Mark Me Again

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A Belly Full of Cum (Perry's POV)

I dug my fingernails into my palm. The sharp sting was barely enough to drag my mind back. I forced my legs — trembling, nearly useless beneath me — to push me upright on the ruined sheets, and the moment I shifted, a dull ache radiated through my lower back. The movement undid whatever had kept Ryan's cum inside me, and I felt it begin to seep out, sliding warm and thick down between my thighs.

Why?

Why was I here, being torn apart by the emptiness of my heat, my dignity ground into nothing — while his phone lit up on their wedding night with someone else's late-night tenderness?

The bitterness of jealousy fermented in the air, tangled with the lime-scented trace of my own pheromones.

I bit down and called toward the frosted glass door anyway. "Ryan. Your phone's going off. Aren't you going to check it?"

I nudged the still-buzzing phone toward the edge of the mattress with deliberate calm, keeping my eyes fixed on the translucent silhouette behind the glass. Waiting.

The water cut off. Less than three seconds later, the door was shoved open, releasing a billow of damp, sandalwood-laced heat. Ryan stepped out.

He hadn't bothered with a towel. He stood beneath the light exactly as he was — bare, broad-shouldered, the hard planes of his abdomen still beaded with water that traced downward through the dark hair below his navel. The cock that had been inside me not long ago hung heavy even in its half-soft state, the swollen head still flushed dark, its size no less obscene at rest than it had been otherwise.

He crossed to the bed in a few long strides, amber eyes carrying open irritation. He picked up the phone, let the cold glow of the screen illuminate the sharp line of his jaw, and without reading a single word of the message, pressed his thumb to the power button and held it until the screen went black. Then he dropped it onto the carpet like it was trash.

"The agreement doesn't give you the right to monitor my personal life," Ryan said, his voice flat and clipped. He grabbed the towel draped over the chair and ran it roughly through his wet hair, then turned toward the bed.

His gaze swept across my side of the mattress and stopped.

I knew how I looked. My bare skin was flushed a deep, fever-bright pink from the heat still burning through me, my legs fallen open and slack. The movement of trying to sit up had undone everything — his cum was running out of me now, slow and continuous, soaking into the already-ruined silk beneath me. My own slick mixed with it, darkening the deep red fabric into something that looked like swampland. And below my navel, my lower belly curved outward in a slight, unmistakable swell from the sheer volume of fluid that had been pushed inside me.

Ryan stared at my stomach, at the mess between my thighs. The crease between his brows went deep and hard. Disgust crossed his face — and then his throat moved in a single, involuntary swallow.

"Look at this," he said under his breath, and hurled the towel at the nightstand. "Can't even keep it in. Dripping everywhere like this is some kind of dump."

The words hit like a slap. My eyes burned with involuntary tears, and before I could form a response, Ryan had already grabbed my wrist and hauled me off the mattress without ceremony, as though I were a soiled object to be relocated.

The moment my feet touched the floor, my knees buckled. Ryan caught me by the armpit with one hand, keeping me upright through sheer grip.

"Come on. Go clean yourself up." His voice held no warmth. "Looking at you like this — belly full of cum — it's disgusting." He half-dragged, half-steered me toward the bathroom.

With every step, gravity did its work. The slick heat running down the inside of my thighs made me want to disappear, and when several drops fell onto the carpet, I felt him notice.

His hand came down hard across my bare ass — a sharp, flat crack that left the clear imprint of his fingers in red.

"Clench," he said, cold and furious. "You're not a walking cum bucket. If you drip on my carpet one more time, I'll make you lick it clean off the floor." The threat was vicious, and his palm had hit with a force that stung long after the sound faded.

I flinched so hard my whole body shook. I tried — instinctively, desperately — to tighten around nothing, but the muscles that had been stretched open by more than eight inches of him had nothing left to grip with. The effort only forced more slick out of me, my body betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.

When he shoved me into the bathroom, my back hit the cold marble of the vanity with a dull impact. The chill of the stone against my overheated skin made me shudder.

"Turn around. Hands on the counter. Arch your back and push your ass up."

He turned on the tap.

I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to hurt, and obeyed — turning away from him, planting both hands on the cold marble, letting my back hollow and my hips tilt upward, presenting the ruined state of myself to his view without the mercy of shadow or distance. Under the bathroom's unsparing light, there was nothing to hide.

Ryan stood behind me. He didn't reach for anything. He used my own slick as the only preparation he offered, pressing his index and middle fingers together and pushing them into me, working past the swollen ring of muscle and into the channel beyond.

