“My little lamb,” I murmured, finally able to give in and touch her. I slid one hand around her neck, finding that stray tendril in back and curling it idly around one finger as I spoke. “The things I want to do to you…”
Her lush red lips parted. “If you do those things to me, you’ll have to fight for them.”
“Is that what you really want?” I asked, moving her silky hair between my fingertips. “Or is this your way of asking me to leave?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want you to fight me for it. I want to fuck you, and I want it to be rough. I just also wanted you to know that I’m so furious with you right now, and it makes me want to leave scratches all over your body.”
I almost groaned at that. Every word she spoke made my cock throb painfully, and I was torn between jumping feet first into this hatefuck or dropping to my knees and begging her to put my dick out of its misery.
She cleared up that dilemma for me when she palmed my erection through my tuxedo pants, squeezing hard. “I want you to hurt when you come for me,” she hissed.
“And I want to fucking tear you apart,” I growled.
Her eyes flashed. “I’d like to see you try.”
My hand was wrapped around her throat in an instant, pushing her back into the cold glass of the mirror. My other hand found her wrist and moved it above her head, but before I could properly pin it against the glass, she slapped me across the face—hard—the crack resounding through the small studio like a gunshot.
I staggered back—more surprised than hurt, and harder than ever—and she slipped from my grasp, ducking under my arm and bolting for the door. With the lacy skirt of her dress bunched in one hand and her gold heels shining in the moonlight, she looked like a princess out of a fairytale. This wasn’t a fairytale, though, and even if it were, I certainly wasn’t playing the role of prince tonight.
I caught up to her in a few long strides, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face me. Her foot shot out, connecting with my shin, the bright flash of pain loosening my grip enough that she could try to pull away—try being the operative word. I reached for her waist and wrapped an arm around it, pulling her tight against me and pressing my erection into her stomach.
“You feel that?”
She squirmed against me, trying to wriggle free.
“That’s for you, lamb,” I told her, pinning her tighter against me, making her feel every inch of my hardness through our clothes. “It’s all for you.”
And then I kissed her, my mouth crashing against hers, and she moaned into my mouth, forgetting herself and opening her lips to me, letting my tongue flicker against hers. Everything about her was so soft right now—her mouth, her stomach against my steel-hard cock, the upper arm I still held tight in my grip.
So soft—
Four lines of pain, blazing and sharp, razored down my neck. I felt anger and lust and that uniquely visceral thrill that came from feeling as if I’d paid a penance, as if I’d endured a just punishment; I pulled back to see Poppy’s eyes wide and feral in the light, her hand still raised.
Our gazes met. Blood welled hot out of one of the scratches, spilling over and down into my tuxedo shirt.
And then she tried to run again.
I managed to hold on to her enough that she only made it a step or two, and then the momentum took us both. We fell into a tangled pile of lace and legs and arms, and I struggled to regain a hold on her, but she was too fast, up on her hands and knees trying to crawl away, and I crawled after her, stretching out to wrap a strong hand around her ankle.
She shrieked in protest as I hauled her back to me, climbing over her and trapping her body under mine. “Let’s see what I’ve caught,” I rasped in her ear, pinning both her wrists with one hand and then using my other hand to lift the skirt of her dress.
She kicked her legs and tried to twist away, but my position on top of her made escape impossible. Somewhere, in the back of my lust-addled mind, a messenger from my conscience revived. Make sure she’s still okay, it demanded. Check to see if she needs to stop. After all, we’d had rough sex before, but never in anger. Never like this. This was uncharted territory.
My fingers paused at the edge of her silk panties. My hand shook with the effort of stopping; hell, my whole body shook with the effort of stopping. But I did it. One faint point in Good Guy Tyler’s favor.
“Do you want me to stop, lamb?” I forced myself to ask. “I can stop.”
Her mouth twisted into a victorious smile. “Why, are you afraid of losing?”
“I won’t lose,” I growled.
“Then shut the hell up and fuck me!” she panted. “I already told you I wanted it this way, what more do you need?”
Good Guy Tyler would probably need lots more things. But Good Guy Tyler wasn’t here right now.
Father Bell was here instead. And church was in session.
Still holding her wrists to the floor, I started rubbing her clit over the silk of her panties, relishing the way her eyes fluttered shut when I found just the right pressure, just the right tempo, and she stopped tried to wriggle free, instead bucking her hips up to meet my hand. Even the outside of her panties were damp, which made me think of our heated moment in the loft, which made me think of Anton and the fact that I wasn’t sure if he was still down here searching for Poppy or not. In a moment of renewed anger, I fisted one side of her underwear and tore them off her hips, shredding the delicate embroidered fabric and leaving her sweet cunt bare for me.
And then I spanked it.
