So even though this is terrible timing, she won’t use her safe word.
But she will fight me.
Her first effort isn’t very valiant. It’s a whispered plea. “Don’t do this.”
“I really don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do.” I use the towel to pull her toward me so her body is flesh against mine, then I move both ends to one hand so that when she reaches back to slap at me, I can grab her wrist with my free hand and wrench her arm between us.
“Please.” Her fight strengthens, so I pull her arm harder, until she squeaks from the discomfort. The sound fuels my arousal, and I know from past self-examination that it’s not because her pain turns me on, per se. In a roundabout way, it might contribute to my lust because I’m turned on by her pleasure, and I know this sort of struggle gets her off, but even beyond that, I enjoy this sound because it means that, at this moment, she’s weak. At this moment, she’s overwhelmed and has no choice but to surrender.
That’s what I’m here for—her surrender. Her submission. Whether she hands it over or I have to fight for it, it’s all the same to me. I only care that in the end she knows that she truly and fully belongs to me.
I’m committed to being inside her now. As soon as possible. With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I still manage to realize that getting her covered in cocoa powder and mascarpone would not be ideal. Roughly, I use the towel to pull her farther down the island, then release it so I can twist her arms together and pin them with one of my hands at her hip.
With my other hand, I forcefully pull at the chiffon covering her bosom until the wraparound tie of her dress loosens enough to free one breast. She’s braless, so it’s plump flesh that spills out. I flick her taut nipple before taking her in my hand. Her back is arched because of how I have her pinned, and the position pushes her chest out, making her bosom appear fuller, and God help me, I’m tempted to spin her around and have a full course feast on that single breast, company be damned.
It’s as if she knows what I’m thinking. “I need to…” Get back to the tiramisu, she means. “You need to…” Stop.
The word doesn’t come, not that it would stop this anyway. Her breast is not my end game, though, so while I don’t stop, I twist her nipple, eliciting a yelp that sends more blood to my cock, and then abandon her breast to gather her skirt at her waist.
Her fight renews, and she jerks, trying to throw me off of her.
“Just let it happen,” I say, knowing the patronizing calm of my voice probably pisses her off. Gets her heart pumping. Makes her clit throb.
“Fuck you.”
“If that’s what you want…” I kick her legs apart, wrapping my arm around her completely when she struggles. Getting her panties off isn’t easy with one hand, especially when she keeps trying to stomp on my foot. When she lowers her head, I’m too distracted to realize she’s going for a bite on my hand. “Goddammit, Sabrina.”
In surprise, I loosen my hold, and she escapes and turns to face me. There’s anger in her expression. Arousal, too. Her stare is hard and hot, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a real challenge to our balance of power.
I could stop.
I should stop.
But I see the kitchen shears in the knife block, and before I’m aware of my decision, they’re in my hands, and I’m pressed against her, the blades at her throat.
She swallows, and I worry that I’ve gone too far. Theo Sheridan held a knife to her neck, cut her clothes away, threatened her life. In a flash, I drop my hand and cup her face with my free palm.
Then I kiss her. And I tell her I love her. Not with words, but with my lips.
The kiss turns possessive. And violent. And by the time she’s pounding at my shoulders with her fists, I’ve already managed to get the blade of the scissors around the band of her panties. A few cuts, and I’m able to rip the rest away.
“I’m getting in that cunt. Don’t fucking fight me.” I let the scissors fall to the floor and flip her around so I can wrap her loose hair around my fist and push her torso down to the island. She whimpers from the pressure I use, and I’m so intent on my goal, I wonder if I could stop now if she used her safe word.
For good or bad, she doesn’t.
And after a bit of a battle with my zipper, I have my cock out and positioned. I know she’s wet—I can see she is; I smell her arousal—but I thrust in like she’s dry. Like I expect friction, and force is necessary to get as deep inside her as I want to be. As I need to be.
And I fuck her like this.
Angrily. My palm on her face to hold her down, even as she scratches at the back of my hand. My thighs slapping against hers. My cock driving like I’m racing the goddamned Indy 500. The control is mine, and I’m so sick with the power of it, that I’m barely able to hold on to it.
It’s when Sabrina starts to tighten around me that I come to myself.
Somewhat.
Enough to slow down, take a breath, wonder what the fuck I’m doing.
I blink out of my haze and take stock of her. My cock is drenched with her juice, and she was close. My sudden decrease in tempo scared that climax away.
So I have work to do.
I wrap my arm around her and find her clit. “Show me you want it,” I demand, careful to keep the nonconsensual scenario real for her while rubbing her nub with my thumb. “Show me how good my cock feels, and I’ll stop.”
“I hate you,” she spits. “You’re a monster.” But she’s tightening again, and my cock feels warm with a flood of moisture.
I tug on her hair until her neck is arching off the island. “Show me.”
Show me you wanted this.
Show me I’m not really a monster.
Show me this sick relationship of ours still works.
When the sound of a glass shattering comes from the next room, she’s close. “Don’t lose it,” I warn. “Stay with it. I won’t stop until you come.”
She lifts her head and angles it toward the door, straining to hear, but she stays tight. I increase the pressure of my thumb on her clit. I speed up my thrusts. We listen to our friends’ voices rise as they scurry to clean up a mess. Nate mentions napkins. Elizabeth calls Sabrina’s name. Someone will come looking for us soon.
“I’ll still be fucking you when they walk in,” I promise. “I’m not stopping until you come on my goddamn cock.”
That does it for her.
She erupts with a quiet cry. Her body is still shaking when I pull out and put my cock away. I grab the dish towel off the floor where it’s fallen and swipe the bottle of Riesling, and when Trish pushes through the door, I’m already walking toward it.
“We’re so sorry, but we had a party foul and—”
I cut her off. “On it,” I say, ushering her back out, leaving my wife to pull herself together in privacy. “The broom’s in the closet out here.”
Surprisingly, I feel better, despite the hard-on that I manage to keep hidden with the business of cleaning up. While I gather broken shards of glass, I remind myself I don’t really believe in God while simultaneously praying that Sabrina realizes our conversation is far from finished.