Chapter 2: Let it go
His hands dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his fingers pressing deep enough to promise tomorrow’s bruises. “Bella,” he growled, the word torn from somewhere raw and frustrated within him. She just shifted, grinding her center down against the rigid length of him again, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made his head fall back against the couch.
“Get it out,” she whispered, her voice calm against the storm in his eyes. Her fingertips traced the tense line of his jaw, down the column of his throat. She could feel his pulse hammering under her touch, a wild rhythm matching the one building between her own legs.
He fucked up against her, a rough, seeking thrust through the layers of cloth. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he breathed, but his hands dragged her dress up further, bunching the cotton around her waist. His calloused palms slid down to grasp the bare skin of her ass, squeezing hard.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she said, her own breath catching as he positioned her. The thick head of his cock, trapped in his sweats, nestled firmly against her damp panties. She rocked, creating a filthy, perfect friction that made them both gasp.
“Christ, your cunt is right there,” he muttered, his voice rough with need. He could feel the heat of her through the soaked lace. He ground her down onto him, his hips lifting off the cushion to meet her, each movement desperate and crude.
His grip was iron, holding her still as his other hand fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. “Do it,” he commanded, his voice stripped of all its usual charming warmth. Her fingers, which negotiated million-dollar contracts and soothed corporate tantrums, felt suddenly clumsy as she pushed the fabric aside.
She found him, thick and hot and already leaking, her delicate hand barely circling his rigid length. A sharp inhale hissed through her teeth as she guided him, positioning the blunt head right against the soaked lace barrier. “Carlos,” she whispered, the name both a question and permission.
He answered by snapping the flimsy fabric aside with a brutal rip, the sound loud in the quiet penthouse. His palms slapped against her bare ass, kneading the flesh as he yanked her down hard onto him. They both cried out, a ragged duet, as he began to rock her against his cock.
The friction was brutal, perfect; his shaft dragged through her slick folds with each rough, grinding pass, coating him in her wetness. “That’s it, you take it,” he snarled into her ear, his breath scalding. “This wet little cunt is just for this, isn’t it? To soak my fucking dick.”
He wasn’t gentle, wasn’t asking. His hips pistoned upward, driving himself against her clit, the swollen head of his cock catching on her entrance with every pass but never yielding, never pushing inside. “You’re just a warm, fucking hole to help me forget,” he grunted, the words meant to wound, his fingers biting deeper into her skin.
“Use me,” she gasped, her voice cracking as she arched into his punishing grip. “Forget it all, just take it out on me.” Her plea, desperate and raw, shattered the last of his control.
He shifted her weight, his eyes dark with a furious hunger as he positioned the thick, bulbous crown of his cock right at her clenching entrance. “So fucking tight,” he breathed, mesmerized by the way her body resisted even that initial pressure. With a brutal, unyielding thrust of his hips, he sheared just the monstrous tip inside her.
The stretch was immediate and extreme, a white-hot ring of pain that tore a ragged wail from her throat. He gave her no quarter, no rhythm to find relief, holding himself there as her cunt fought to accommodate him. “That’s it, scream for me,” he mocked, his voice a vicious whisper against her neck as his palm cracked down on her ass with a force that jolted her forward, impaling her another agonizing millimeter.
He fucked just that swollen head into her, a shallow, excruciating piston that burned and stretched her with each tiny, violent stroke. “Your perfect, efficient little cunt,” he grunted, slapping her other cheek, the sting blooming hot under his hand. “Made for my dick to ruin.”
