inside me. I hate my body for reacting, for feeling anything but pain. I want to scream, to shove a knife in his fucking heart to show him what it feels like.
But arousal throbs inside me as I adjust to his size, to the sensation of a huge, hard cock buried deep inside me.
“Baby, you’re so tight you’re going to milk the cum all the way out of my balls,” he croons. His voice is completely changed, and if I didn’t know him, I might think it was sexy and coaxing. But I can hear the edge of taunting cruelty under it, the bitterness, the hatred. The hollowness.
The words sound as if he’s said them a hundred times, to every girl.
“I wasn’t ready,” I choke out, bracing my hands on his chest to push him away. He shoves them aside, grabs my wrists and pins them to the wall on either side of my head. He pulls out just an inch, then drives in quick and sharp. I can hear the wet sound of my cunt, like a kiss. Royal chuckles.
“You’re ready now,” he says, that haughty, arrogant lilt still laced through his words. He draws back and slams into me again, crushing me against the wall. I wince when he hits the deepest, tenderest place inside me, where no one has been before. But he’s right, my body is ready now, whether I want it or not. I’m wet, and he slides back until only his tip is inside me, then drives in deep again, burying himself to the hilt inside me. I struggle to pull my hands free even as my trembling thighs open for him, craving the contact, the end to the torment of wanting him for so long.
“You wanted me to fuck you, right?” he asks, his voice a cruel taunt, his grip becoming tighter around my wrists the harder I struggle. “You asked for the Royal treatment. If you wanted a pussy, you should have fucked a chick.” He punctuates each sentence with a deep, vicious thrust. I asked for it, I did, but I didn’t want it like this. He’s giving me exactly what I wanted—what I thought I wanted. It should feel good to give in, to let ourselves have what we’ve been denying ourselves since the moment we met.
But it feels emptier than all the other times put together. I don’t know where Royal is, but he’s not in this room with me. I try not to care, to tell myself it doesn’t matter as he pounds into me hard and fast, slamming me into the wall with bruising force. My breath escapes in little gasps, and he adds a low grunt with each brutal thrust, the wet sounds of our sex the only other noise in the darkness.
I wonder where he is, where his mind is, but not for long. My head drops back, and I close my eyes, giving in. Good dick feels good, and it’s dark enough in the room that I can pretend he’s someone else, too.
I could if there were anyone else I wanted to fuck, that is. I don’t want anyone else, though. I want Royal. I want to touch him, to bring some intimacy to the moment. I want to run my hands over his bare shoulders, feel the power trembling in his chiseled muscles, in his huge body that dwarfs mine and looms over me, trapping me as he owns me with each stroke, controlling the depth, the pace, the rhythm that sings through my blood and binds me to him in some dark, sick pleasure.
At last, he releases my hands, gripping my thighs instead. His thumbs cut into my flesh as he rotates my thighs, grinding into me. Then he grabs me around the waist, lifting me and slamming me down on him. He grips my ass hard enough to leave bruises, forcing me down hard as he grinds upwards into me with a guttural groan. I cry out in shock when he pulls out, pressing his wet, hard cock to my bare skin. The sensation fills me with an erotic thrill of wet heat. For a second, a minute, we don’t move. I can feel his heart hammering and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breaths come short and fast against my neck. His cock throbs every few seconds, sending a pulse of heat into my center, and I wait for the liquid fire of his cum to spurt against me, but it doesn’t come.
Reality comes back slowly, my senses returning. I can smell the sweat on his skin, and the whiskey on my breath, and the scent of our sex in the air around us. I rest my hands on his shoulders as if to steady myself and feel the dampness on his skin, the way little tremors rock through his body. I don’t pull away, even though I could now that he’s released his punishing grip. I let him fight his internal battle for control.