Page 29 of Coerced Kiss

As the first jet of cum hits her thighs, she goes still. Every one of her muscles locks into place. She’s not moving an inch, but an animalistic instinct demands that I pin her to the table with my fingers curled around her nape while I paint her back and her ass, layering white ribbons of cum over the streaks of red on her skin.

Fuck.

I’m spent.

It takes a moment to find my balance. Catching my weight on my arms with a hand planted on either side of her hips, I hang my head and calm my erratic breathing. Breathe her in. She smells like summer and sex, and isn’t that the most intoxicating fragrance?

She lies motionless under my hold with her face turned to the side and her eyes pinched shut.

I release her neck and step back to tuck my cock into my pants. A moment passes after I zip up, but I can’t stop looking at her. Such a pretty portrait. So messy. So depraved.

I can look all day, but Giorgio is waiting. If I don’t leave soon, Luigi will start asking questions.

Bending over her, I pull up her panties and lower her dress. The kiss I plant on the shell of her ear is meant as a consolationnot for the spanking but for defiling her body in such a dirty way and for loving every second.

My words are hushed. “All right?”

She turns her face the other way in a futile effort to shun me.

I brush her hair from her sweaty forehead before lifting her into my arms and carrying her to the bedroom.

“I can walk,” she says, pushing on my shoulders.

“I know.” I tighten my arms around her. “Shower?”

She averts her eyes. “No.”

I guess her motivation for declining has everything to do with not wanting to shower with me and nothing with wanting to soak in my cum, although I don’t mind the latter. On the contrary, I welcome the idea. I like to know I branded her with my handprint and my seed. Like a caveman, I want every other male to understand that this woman is mine. My property. My own little toy treasure. I’ll chop off hands and dicks to prove it.

Nevertheless, she needs to rest, and she won’t nap well with sticky cum drying on her skin.

“Go have a shower,” I say, lowering her to her feet in front of the bathroom. “I’ll fix you lunch.”

She finally meets my gaze, defiance sparking in hers. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

She makes to turn, but I wrap my hand around her wrist. When I reach for the hem of her dress, she steps out of reach. I reel her in, keeping my fingers locked around her arm, and lift the skirt to inspect her midriff. I want to be sure the hard edge of the table didn’t hurt her.

Satisfied that there are no marks on her belly, I let her go. She all but runs into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds on the other side. I chuckle to myself. As if a door would stand in my way if I wanted to get to her.

As soon as the water comes on, I walk to the kitchen and go through the fridge. I frown as I scan the contents. Except for the take outs I left last night, there’s not much, and the pasta will be stale. The cream sauce may have gone sour, and the shrimps could be off. The food may smell fine, but that doesn’t mean bacteria haven’t already developed.

I dump everything in the trash, which leaves her fridge empty save for eggs, milk, juice, and a few condiments.

A quick inspection of the cupboards turns up the same finding. The shelves are almost bare. Surely, if she lives in a high-end apartment, she can afford food. Whatever little groceries she stocks—such as oats and a ginger infusion—are high quality, organic brands.

Not having a wide selection to choose from, I settle on an omelet. While it cooks, I set the table. By the time it’s done, Anya steps from the bedroom, wearing a T-shirt, leggings, and socks. Her wet hair is brushed back, the wild curls tamed, and I’m so stunned by the unconventional beauty of her face that I’m tongue-tied for a moment.

“You’re still here,” she says with undisguised disappointment.

I pull out a chair by the table. “Where else would I be?”

She crosses her arms. “Catching a flight?” Adding with a bite in her tone, she continues, “Preferably miles from here.”

“Sit.”

She doesn’t budge.