Page 111 of His Forced Bride

It's loud and it's humiliating, but it feels incredible.

I bite down on his shoulder through the fabric of his suit, muffling myself, but he only chuckles darkly.

“No hiding. Let them hear you if they pass by.”

The thought terrifies me, yet it makes my pulse race faster.

I can’t control the sounds that tear from my throat as his pace builds, driving me higher until I’m clenching around his fingers.

Heat rips through me in waves, my climax tearing loose before I can fight it.

My body shudders and jolts, and he slows only enough to draw every last spasm out of me.

When I sag against him, trembling, he pulls his hand free and presses his slick fingers against my lips.

“Taste what you beg me for.”

Shame sears through me, but I part my lips and take him in.

The salty tang fills my mouth, and his eyes darken as he watches.

“Good girl,” he says. "Now ride me.”

He shifts, undoing his belt with one hand while still holding me with the other.

The metallic click of the buckle echoes, followed by the rasp of his zipper.

I lift myself enough for him to shove his trousers down, freeing himself.

The sight of him—thick, hard, pulsing with need—makes my throat tighten.

He positions me above him, his grip bruising at my hips.

“Now,” he commands, and I lower myself onto him.

The stretch burns, every inch forcing me open until I’m filled completely.

A ragged cry escapes me, my nails digging into his shoulders as he drives me down until I’m seated fully.

“Fuck, Inessa,” he groans, head tipping back for the first time, his control slipping.

“What are you doing to me? Your body fits me like a glove."

He doesn’t let me find a rhythm.

His hands drag me up and slam me back down, over and over, the brutal pace tearing gasps from my throat.

My body bounces against his, the chair groaning beneath us as if it might break.

Each thrust grinds his cock deeper, and pleasure coils hard and fast inside me again.

“I want to hear you beg,” he demands, his mouth at my ear, teeth catching my skin.

“Tell me who owns you.”

“You,” I gasp, the word spilling out with no thought.

“You own me.”