She let out a little squeak, squirming away from me, and I spanked it again, just to hear her make that noise again. I got to my knees and straddled her waist, leaving her pussy wet and exposed behind me. With the hand not holding her wrists, I fumbled with my button and zipper, my dick springing free, dark and veined and so hard it ached.
“Open those red lips for me,” I said.
“Make me.”
I moved up her body and angled myself forward, the flared crown of my cock nudging against her lips, which were pressed firmly closed. “You want me to make you?” I threatened.
She raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Quick as a flash, I let go of her wrists and reached into the bodice of her dress, where I found an erect nipple and twisted. She cried out in mingled pain and pleasure, parting those lips, and I thrust my hips down at the same instant, shoving myself inside her mouth.
I let out a string of swear words the moment my dick was inside, pushing against her tongue. Fuck and shit and Jesus, that feels so good. I started moving in and out, and then I let go of her wrists to brace myself more heavily on the floor, my other hand tangling deep in her hair.
I shouldn’t have let go.
She flipped onto one side, unsettling my balance and also removing her delicious mouth from my dick, and then she scrambled out from underneath me. I tried to hold onto her hair and then she was struggling with me, and I wasn’t sure how she managed it, but there was another slap and then a shove so hard that I tumbled backwards, my head knocking against the wood floor. Adrenaline pounded through me, the urge to fight and to fuck, and then she was crawling up my body like a tigress, her face wild and sexy as hell with her slightly blurred lipstick and stray hair falling from her up-do.
She straddled me, pressing her bare pussy against my bare cock, and it was a twisted version of the first time we’d ever fooled around together, her rubbing herself against me while I grabbed her hips to move her harder and faster. But this time I wore a tux, not a priest’s collar, and we were in Poppy’s dance studio, not a church. And this time she swatted my hands away impatiently, moving her hand up to squeeze around my throat.
I stilled.
Everything was so wet where she was sitting on me, so fucking wet and warm, and then without warning, she was tucking her skirt in one elbow and then gripping my root and then moving up and oh my fucking God oh my fucking God oh my fucking God.
So tight. So wet. So fucking warm.
Her pussy enveloped me in one rough movement, and her hold on my throat tightened as she started fucking me harder than she’d ever fucked me before, taking me to the hilt and then bucking against me, the sweet pink berry of her clit rubbing against the muscle above my cock.
She moved violently, ferociously, punishing me for all of my sins—and fuck, if this was the punishment I deserved, then I would sin again and again and again. She wrapped her other hand around the lapel of my tux jacket, using the lapel and my throat for leverage, and she was like a woman possessed on top of me, riding me as hard as I’d wanted to ride her.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, closing my eyes, barely able to breathe past her hand around my neck. I couldn’t watch her any more, that needy clit or those red lips or that elegant hand holding my lapel in a death grip. It was all too much, I was far too worked up, and I could feel a biting, gnawing hurricane gathering at the base of my spine.
“Don’t you dare come,” she half-ordered, half-pleaded. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not yet.”
I opened my eyes, and this time when I reached for her hips, she let me. I helped her move faster and harder, and it was only a few seconds more before her breathing grew ragged and her hips moved jerkily, a blush staining her chest and cheeks. And then she cried out, slumping forward onto me—her hand still fast around my throat—her pussy quivering in tight, squeezing flutters.
“Oh God,” she was moaning, her face buried in my tuxedo jacket. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.”
And that is when I noticed that I hadn’t closed the door to the studio properly, leaving a small crack visible to the hallway. A shadow hovered in that hallway, a figure standing just to the side of the door. It only took one glance to confirm; Anton had finally found us. And he was watching.
Let’s give him a show, a terrible version of myself thought. Why don’t you show him what it’s like when you get to take what’s yours to take?
I flipped us over, Poppy’s orgasm-weak hands sliding off of me as I started driving into her. I had one arm around her waist and the other holding my weight, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t deep enough or hard enough or fast enough. I wanted Anton to see how rough my lamb let me give it to her, I wanted him to be able to feel the force of my fucking her through the floor, through the walls. I wanted the whole studio to shake with it.
I pulled out and stood up, my dick like a thick, dark knife jutting out from my tux, and then I reached down and hauled her to her feet. She was unsteady and dazed, still panting and flushed from her climax, and she didn’t protest as I walked around and tugged on the zipper to her dress.
Unzipped, the dress gaped in back, the straps threatening to slide off her shoulders, and I helped them along their way, stripping her completely naked, save for her strapless bra and heels. Poppy had once stripped for me in a club, and had stripped for me privately many times since, but those times, she’d been in complete control of her body and her sex. Those times, she’d held all the power, all the control.
Not this time.
