He didn't get the answer he wanted. Instead of a confession, she let out a jagged, broken sob that tore through the air, followed by a high, thin whimper that sounded like a wounded animal. She wasn't fighting him with words anymore; she was simply collapsing into the sensation, her voice failing her as she drowned in the sheer, overwhelming scale of his possession. The sound of her crying—not from pain, but from the total emotional and physical overload—sent a jolt of raw electricity through his spine. It was a sound of absolute surrender, but it wasn't the admission he craved. He didn't want a whimper; he wanted her to say the words. He wanted her to acknowledge the darkness they shared, to admit that this almost brutality was the only thing that made her feel alive.
He shifted his weight, his grip on her hips tightening until his knuckles were white, grinding himself into her with a slow, agonizing depth that forced another strangled cry from her throat. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder, his voice a low, predatory vibration. "Answer me. Don't just cry for me, tell me. Tell me you're as sick as I am. Tell me you want this more than you hate me." He hammered into her again, a sudden, violent thrust that made the heavy mahogany desk groan under their combined weight, demanding a verbal surrender to match the physical one.
