THE BUCKET LIST part 2

Bella’s POV

He filled me with one brutal thrust, my body stretching around him, the air punched out of my lungs as my scream muffled against the sheets. His hands gripped my tied wrists, using them like reins, dragging me back into every punishing stroke.

The pain was sharp at first—raw, stinging from his earlier spanking—but quickly it melted into something else. Heat. Pleasure. My body betrayed me, clenching, dripping, begging for more even as I whimpered.

“God,” I gasped, my face pressed into the bed. “So deep—”

“Not God,” he growled, thrusting harder. “Sir.”

“Yes!” I cried. “Yes, Sir—”

That word made him slam even deeper, his pace relentless, each thrust a shockwave through my trembling body. My arms strained against the silk binding, my heels digging into the sheets as I tried to anchor myself against him. I had never been taken like this before. Not gently, not politely—just used, claimed, exactly the way I had been fantasizing about for years.

My orgasm built fast, too fast, curling hot and vicious in my belly. I was about to beg for release when he pulled out suddenly, leaving me empty, clenching around nothing.

“No!” I gasped, looking back at him, desperate.

His smirk was pure cruelty. “Did you think I’d let you come without permission?”

I whimpered, my body aching, throbbing, dripping down my thighs.

He flipped me onto my back effortlessly, my bound wrists pinned above my head. He climbed over me, straddling my hips, his cock dragging wetly against my stomach as he leaned down. His hand wrapped around my throat again, pressing just enough to make the room tilt.

“You’ll come when I decide you’ve earned it,” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Until then, you’re just my toy.”

My hips bucked helplessly beneath him, my nipples aching against the lace bra I still wore. I had never felt so helpless, so exposed—and I had never felt so alive.

The night blurred into waves of torment and bliss.

He teased me with his fingers, circling my clit until I was seconds away from breaking—then pulling away with a wicked grin. He spanked me again, harder this time, until my ass was tender and throbbing. He bit at my neck, sucked bruises into my skin that would bloom purple tomorrow, evidence of this night I would never explain.

At one point, he dragged me off the bed by my bound wrists and bent me over the desk by the window, the city lights sprawling below us. My reflection stared back at me in the glass—my face flushed, my makeup smeared, my body trembling as he spread me open.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Look how filthy you are for me.”

I did. And God help me, I loved it.

He fucked me there, against the window, one hand fisted in my hair, the other squeezing my throat as I begged and sobbed and moaned his name even though I didn’t know it. My breasts pressed against the glass, my breath fogging it, the city oblivious below.

Every time I was about to come, he stopped. Every. Damn. Time. Until I was shaking uncontrollably, tears slipping down my cheeks from the sheer desperation.

“Please,” I sobbed finally, broken. “Please, Sir, I need it—I need to come, I can’t take it anymore—”

He shoved two fingers into my mouth, silencing me. “Shut up and take it. You’re not done.”

I sucked his fingers desperately, drool sliding down my chin, my body convulsing with need. I was lost, ruined, nothing but a vessel for his control. And it was everything I had wanted.

Finally—finally—he pushed me back onto the bed and crawled over me, his body pinning mine down, his cock sliding against my soaked folds. His mouth crushed mine in another brutal kiss, his teeth scraping my lip until I whimpered.

“You want to come?” he snarled against my mouth.

“Yes, Sir,” I sobbed. “Please, I need it—I’ll do anything—”

“Then come when I tell you.”

And with that, he slammed into me again, harder than before, his thrusts brutal, merciless. His hand wrapped tight around my throat, cutting off my breath, the other twisting in my bound wrists as he fucked me into the mattress.

“Now,” he growled.

The orgasm tore through me like a detonation. My body arched violently, my vision went white, and I screamed so loud my throat burned. Every nerve lit up, my body clenching around him as he fucked me through it, prolonging it until I was thrashing beneath him.

“Good girl,” he growled, finally spilling inside me with a guttural groan.

I collapsed under him, trembling, wrecked, every muscle quivering.

We lay there for a long moment, his weight pressing me into the sheets, both of us breathing hard. Eventually, he untied my wrists, the silk slipping away from my raw skin. I flexed my fingers, sore and shaky, but I didn’t move.

He brushed his thumb over the marks on my throat, almost tender, though his expression was unreadable.

When I finally rolled to my side, dawn was already creeping pale light through the curtains. The city outside was waking up, but I wasn’t ready to. I wanted to freeze this moment, to stay in it just a little longer.

But I had written it clearly in my bucket list: one night. No names. No strings.

So when I sat up and reached for my dress, he didn’t stop me.

Neither of us said a word.

I didn’t ask his name. He didn’t ask mine.

When I walked out of that hotel room barefoot, heels dangling from my hand, my body sore and marked and still dripping with him, I smiled.

I was twenty-five. And I had finally given myself the only gift I truly wanted: one unforgettable night of surrender.

The memory of his hand on my throat, his voice in my ear, his command in my veins—I knew it would haunt me forever.

And I wanted it to.