This time, there was an undercurrent of darkness, of all the most misogynistic and prideful impulses a man can have for a woman. I wanted her to feel naked, vulnerable and humiliated, and I wanted Anton to witness it. I wanted him to see every inch of her sweet, perfect body and know that it all belonged to me, to use or degrade however I wanted. It was beyond sinful, it was borderline evil, and even the dim recognition of how terrible it was only served to inflame me more.
“Take off your bra,” I demanded hoarsely, still behind her and looking down at her chest from over her shoulder.
Shaking, she obeyed me, reaching behind her back and then letting the small black bra fall loose. I let out a short, heavy breath at the sight of her breasts—sweet and full and ripe and pink at the tips. I stepped closer, grinding my erection against her ass while my hands found her tits, palming them with rough, hard movements. Around us, the mirrors reflected every angle of our bodies ad infinitum, a never-ending tunnel of my tuxedo and her ivory skin and my hands so cruelly pulling and squeezing.
“Look,” I whispered in her ear, hoping Anton was looking too. “Look in the mirrors. Can you see yourself?”
She nodded against me, her eyes on the mirror directly across from us, where she watched one of my hands drift down to her stomach and then lower and lower, until my middle finger began stroking her clit. She squirmed.
“I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see what I see when I fuck you, what other people would see if they were watching us.” Since we are being watched, I almost added but didn’t. This was between me and Anton, this struggle for possession. Poppy didn’t need to know.
I pointed to the closest wall, where a two-tiered barre was installed against the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She knew without me elaborating what I wanted, and she walked over to the barre, letting her hands settle onto the wood as she took a deep breath.
She watched me approach in the mirror, and when I got close enough, I gave her ass a firm smack. “Foot up on the barre, lamb. I want to see that cunt.”
She lifted her foot, the gold heel tumbling off and falling to the floor, and then she extended her leg, resting her ankle on the barre. So now she stood on one heel, both hands braced on the barre, and with one leg stretched out to the side. All completely naked.
I rubbed the head of my cock at her wet entrance, digging my fingers into her hips as I angled my body and slowly pushed into her pussy. “Watch it, lamb. Watch.” I reached up and found her face, forcing her to look at the mirror to her side, where the reflection perfectly framed my dick thrusting up into her.
She shuddered at the sight. “Tyler,” she said breathlessly. “I’m going to—oh God.”
“Not yet,” I said, leaning back a little so I could enjoy my own view better. “Isn’t that what you said to me earlier? Well, I’m saying it to you now. Not yet. Not until I’m pumping you full of my cum.”
“Jesus,” she mumbled, her head falling forward. “I don’t think I can wait.”
I was still watching my glistening dick pull out of and then push into that tight, pink pussy, that pussy that was so deliciously open in this position. With her leg up on the barre, I could hit her deep inside, and with the mirror in front of her, I could see every fleeting smile, every silent gasp, and it made me almost crazed to see how good she was feeling when I was being so very, very bad to her.
“You like it when I use you like this?” I asked her. “When I strip you and humiliate you?”
“Yes,” was all she could manage. Her tits bounced and the muscles in her thighs were bunched with the strain of this position, and that jagged heat was at the base of my spine, and then deep in my pelvis, and then exploding inside me and through me, with all the heat and shearing force of a hydrogen bomb.
I should find her clit and rub it hard, I should make sure she comes again, but holy fuck, it felt so good and I needed this so bad, needed to fill her up with me, needed to release, needed to fuck her blind. And so I pounded into her as my climax shredded through my body, pounded her so hard that she fell forward, her face pressed into the glass of the mirror, and then she was screaming my name, screaming God’s name, as her channel contracted around me. Her support leg gave out and so in the end it was only my hands gripping into her hips that kept her upright as I drained my balls into her, not easing up until I knew every last drop was inside of her, until every pulse and throb of my dick had finally, finally stilled.
I stayed there just a second more, not moving, just feeling the heat of my climax inside of her, just staring at her flushed, sated face—which was still pressed against the mirror—and simply savoring every toned, taut line of her body. It was with the utmost reluctance that I pulled out, severing our connection and dispelling whatever magic and fury had taken hold of us in here.
I hoped Anton had seen every second of it, but when I glanced at the door, he was gone. I gently set Poppy back onto her feet, helping her find the lost heel, and then when we both straightened and our eyes met, it crashed into me, sharp and explosive.
The guilt.
The shame.
The knowledge of what I had just done—from being late to the gala, to my gnawing jealousy, to my using my lamb like a whore, just to prove a point to another man. And to prove something to her and also to myself, and fuck.
I’d fucked up.
I wasn’t looking in the mirror right now, but if I was, I wouldn’t recognize the man standing there.
He wasn’t a priest.
He wasn’t a good man, and he certainly wasn’t a good husband. And when I looked into Poppy’s newly tearful hazel eyes, I knew that nothing was okay.