He continued to fuck the swollen head into her cunt, the bulbous crown catching at the tightest part of her with every brutal, shallow thrust, making her wail each time it stretched her burning rim. The lack of further depth, his refusal to just sink in and finish it, made her sob into his shoulder, her nails scraping down his back. “You wanted this, puta,” he snarled, his breath hot and ragged in her ear, his grip on her hips bruising and mean. “You climbed into my lap in your pretty fucking dress.” He slammed her down again, the vicious snap of his pelvis a punishment for every frustrating moment of his day, for the blown engine and the patronizing engineer and the six long years of wanting her. “This tight, wet, perfect cunt,” he whispered, the filth a dark contrast to the tender way he’d traced her face just minutes before, “it weeps for me like a fucking wound.” She could only grind down against that impossible stretch, her body a conflicting mess of searing pain and deep, clenching need. “Please,” she choked out, the word dissolving into another broken cry as he spanked her sharply, the sound echoing off the penthouse windows. “Please what?” he demanded, holding himself torturously still inside that burning, stretched ring of muscle. “Dime.” He watched her face crumple, her composure—that “resting runway face” she used as armor—utterly shattered. “Fuck me,” she finally gasped, the admission raw and surrendered. “Just fuck me, Carlos.” A dark, triumphant sound rumbled from his chest. He pulled her off him almost entirely, then in one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried her to the cold marble of the kitchen island, scattering paperwork and knocking over a half-finished espresso from that morning’s seamless ritual. He bent her over the stone, the dress still bunched around her waist, and drove his entire length into her in one devastating stroke.
The impact drove the air from her lungs, a sharp, punched-out gasp lost in the clatter of scattered pens. He didn’t pause, didn’t cradle her; he simply buried himself to the hilt, his extreme girth stretching her far beyond any memory of pleasure into a white-hot realm of pure, tearing ache. “Fuck,” she sobbed, her forehead pressing against the cold marble, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth, unforgiving surface.
He held there, a statue of pent-up fury buried inside her, letting her feel every impossible inch. “You feel that, Bella?” he growled, his voice ragged. “That’s what six years of this does to a man.” He drew back slowly, the drag of his cock a scrape of fire, then slammed home again, deeper, harder. Her vision spotted at the edges.
The slaps came then, not rhythmic but a furious, bruising litany. Crack. His open palm landed on her ass with a sound like a gunshot. Crack. Again, on the other cheek, the sting blossoming into a deep, throbbing heat. Crack. “This cunt,” he seethed, driving into her with each punishing blow, “this perfect, tight little cunt is mine now.” She could only take it, each slap punctuating a thrust that hit a depth that shocked her, a raw, claiming penetration that rearranged her from the inside.
“You understand?” he demanded, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh of her hips as he pistoned into her wrecked, dripping core. She couldn’t form words, her replies reduced to choked, guttural moans that vibrated against the stone. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she finally gasped, the word fracturing. “Yes, Carlos.” Her submission seemed to fuse the last of his anger into a darker, more possessive need. His rhythm changed, becoming less about punishment and more about consumption, each deep, grinding stroke a claim staked in her flesh. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, the sounds wet and obscene in the silent, sun-drenched room.
He stilled, buried to the hilt inside her, his breath a ragged storm against her ear. “Who do you belong to, Belladita?” The question was low, a guttural demand that brooked no evasion.
Her cheek was pressed against the cold marble, her mind fractured by the sheer physicality of his possession. “You,” she breathed, the word a broken thing.
“Again.” He didn’t move, letting the absolute fullness of him be her entire world.
“You, Carlos.” The submission in her voice, so at odds with the fierce woman who managed his empire, shattered his last restraint. He withdrew slowly, watching her clenching, glistening flesh grip him, then sank back in with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that drew a helpless moan from her throat. “My perfect, ruined cunt,” he muttered, his own control fraying.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the damp, delicate skin where her neck met her shoulder. The tender touch was a violent contrast to the brutal rhythm of his hips. Then his mouth opened, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin before his teeth closed, not a tentative nip but a deliberate, claiming pressure. He suckled and bit, a hard, prolonged ache that she knew would bloom into a stark, purple bruise—a brand.
A sharp, pained gasp escaped her, but she arched her throat open, offering him more. It was the final permission he needed. His hips snapped forward, piston-fast, as he worked his teeth against her flesh, marking her with a savagery that made his own breath catch. The pain was bright and perfect, a lightning rod for the messy tangle of six years of want. He released her skin with a final, softer suck, panting against the vivid impression his teeth had left.
“Mine,” he growled into the fresh mark, his thrusts becoming erratic, a hard, driving race toward his own end. “Always fucking mine.” The wet slaps of their coupling filled the room, a vulgar counterpoint to the city's distant hum below. Her own climax tore through her, a raw, convulsing wave that milked him, pulling a ragged shout from his lungs as he emptied himself deep inside her with a final, possessive jerk. For a long moment, the only sound was their shattered breathing and the drip of espresso from the overturned cup on the floor.
