Page 112 of Twisted Addiction

I didn’t let a drop escape, sucking until he was spent, his breaths ragged, his body trembling.

I pulled back, my hand stroking him, his cock hardening again under my touch.

I climbed onto him, straddling his hips, positioning myself so my pussy enveloped him, hot and slick.

This would be our last time, and I wanted it seared into my memory, a final act before I learned to forget him.

I rode him, my hips grinding, his hands gripping my waist, guiding my movements with a desperate strength.

My breasts bounced with each thrust, his gaze locked on them, his grip tightening as he groaned, “Eyes on me, Milaya.” It was a command, not a request, and I obeyed, my hands pressing into his chest, nails digging into his skin as I fucked him with an aggression born of pain and need.

His cock drove deep, touching the core of me, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through my body.

His hands slid to my ass, his fingers digging in, the pressure amplifying the heat building inside me.

I rode him harder, faster, my body slamming against his, the bed creaking under our rhythm.

The pleasure climbed, a tidal wave cresting, and I pushed harder, my movements frantic, until I shattered, my orgasm ripping through me like a storm.

I screamed, my voice raw, my body trembling as waves of release pulsed over his cock, leaving me breathless, spent.

I collapsed beside him, panting, my chest heaving as I tried to blank my mind.

He was sending me away for another woman, planning to divorce me, while I carried his child, a secret that burned in my silence.

The pain was a knife, twisting deeper, but I’d heal in New York, I told myself, away from him, away from this.

“Milaya,” he said, his voice gentle, his hand reaching for my face. I flinched, shoving his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re crying,” he said, his tone soft, concerned.

I turned away, curling into myself, my naked body pressed against the sheets as I wiped the tears streaking my cheeks.

“We just fucked, Penelope—why are you crying?” His voice was low, confusion and frustration warring in it.

His hand twitched at his side as if resisting the urge to grab my chin and force me to look at him. “What did I do this time?”

He exhaled sharply, the sound rough. “Tell me what’s hurting before I lose my fucking mind.”

I stayed silent, my lips pressed tight.

He was seriously asking? After everything—his lies, Seraphina, the dark room that had nearly killed me?

His hand found my waist, and I flinched again, screaming, “Get your hands off me! Don’t you dare touch me!”

But his grip remained firm, pulling me against him, my body flush against his, his warmth seeping into my skin.

The heat between us was a silent passion, a current of unspoken longing and pain, his chest pressed to my back, his breath fanning my ear, stirring a flutter in my belly I hated.

“Penelope,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, sending shivers down my spine.

I didn’t answer, couldn’t. His voice, his touch, unraveled me, and I hated how much I craved it.

“If you don’t want to leave tomorrow, you can stay,” he said, his tone softer than I’d ever heard.

“I’m leaving,” I said, my voice resolute, though my heart wavered.

My actions were a contradiction—seducing him, breaking down after, driven by a foolish love I couldn’t kill.