Want to Be Marked? Keep Dreaming (Perry's POV)

My eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, my fingertips trembling as they traced the lines of muscle down his spine.

So hot. God, it felt so good.

No matter how cold and cutting the words out of his mouth were, his body told the truth in ways he couldn't control — that thick cock was buried deep in my rectum, pulsing greedily, every swollen vein screaming its hunger for me.

I wanted him to mark me.

I followed the pressure of his weight bearing down, tilting my head back to bare the long line of my throat, exposing the gland at my nape — flushed with the sharp scent of lime, swollen from the heat of my rut — and offered it to his lips without a shred of self-protection.

"Ryan... bite me... please mark me..." The sound that escaped me was small and plaintive, like a kitten mewling, and my inner walls clenched in helpless rhythm around him, my slick flooding out in waves, soaking the base of his cock, dripping down to the sheets in a slow, steady patter.

Ryan went absolutely still.

I felt it the instant it happened — his breathing turned ragged and heavy, and those amber eyes of his, always so cold and controlled, were shot through with a web of red. His Alpha instincts had locked onto the unguarded gland at the back of my neck. His throat worked in a hard swallow. He wanted to bite down. His face had already drifted close enough that the bridge of his nose grazed my heated skin, and the sharp edge of his canines had already dragged lightly across that thin, yielding barrier.

One bite. Just one. If he broke the skin and flooded me with the warm sandalwood scent of his pheromones, I would belong to him completely.

"Put that away," Ryan said through clenched teeth, his jawline rigid, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief. With what looked like an act of deliberate self-destruction, he wrenched his head to the side, forcing himself away from the temptation. To redirect the impulse — to keep himself from sinking his teeth into my gland — he channeled every last drop of that savage, frustrated need downward. His broad palm came down hard against the inside of my thigh, and a vivid red handprint bloomed across pale skin.

"Want to be marked? Want to carry my kid? Keep dreaming."

He gripped my hips with one hand, his core snapping tight, and pulled back — dragging nearly the full length of his cock out of me, leaving only the thick head lodged at the rim of my swollen, reddened entrance. Then he drove forward with the kind of force that felt like it was meant to split me open, burying himself to the hilt in a single brutal thrust.

"Ah — ah — too deep — I can't — !"

The impact sent my whole upper body lurching forward; the back of my head hit the pillow hard, and tears spilled before I could stop them.

The broad head of his cock landed squarely against the entrance to my inner cavity — the one that had barely cracked open in the grip of my heat. He didn't push through. He didn't need to. It was worse than if he had. Every roll of his hips dragged the hard ridge of his crown across the most delicate, nerve-wracked ring of flesh, churning my slick into a thick, frothy mess.

"I'll fuck this slutty hole of yours until there's nothing left of it."

Ryan dropped the pretense entirely. He began to move in earnest — fast, relentless, no rhythm to it, just raw force. His cock worked through my walls without mercy, the wet, slapping sounds of it filling the expensive bedroom, obscene in the silence. Every time I sobbed and begged him to bite me, he pushed harder, faster, as though the words themselves were a provocation. Without warning, he grabbed my waist, flipped me over, and pressed me face-down into the mattress, forcing my hips up and back to meet him.

"Higher. Let me watch."

He slammed into me from behind without a breath of hesitation, and the new angle made everything worse — my passage felt shorter, tighter, and the full length of him ground directly over my prostate on every stroke before battering up against my inner entrance with relentless, pile-driving force.

"Nngh... Ryan... I feel so full... it's too much... please..." I fisted the sheets in both hands, my nails threatening to tear through the silk, my hips sagging despite every effort to hold position. Tears dropped from my chin and splashed onto the backs of my hands.

Each brutal thrust brought the heavy slap of his balls against my perineum, sharp and rhythmic, the sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet room. His sandalwood scent had drowned out every trace of lime on my skin, and the hollow ache of my heat — tangled with the rawer pain of being refused, of being denied the one thing I'd begged for — twisted into something I had no clean word for, a shuddering, shameful pleasure that moved through me like a current. I was crying. I was also rolling my hips back to meet him, greedy and graceless, trying to take him deeper.

A bead of sweat dropped from Ryan's forehead and landed between my shoulder blades. He was holding on by a thread — the beautiful lines of his face contorted with the effort of restraint, his breathing hoarse and ragged, edged with a roughness that was unbearably intimate.

I knew he was close. The cock inside me had swelled even further, burning like a brand against my inner walls, making me clench and shiver around him.

"Ryan... come inside me... in the cavity... please, hubby..." I rolled my hips, shameless, and deliberately tightened around him, trying to draw him through that barely-open entrance.

"Fuck."

It came out like a curse wrenched from somewhere he didn't want to look.

At the very last second — the instant I thought he'd finally lost the fight and was going to flood me where I needed it most — he grabbed the back of my hip in an iron grip and pulled out. Not all the way. Just enough. That thick, flushed cock retreated from the edge of my inner entrance and settled back into the shallower passage of my rectum.

"Ah — !"

The orgasm tore through me with a sound I couldn't control, my whole body seizing in helpless spasms — and Ryan came with a low, guttural groan, his cock jerking violently inside me as he spilled everything he had against the walls of my rectum, wave after scalding wave of it, thick and relentless.

His release, mixed with my slick and the fluid already coating my walls, filled that passage entirely. I could feel the slight pressure of it distending my lower belly. And not a drop of it had touched the cavity that had opened for exactly this purpose.

I collapsed. My limbs stopped working all at once, my mind wiped clean, my thighs still twitching with the aftershocks of the orgasm. The tears had soaked through the pillowcase in a wide, dark stain.

Ryan didn't pull out immediately. He stayed where he was, half-hard, still plugging me, his chest heaving. He looked down at my tear-streaked face from above — and then his rough fingers caught my jaw and tilted it up, forcing me to look at him. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet, almost careful, though the words themselves were anything but. There was something else in it, too, underneath the cruelty — a flicker of something unsettled, something he clearly didn't want me to see.

"Listen carefully. This is everything I'm ever going to give you. Stop pushing me. Next time, I promise it'll hurt a hundred times worse than this."

Then he pulled out.

The moment he did, everything that had been held inside spilled free — a rush of fluid, thick with his release, running down the inside of my thighs and soaking into the expensive sheets. The air was dense with the smell of sex and heat-pheromones, sharp and animal and inescapable.

He didn't look at me again. He grabbed a towel from the side of the bed, wiped himself down without any particular care, and walked into the bathroom. The door didn't slam. That almost made it worse — the sheer indifference of it, his retreating back erasing everything I'd felt in the last hour as though none of it had happened.

The shower came on.

I curled up on the ruined bed, small and wrung-out, feeling the warmth of his release cooling inside me by degrees. The gland at the back of my neck was still throbbing — still desperate, still unanswered. The emptiness hadn't been filled. If anything, it was louder now, more insistent, clawing at the inside of my chest.

And then his phone lit up on the nightstand.

A new message.

The sender's name was one I'd never heard him mention. Not once. But the words on the screen — just a single line, barely anything at all — hit harder than everything that had just happened. Harder than being denied. Harder than being left.

It was the kind of wound that doesn't bleed right away.