Page 98 of Forbidden Fruit
He slams into me harder, angrier. Like he thinks he can fuck the resistance out of me and my body belongs to him. Maybe in this moment, it does.
But he doesn’t have me. Not anymore.
His breath scorches the curve of my neck.
“You.” Thrust.
“Are.” Thrust.
“Mine.” Thrust.
Every syllable is driven into me like a vow, a punishment, a prayer. My hands scramble against the wall, trying to hold onto something, anything, but it’s useless. There’s only him.
Only this.
His grip bruises my hips, his pace is brutal and unapologetic, and all I can do is take it. Drown in it, in him.
I whimper, my body betraying me again, trembling beneath the force of him. My release is building, unwelcome, unstoppable. I try to fight it, to hold on to my fury, to myself, but he knows me too well.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Let go, Blair. Let me feel all of you.”
His fingers rub that perfect spot, coaxing, demanding. My breath catches, my body shatters. I cry out, helpless, shaking as the climax rips through me, taking every piece of my resistance with it.
The moment I tighten around him, he loses control.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, slamming into me one last time, groaning low and raw as he spills inside me.
For a moment, all is still.
Just the sound of our breaths. His hand braced against the wall above my head. His body heavy against mine. Heat clinging to our skin.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
And that’s when he sees the tears.
Not the kind he’s used to coaxing from me with a brutal fucking and a well-placed punishment. These come from breaking something that can’t be put back together.
They slide down my cheeks endlessly like every wall I’d ever built just crumbled under the weight of him.
“Blair…” he breathes the sound of my name, suddenly unsure. Almost… scared.
I shove him. He doesn’t budge.
That pisses me off even more, because I’m standing here, shaking, humiliated, his cum dripping down my leg, and he won’t even move.
I shove him again, harder. My chest heaves, fury and grief twisting up inside me like barbed wire.
He just frowns at me, still half-hard, still out, like we’re not both falling apart.
Someone jiggles the doorknob. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, or how long they’ve been trying to get in, because I was too consumed by him. I thought that meant something. I thought it was passion. Love.
But now I see it for what it is: toxicity.
I’ve been confusing the way he consumes me for connection. Mistaking the way he breaks me for belonging. I only ever feel seen when his hands are on me. Only ever feel real when he’s inside me, fucking the silence out of my throat like that’s the only way he knows how to make me speak.
The world could be burning, collapsing around me in flames and smoke and screaming. But if Calvin was touching me, if his eyes were on me, I wouldn’t flinch. I wouldn’t feel a thing because I only know how to exist in his gravity, even when it’s dragging me under.
“Occupied,” he barks over his shoulder.
