Chapter 3: Promise

“Ask me nicely.”

He laughs. “I don’t ask for anything.” His hand tangles in my hair again and guides my head closer. “I take.”

Then he’s pushing into my mouth and I gag immediately, try to pull back, it’s too much, too big—

But he holds me there. “Relax your throat.”

I can’t breathe—

“Yes, you can.” He eases back slightly. “Breathe through your nose.” I try. God, I try.

“That’s it.” His voice is strained. “Good girl—”

I bite him. Hard enough to make a point. He hisses and yanks me back.

“Did you just—”

“Don’t call me a good girl.”

His eyes flash. “You want to play rough?” He hauls me up and pushes me toward the couch. “Fine. We’ll play rough.”

He bends me over the arm of the couch. I try to stand up and he pushes me back down, his hand flat between my shoulder blades.

“Stay.”

“Don’t tell me—”

SMACK. His hand comes down on my ass, hard. I gasp.

“What the fuck—”

SMACK. Again.

“You bite me, I spank you.” His voice is dark. “That’s how this works.”

“You can’t just—”

SMACK.

“Want me to stop?”

I should say yes. I should tell him to go straight to hell. But the heat spreading across my skin feels too good and I hate that I want more.

“Answer me, Layla.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“Don’t stop.”

“That’s what I thought.” He spreads my legs wider. “You like being punished, don’t you?”

“Shut up—”

SMACK.

“Wrong answer.” I’m panting now, my whole body on fire, and when his fingers slide through my wetness again I can’t hold back the moan that comes out of me. He pushes two fingers inside me and stretches me open.

“You’re going to take my cock so well.”

“Stop being so—ah—”

He adds a third finger. It burns, too much, too full.

“So what? Cocky?”

“You’re an asshole—”

“And you’re about to beg me to fuck you.” He pulls his fingers out. “Just watch.”

I hear foil tearing and then I feel him, right there, thick and hard and pushing against me, and the full reality of what’s happening lands on me all at once. I am losing my virginity to Cain Russo in a stranger’s guest house while rain hammers the roof and my ex-boyfriend is upstairs with my former best friend.

“Last chance to change your mind.”

“I’m not changing my—”

He slams in. All the way. In one brutal thrust.

I scream.

“FUCK—”

The pain is blinding, tearing and burning like I’m being split open.

“Too much?” But he doesn’t pull out, just stays buried and still, letting me adjust. “Want me to stop?”

“NO—”

“Then take it.” He pulls back and pushes in again, slower this time, but it still hurts, god, it hurts—

“Breathe, Layla.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His hand slides around to my stomach and holds me steady. “Just breathe through it.” I try. Force air into my lungs.

“That’s it.” He pulls back again, pushes in deeper. “You’re doing so good.”

“Don’t— don’t be nice—”

“Not being nice.” Another thrust. “Just don’t want you passing out before I make you come.”

“I can’t come like this—”

“Yes, you can.” He starts moving for real then, hard and fast and relentless, every thrust driving the air from my lungs.

“Oh god— oh god—”

“Not god.” He pulls my hair and yanks my head back. “Say my name.”

“Cain—”

“Louder.”

“CAIN—”

“That’s it.” His other hand reaches around and finds my clit. “Let them all hear who’s making you scream.”

He circles my clit while he pounds into me and then something shifts. The pain dissolves into something that builds low in my stomach, something that makes me push back against him before I can stop myself.

“There you go,” he mutters. “Knew you could take it.”

“Shut— up—”

“Make me.” I reach back and grab his wrist, dig my nails in until I feel him bleed. He hisses and then laughs.

“You’re vicious.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“Perfect match then.” He yanks my hair harder. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

“I hate you—”

“More.”

“I hate everything about you—”

“Keep going.” His fingers work my clit faster. “Tell me while I make you come.”

“I hate your face— your voice— the way you look at me in the hallways like—”

“Like what?”

“Like you own me—”

“I do own you.” He presses harder. “Right now, in this moment, you’re mine.”

“Never—”

“Say my name.”

“No—”

“Say it, Layla.”

“Make me—”

He changes the angle and hits something inside me that makes me see white.

“CAIN—”

“There it is.” He does it again. “Right there.”

The orgasm builds faster than I can process, tightening and rising, and I am fighting it and chasing it at the same time, and then it crests and breaks and the feeling rips through me so completely that the room, the party, Jace, Zara, all of it disappears. There is nothing except his name tearing out of my throat and the feeling of him inside me while I scream.

“CAIN—”

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters. “Fuck, you’re so tight—”

He pulls out and I whimper at the loss.

“Turn around.” I’m shaking so badly I can barely move, but I turn around and face him. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist.

“I want to see your face when you come again,” he says, and then he slams back inside.

I cry out and cling to him. This angle is deeper and fuller and so much more intense.

“Look at me.”

I force my eyes open. His face is right there, jaw tight, eyes black, sweat running down his temple.

“You feel that?” His voice is strained. “Feel how deep I am?”

“Yes—”

“No one else is ever going to fuck you like this.” His hand wraps around my throat. “No one else is going to make you feel this good.”

“You’re— so— arrogant—”

“And you’re going to come on my cock in about thirty seconds.” He squeezes my throat lightly, just holding. “Aren’t you?”

I can only hold onto him while he takes me apart.

“Answer me, Layla.”

“Yes—”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m going to come—”

“Then do it.” His thumb finds my clit. “Come for me.” He circles once. Twice.

It breaks through me harder than before, so hard I actually scream his name.

“CAIN—”

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters. “Fuck, you’re so tight— I can’t—”

“Don’t stop—”

“I can’t— Layla— I’m going to—”

“DO IT—”

He slams into me one final time, groans my name, shudders. Then he collapses onto the couch with me still in his lap, both of us shaking and sweating and gasping.

For maybe ten seconds we stay like that. His arms around me. My face against his neck. His heart pounding against mine. The snake tattoo pressed against my skin.

And then the world comes back.

What the fuck did I just do?

I push off him and scramble to my feet. The soreness hits the moment I stand, and the wetness on my thighs, and oh god. There’s blood. A small amount, but unmistakable.

“Layla—”

“Don’t.” I grab my coat, my ruined underwear. “Don’t say anything.”

“You’re bleeding a little—”

“I don’t care.” I yank my coat on with shaking hands. “It doesn’t matter.”

“At least let me—”

“Let you what? Clean me up?” I laugh and it comes out wrong, hysterical at the edges. “Pretend you care?”

“I never said I cared—”

“Good.” I finally look at him. “Because that was the biggest mistake of my life.”

He’s still on the couch, still breathing hard, my blood still on him. The snake tattoo wraps around his ribs and coils around his bicep, and I hate that even now, even after all of this, I want to reach out and trace it. I don’t.

“If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t.” He stands and pulls on his jeans. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“Your promises don’t mean shit.”

“Then why ask for one?”

I have no answer for that. I just run, out the door and back into the rain. Behind me, I hear him laugh, low and satisfied, like a man who just won a game I didn’t know we were playing.