For a long moment, the only sound was their shattered breathing and the drip of espresso from the overturned cup on the floor. Reality seeped back into Carlos with the cold clarity of the marble beneath his palms. He became aware of the brutal indentations his fingers had left on her hips, the hot sting of her nails down his back, the ache in his jaw from gritting his teeth.
He was still buried deep inside her, a fact that now horrified him. A sickening wave of shame crashed over him, cold and greasy. He had taken her with a brutality that was savage, an aggression he hadn't known he possessed. “Dios,” he choked, the word a wrecked whisper against her sweat-damp shoulder. “Bella, I’m—”
He tried to pull his softening cock free from her swollen, used cunt, a retreat from the violence he’d wrought. But as he began to withdraw, she whined, a high, desperate sound in the back of her throat. Her body clenched around him, a fierce, involuntary spasm that held him inside.
“No,” she gasped, her voice thick and raw. Her hand flew back, fingers scrambling to clutch his thigh, pulling him deeper into her again. She pushed her hips back against him, keeping him buried, her cunt fluttering weakly around his sensitive length. “Don’t. Not yet.”
She turned her head, her cheek still against the cold stone, and pressed a desperate, messy kiss to the inside of his wrist where it braced beside her. “Please,” she whispered, her words slurred with exhaustion and something else—possession. “Stay inside. I can feel it… I can feel you there.” Her other hand reached blindly behind, finding his hip and pulling. “I’m so full. Keep me full.”
"Keep me full."
He tried again to pull free, a gentle retreat from the carnage he’d wrought. Bella made a wrecked sound of despair, a guttural choke that froze him instantly.
"I need to take care of you," he murmured, his voice ragged with guilt, his hands now soft on her bruised hips.
She shook her head against the marble, her hair sticking to her damp skin. "Just stay deep," she whispered, the command barely audible.
He wanted to see her face, to check the damage in her eyes. "Let me see you, Bella." With infinite care, he helped maneuver her until she was facing him again, chest to chest, his softening cock still buried deep inside her spent, swollen cunt.
Her hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, pulling herself as close as possible. She pressed desperate, messy kisses to the sweat-slick hollow of his throat, his collarbone, the fresh mark her own teeth had left.
She whimpered against his skin, the feeling of him inside her overwhelming. "You're so deep," she breathed, her hips rolling in a feeble, desperate circle. "So big. I'm so full of you."
She clutched him tighter, her nails biting into his back. "Please, stay inside me," she begged, her voice breaking. "Keep me full. I don't want to lose it."
She could feel his cum inside her, a warm, claiming weight. Her hips rolled again, a futile, aching effort to make him swell, to keep that connection alive. He held her there, utterly still, feeling her body plead around his.
He held her there, utterly still, feeling her body plead around his. The guilt was a cold stone in his gut, but her whispered pleas were a fire he couldn’t extinguish. With a grunt, he shifted his weight, his arms sliding under her thighs and back, and lifted her from the cold marble.
He carried her the few steps to the vast leather couch, her legs locked around his waist, her face buried in his neck. He sat down heavily, settling her into his lap so his softening length was forced even deeper into her sore, clasping heat. She squealed, a bright, happy sound that shattered the lingering violence in the room, as she felt him begin to stir and thicken inside her again.
His cock, responding to the tight, wet clutch of her, swelled and hardened, stretching her tender, fluttering channel anew. His eyes, scanning her face, dropped to her neck and his blood ran cold. The mark was vicious, a stark purple constellation of broken capillaries already darkening against her pale skin. “Dios mío, Bella, what did I—”
Her own fingers came up, probing the bruised flesh curiously. She gasped as a sharp, clean pain shot through her, a lightning bolt that connected directly to her core. The gasp melted into a desperate, hungry moan as her cunt clenched around his hardening girth in a brutal, rhythmic spasm. A fresh wave of her slickness gushed around him, hot and profuse, easing his way as he grew impossibly fuller inside her.
