Dumped Brutally
He had always been like this with me—devouring, relentless, insatiable. Wild in bed. I fell for the Mafia heir knowing exactly what he was capable of, and a year after he took my virginity, I was still his—his constant bed partner, his indulgence, his obsession.
His mouth traced a slow, deliberate path up my legs, kisses lingering at the soft caps of my knees before drifting higher. I trembled as his lips moved over my thighs, every nerve ending lighting up in anticipation, until his breath ghosted over my most sensitive place. I was already wetter than he’d ever known me to be, my body betraying me before he even touched me.
The closer he got, the more uneven my breathing became. I couldn’t help it—I thrust my hips toward him, silently begging. He pinned me gently to the mattress, his grip firm but reverent, and I felt his smile before I heard it in the way he exhaled over my slick heat. That hot breath alone made me whimper.
His thumb rubbed slow, deliberate circles just above where I needed him most, and my body arched instinctively. I gasped when he spread me open, unashamed, hungry, his gaze burning into me before his tongue followed. He lifted my hips, his hands banded tightly around my thighs, and then he buried his face between them like a man starved.
I melted beneath him.
He kissed me with his entire body, worshipping me with the same thoroughness he used on my mouth, lingering even though I could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted to be inside me. He didn’t rush. He drew it out, pushing me higher, deeper into sensation until I was dizzy with it.
The sound he made against me—low, approving—sent me over the edge.
“You’re getting yummier, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger.
Another long, loving stroke of his tongue, deep and unrestrained, made my body tense violently. I moaned, helpless, writhing beneath him as he devoured me like a savage, like I was the only thing that existed. When I shattered, it was on his mouth, my climax ripping through me while he held me there, relentless and expert.
Only then did he pull away.
He leaned across the bed for a condom, his jaw tight with restraint, and I felt his frustration as he sheathed himself, wishing I were already protected so he wouldn’t have to wait another second. He lifted me easily, settling my curves against him, and when our bodies aligned, the contact alone sent sparks racing through me.
I wanted him tender. I did.
But the moment he parted my slick heat with his cock, restraint vanished.
He plunged into me in one deep, endless stroke, and I cried out as he filled me completely—claimed me—my body igniting as if it had been waiting for that exact moment all along.
And God help me, I loved him most when he was like this.
My head fell back, my hair fanning across the pale sheets as my body rocked helplessly beneath him. Every movement dragged a sound out of me—soft, needy, betraying. The kind of sounds that told him exactly how much power he had.
He kissed my throat like he was starving, sucking and nipping until my skin burned, until I burned. God, the way he filled me—like my body was made to swallow him whole. My legs locked around his hips, clinging, desperate, afraid he might disappear if I let go.
He moved slowly. Cruelly slow. Each stroke felt endless, a deep slide that stole my breath and scattered my thoughts. Again. And again. Time blurred until all I knew was him—his weight, his heat, the way my cries seemed to feed something dark and possessive inside him.
I begged. I couldn’t stop myself.
My body clenched around him, tight and aching, trying to pull him deeper every time he withdrew. When he slammed back inside me, I cried out, the force knocking something loose inside my chest. The sounds spilling from my mouth were humiliating and honest and entirely his.
He kissed me hard—claimed my mouth the way he claimed everything else—drinking me in like I was oxygen. I tasted myself on his tongue. I felt consumed. Needed. And God help me, that made it worse.
When his fingers pinched my nipples, the shock ripped through me. I gasped, arched, whimpered. He wanted that. He wanted my need, my surrender, my begging. So he slowed again, dragging himself through me until every nerve screamed.
I bit into his shoulder, trying to anchor myself, trying not to drown in him.
“Give me more,” he growled.
And I did. I gave him everything—my body, my sounds, my heart beating too fast for something I pretended wasn’t there. He took me harder then, rougher, his hands gripping my hips until I knew I’d bruise. Each thrust felt like a declaration, like he was carving his name into me from the inside out.
Take me, he whispered, like a command and a promise.
All of it. Everything.
When his hand slipped between us and touched me there, it was too much. My body shattered around him, my climax tearing through me so violently I screamed his name without meaning to. I shook. I broke. I came undone.
He followed, roaring as he buried himself deep, holding me like he might fall apart if he let go.
And then—silence.
He didn’t look at me when he rolled away.
The heat between us died fast, like it had never mattered. He reached for a cigarette, muscles flexing, tattoos shifting as if my body hadn’t just been wrapped around his moments ago. The click of the lighter cut through the room—precise, practiced, indifferent.
Smoke filled the air.
“My fiancée will be back tomorrow,” he said casually, exhaling toward the ceiling. “I can’t be with you often.”
No apology.
No hesitation.
No acknowledgment of what he’d just taken.
I lay there naked, damp sheets cooling beneath me, my body still trembling while my heart went utterly still. It was almost impressive—how cleanly he stepped out of me, how easily he returned to himself.
I didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t soften his voice or pretend this was difficult.
To him, it was logistics. Scheduling. Reality.
I stared at the ceiling and reminded myself that I had known this from the start.
I was never the woman he planned to stand beside.
I was the body he used in the dark.
The silence he escaped into.
The substitute.
A spare tire—useful, hidden, discarded once the real journey resumed.
It shouldn’t have hurt.
But it did.
He stubbed out the cigarette and stood, already dressed, already gone. The bed felt too large without his weight, too empty after being so full of him. My body still ached for someone who had already erased me.
When the door closed, the sound was final.
I stayed where I was, gathering myself piece by piece, swallowing the humiliation, the longing, the foolish hope I’d let grow where it never should have lived.
I told myself this was all I was worth to him.
And that was the cruelest part— I almost believed it.
