Page 30 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

His mouth crashed into mine, not a kiss but a siege, his lips bruising, his tongue invading with a ferocity that stole my breath.

I fought back, my teeth catching his lower lip, drawing a sharp hiss from him as blood bloomed between us.

The taste of it was electric, a spark that ignited my own defiance.

My fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails sinking into flesh, carving jagged trails that marked him as mine even as he sought to dominate me.

His hands were everywhere, rough and greedy, gripping my hips with bruising force, pulling me closer as if he could fuse us into one being through sheer will.

"You think you can stop me?" he growled, his voice low and jagged, teetering on the edge of rage. His hands slid to my thighs, lifting me with a strength that was both thrilling and terrifying, pinning me higher against the wall. His body pressed against mine, hard and unyielding, a wall of muscle and heat that threatened to consume me. I wrapped my legs around him, not in surrender but in challenge, my thighs tightening to hold him, to control the rhythm before it shattered me—not now, not when I carried a secret he couldn’t know.

His lips tore from mine, finding my neck, where his teeth grazed, then bit—hard.

The sharp sting made me gasp, my body arching involuntarily into his, pleasure and pain twisting into something raw and untamed.

I retaliated, my nails raking deeper across his back, drawing blood that slicked my fingers, a map of my defiance etched into his skin.

Our touches were invasions, each kiss a possessive claim, as if we could prove our strength by consuming the other.

His hands roamed, branding my skin with every squeeze, every press of his fingers, while my own kisses were fierce, my tongue demanding entry, asserting my power in this war of bodies.

When he entered me, it was with a force that felt like a blade’s edge, each thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to dominate.

His movements were a rhythm of conquest, his hips slamming against mine with a violence that made the world narrow to the heat of our bodies, the clash of our wills.

I leaned in, my breath hot against his ear, and whispered, "I hate you.

" The words were a single, searing truth, sharp enough to cut through the haze of our fury, a blade aimed at his heart.

"I know," he rasped, his voice fractured, raw with torment.

"I hate you, too. Hate you for making me feel this.

" His confession was a wound laid bare, spoken only once, heavy with the truth of our mutual destruction.

His eyes, wild with rage, flickered with something else—agony, love so fierce it was tearing him apart.

He slowed for a moment, his thrusts faltering, as if the weight of his own words had cracked something inside him.

His hands, still gripping my hips, trembled slightly, a fleeting glimpse of restraint, of a man fighting not to lose himself entirely to the storm.

But the rage surged back, and he pressed himself deeper, his movements harder, more desperate, as if he could purge his pain through sheer force.

I tightened my thighs around him, forcing him to slow, to soften, though every movement still carried the weight of his anger, his need to possess.

My nails clawed deeper, drawing more blood, a canvas of my claim painted across his back.

His bites on my neck grew sharper, each one a mark of ownership, yet I met him with equal force, my kisses bruising, my hands gripping to prove I was no less his match.

My lips found his jaw, his throat, leaving marks of my own, a silent vow that I could wound him just as deeply.

We moved in a brutal rhythm, not lovers but warriors, seeking solace in the pain, chasing love through the haze of hate.

Each thrust was a conquest, each moan a cry for redemption we knew we’d never find.

His hands slid to my face, forcing me to meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world stilled.

His eyes burned with a love so intense it was almost unbearable, a tormented devotion that held him back from the edge of true violence.

"You’re mine," he whispered, his voice breaking, not with triumph but with anguish, as if the words were a plea rather than a claim.

"And you’re mine," I shot back, my voice fierce, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Our bodies collided again, the rhythm faltering into something rawer, more desperate, as if we could prove our love by breaking each other.

We were proving something—maybe that we could wound each other and still crave more, that our love was a wound as much as it was salvation.

His thrusts grew erratic, his breath hitching, and I felt the same unraveling in myself, a spiraling need that consumed us both.

As we collapsed, breathless and trembling, our bodies entwined in a fragile ceasefire, the air was thick with the aftermath of our battle.

His arms wrapped around me, not gently but with a possessive desperation, as if letting go would mean losing me entirely.

My fingers traced the bloody marks I’d left on his back, a silent apology for the pain we’d inflicted, even as my own skin bore the evidence of his claim.

We were too broken to let go, too bound by this violent, aching love to ever truly win.

In the silence, our breaths mingled, a testament to the truth we couldn’t escape: we were each other’s destruction, and yet, somehow, each other’s salvation.

When it was finally over, the room was heavy with our ragged, stifled breaths.

My body was a map of his marks—bruises from his fingers, faint bite marks, hickeys that burned like a brand of shame.

His back was no better, scratched raw by my nails, streaks of blood drying in angry lines.

We looked like survivors of a brutal fight, battered and drained.

Maybe we were. This was a war, and neither of us had won.

I turned away, curling into myself, my body still humming with the aftershocks of our fierce, desperate clash.

A hollow exhaustion settled deep, but worse was the cold, endless despair drowning my heart.

Just moments ago, in that soul-shattering peak, I almost blurted it out—"I'm pregnant!

" But the last shred of sanity yanked me back from the edge.

No. I couldn't. Not now.

If he knew I was carrying his child… what would he do?

Be overjoyed? No, more likely, he'd see it as the ultimate chain, a way to lock me down for good.

He'd wrap me in his so-called protection, strip away every choice, every bit of freedom, all in the name of keeping me safe.

I couldn't risk that—not when I wasn't sure if he loved me or just the idea of owning me, like some prized possession in his collection.

"Cassie," his voice came from behind, soft as a sigh, heavy with post-passion fatigue and something raw, unnameable.

I didn't move, didn't answer. My body was rigid, a stone wall against him.

"I know you're awake," he said, certain.

I stayed silent, barely breathing, holding myself still as if that could keep him out.

He let out a deep, heavy sigh, thick with frustration and helplessness. The mattress dipped as he got up, and soon the sound of running water filled the room, like he was trying to wash away the mess we'd made.

When he slid back into bed, his skin cool and damp, I kept my eyes shut tight, every sense on high alert. I felt him shift closer, his warm hand brushing my hair with a gentleness that felt almost timid, laced with regret and a clumsy attempt at comfort.

"Прости меня, моя розочка," he murmured, his low, raspy voice grazing my neck, carrying a pleading note I'd never heard from him before, almost humble. "I don't know what to do. All I know is losing you would kill me."

Tears slid down my cheeks, silent and unstoppable.

I loved this man, loved him to the point of madness. But was that love enough? Enough to bridge the chasm between us—his world, his suffocating control, my fear, and the tiny life growing inside me, complicating everything?

Could he learn to trust, to let go, to respect me as more than something to protect? For me, for our child?

Did he even deserve that chance after tonight?

In the cold, tear-soaked darkness, the only thing I knew for sure was this: the secret had to stay buried. At least for now. This wasn't the time to tell him.