A fresh wave of her slickness gushed around him, hot and profuse, easing his way as he grew impossibly fuller inside her. His hands flew to her hips, fingers digging into the tender, bruised flesh, trying to halt her frantic, circling grind. "Belladita, wait, you're—"
She ignored him, a dizzy, euphoric laugh bubbling from her lips as she rode the renewed, achingly thick length of him. "Shhh, I've got it," she babbled, her words slurring into the sweat-damp skin of his neck, her inner muscles rhythmically clenching and fluttering around his shaft. "It’s my job to make you feel better, Carlos, and I’m happy, I’m so happy doing it."
He tried to hold her still, but she overpowered his grip with a delirious, grinding undulation of her hips, her sore, stretched cunt milking him with a desperate, possessive greed. "Feel how wet you make me," she gasped, her breath hitching as she rose up on her knees and sank back down, taking him so deep she saw stars. "Your perfect, ruined cunt is so happy to be full of you."
Her head fell back, exposing the brutal mark on her throat, and she rode him with a frenzied, joyous abandon that shattered his lingering guilt. "Fuck, Bella," he groaned, his own control incinerated by her feverish chanting, his hands now clutching her ass to meet every grinding fall of her body. "You’re fucking wrecked." She just nodded, a wild, beautiful mess, and whispered, "Wreck me more."
He did. He surrendered all control, his hands falling from steering her to simply gripping the bruised curves of her hips as anchors. She set a frantic, bouncing pace, her tired body trembling with the effort of lifting herself on trembling thighs only to sink back onto his thick, relentless cock with a wet slap of skin. “Yes, yes, like that,” she chanted, her voice giddy and broken, her forehead pressed to his as she bounced, her swollen clit rubbing against the rough friction of his pelvis with each descent.
He helped her, his hands guiding her ascent, letting her play and grind and bounce until she was a dazed and joyous ruin babbling happily into his throat. “I can feel everything, I can feel you in my stomach, Carlos, you’re so deep,” she slurred, pressing messy, sloppy kisses anywhere she could reach—his jaw, his chin, the salt-damp hollow of his throat. He in turn lapped his tongue over the brutal bite mark he’d left on her neck, tasting a complex mix of her skin, sweat, and the faint, metallic hint of blood from where his teeth had broken the surface.
The taste of her, of his violence on her, made him groan and thrust up to meet her wild rides. “You taste like mine,” he growled against the wet, abused skin, his own climax coiling tight again, pulled from him by the frantic, milking clasp of her well-used cunt. Her babbling dissolved into wordless, high-pitched cries as her second orgasm ripped through her, a convulsing, internal fist that squeezed his dripping cock mercilessly. He followed her over, shouting her name into the quiet room as he emptied another hot, claiming pulse deep inside her already flooded heat. She collapsed against him, a boneless, breathing mess, his softening length still nestled within her as their sweat cooled.
She stayed seated, his softening cock still deep in her cunt, and he began to rock them gently through the aftershocks, a slow, soothing rhythm that felt like an apology written in braille against her skin. She was purring into his chest, wrecked and sated and profoundly pleased that she’d helped his mood, her fingers tracing idle, sticky patterns through the hair there. He was so gentle with her now, cradling the back of her head where he’d gripped her hair, that she felt dazed by the contrast.
“Carlos,” she mumbled into his skin, her voice hoarse.
“Hmm?”
“You never have to hold back with me.” She tilted her head up, her eyes heavy-lidded but clear, meeting his haunted gaze. “I mean it. I’ll always take whatever you have to give. However you need to give it.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against her forehead. “I hurt you.”
“You felt,” she corrected, her hand sliding down to press over the brutal fingerprints on her hip, guiding his own hand to cover them. “And I absorbed it. That’s my job.” A faint, tired smile touched her swollen lips. “The most important part of my job.”
He’d never taken anyone so brutally before, had always had to hold back, to be the charming champion. She kissed the base of his throat, tasting salt and regret. “Let me be the place where you don’t have to be polite.”
His arms tightened around her, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing her in—espresso, sex, and the faint, floral trace of her shampoo that had lingered in his motorhome for years. He rocked them again, his spent length still nestled inside her warmth, a quiet, perfect anchor. “Mi Bella,” he whispered, the words a vow and a surrender. “Mi tormenta.”