"Ah — god — stop, that hurts —"

I cried out, spine snapping rigid, fingers white-knuckled against the edge of the counter.

"Shut up." His voice was cold, almost bored. His fingers moved inside me with blunt efficiency, curling against the interior walls, scraping the thickened fluid out of me and flicking it onto the tile without a second glance. "Look at this. I fuck you open and your hole grips better than your mouth ever has. Is this what the Bain family taught you — how to service a man? Born to be used, weren't you."

The words were ugly and deliberate, each one designed to cut. What was worse — what I couldn't forgive myself for — was that my body didn't register them as pain alone. Because with the heat still roaring through me, with his fingers moving inside me like that, I could feel pleasure threading through the degradation, unwanted and undeniable.

When his fingertips found the firm ridge of my prostate and pressed down, I shattered.

"Ryan — there — I can't — I'm going to —" My thighs seized and shook, and my cock, still half-hard, dripped a clear bead of fluid that fell to the marble below.

He didn't stop. He pressed harder, two fingers working that spot in rapid, focused strokes.

"Christ," he breathed, and his breathing had gone rough. "Two minutes and you're already dripping. What the hell is wrong with you?" His hand moved faster, the wet sounds obscene in the small bright room. "Touch yourself. Feel what I'm doing to you. I'm fucking your ass and you're leaking from your cock — what does that make you, hm?"

Under the crushing weight of pleasure and shame colliding, I broke. I sobbed out loud, the sound ugly and uncontrolled. He'd worked most of the cum out of me, but my slick kept coming — heat-driven and relentless, my body refusing to cooperate with any version of dignity I might have wanted to keep.

Ryan ran out of patience. He reached into the shower and unhooked the handheld showerhead, turning on the warm water.

"Hold on to the counter. Let go and I'll fuck you unconscious right here." A flat warning. He brought the metal nozzle flush against my entrance.

"No — Ryan, please — it'll go inside, it's too much —" I tried to pull forward, and he grabbed a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and held me in place.

The warm pressurized stream pushed past the weakened ring of muscle and flooded into me.

I threw my head back and wailed — a low, broken sound — as the water filled me in seconds, my lower belly swelling visibly, the pressure inside me so total and so immediate that every nerve ending screamed at once.

He held the showerhead there for a full ten seconds before pulling it away.

"Now push it out," he said, stepping back, arms folding across his chest. He watched me the way someone might watch something beneath them. "Like a dog. Let me see it come out."

The shame was total. But the pressure inside me left no room for anything else. I dropped my hips, forced myself to release, and a rush of cloudy water shot out of me and hit the tile, carrying with it the last of what he'd put inside me, swirling toward the drain.

I was crying openly now. Kneeling on the bathroom floor in front of the man I loved, emptying myself like an animal — I sobbed in short, broken pulls of breath, with nothing left to protect.

Ryan watched until I was done. Something moved in his amber eyes that I couldn't name. When my legs finally gave out entirely and I sank to the floor, he stepped forward, shut off the water, and pulled a large bath towel from the rack. He wrapped it around me — completely, from shoulder to knee — and lifted me against his chest without a word, carrying me back out of the bathroom.

He set me down on the clean side of the bed, then walked around to the other side, pulled back the covers, and lay down with his back to me. A wide, indifferent expanse of shoulders. Nothing more.

"Sleep." His voice came out of the dark, rough-edged and impatient. "And if I smell that sour-ass pheromone cloud of yours trying to work on me again, I'll throw you out the window."

He killed the light.

Moonlight came through the gap in the curtains in a thin, pale strip. I lay curled inside the towel, shaking. My body was clean, technically — but my heat hadn't broken, not even close. The need burned through me in waves, my entrance clenching on nothing, desperate for pressure, for fullness, for the particular weight of an Alpha's presence. The faint trace of Ryan's sandalwood pheromones still hung in the room like something designed specifically to undo me.

I held out for ten minutes. Then I lost.

I moved across the mattress in small, careful increments, closing the distance between us inch by inch. My hand reached out — trembling, cold-fingered — and touched his back.

The warmth of his skin against my palm was so immediate that I exhaled without meaning to, my body already trying to close the remaining distance.

I was almost there — my chest nearly against his spine — when Ryan went completely still.

Then he moved.

He rolled over with the sudden, coiled speed of something that had been waiting, grabbed my wrist, and flipped me beneath him in a single motion, pinning me to the mattress with his full weight. In the dark, his amber eyes were lit with something that had nothing calm in it.

When he spoke, each word came out slow and separate, bitten off at the edges. "Do you actually want to not sleep tonight?"

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