The Woman I Should Have Hated

Xavion POV

The first thing I notice is the impossible tightness.

It’s not just a snug fit; it’s a searing, velvet vice. I’ve barely pressed the head of my cock inside her, and her entire body has gone rigid beneath me, a sharp, startled gasp catching in her throat.

Her sea-green eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light of my penthouse bedroom, are fixed on mine with a look of pure, unadulterated panic I’ve never seen before.

Not during our verbal sparring at the charity gala where I first saw her, not when I cornered her against the balcony railing, not even when I brought her here, my hand possessive on the small of her back.

I stop all movement. My own breath is controlled, a steady in-and-out, a stark contrast to her shallow, frantic pants. My weight is braced on my forearms, caging her in. She’s so small. My frame completely eclipses hers.

I study her face, the way her plush lower lip is caught between her teeth, the faint tremble in her delicate jaw.

“Nazenika,” I say, my voice low and even, devoid of the roughness I feel coiling in my gut. “Look at me.”

Her eyes, glistening, snap back to mine. There’s defiance there, but it’s fraying at the edges, overwhelmed by a more primal fear.

“You didn’t mention this,” I continue, the words factual. A simple observation. I shift, just a fraction, and she flinches, a tiny, choked sound escaping her. The evidence is irrefutable. The barrier. The shocking, perfect tightness. The visceral, physical struggle of her body to accommodate mine. “You’re a virgin.”

It’s not a question. She doesn’t deny it. She just stares, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the blush that had painted her skin earlier now draining away.

“It wasn’t relevant,” she finally whispers, her voice barely audible, yet still threaded with that stubborn, sarcastic edge. “It’s just a biological technicality.”

A technicality. I almost smile, but the expression doesn’t reach my eyes. They remain cold, absorbing every micro-expression that crosses her face. The nervousness, the pride, the vulnerability she’s desperately trying to shield. This changes things entirely.

This wasn’t just another hookup. This was a claim on something untouched. The possessiveness that is a quiet, constant hum in my blood roars to a sudden, deafening crescendo.

“It’s relevant to me,” I reply, my tone still calm, almost conversational. I lower my head, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. Her scent—strawberries and something uniquely, inherently *her*—fills my senses. “It means you’re mine. In a way no one else has ever been or ever will be. Do you understand that?”

She shivers. I feel the tremor run through her entire slight frame. “Arrogant bastard,” she breathes out, but there’s no heat left in it.

“Factual,” I correct softly. My hands, which had been braced on the pillow beside her head, slide down. One cups the side of her face, my thumb stroking the high arch of her cheekbone. The other grips her hip, not to hurt, but to anchor. To claim. “Breathe out,” I instruct. “And relax. The tension is counterproductive.”

I watch her. I observe the internal war: the instinct to clamp down, to protect, versus the trust she must consciously choose to extend. Her eyes search mine, looking for cruelty, for mockery. She finds only that freezing blue calm, an ocean of absolute control. She lets out a shaky breath, and I feel the minute loosening of the muscles around me.

I begin to move again, not pulling back, but sinking deeper with an excruciating, millimeter-by-millimeter slowness. The resistance is profound. Her nails dig into my shoulders, not in passion, but in anchorless desperation. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Open your eyes, Nazenika. Look at me.”

It’s an order, delivered with quiet, absolute authority. Her eyelids flutter open. The green is stormy, swimming with unshed tears and a fire that refuses to be fully extinguished. I watch her as I fill her, completely, irrevocably.

I move again. Not a thrust, but a slow, inexorable press forward. The barrier yields, a sharp, distinct tear that makes her gasp, her nails digging into my shoulders.The moment I’m fully sheathed, a single tear escapes, tracing a path down her temple into her raven hair, fanned out across my pillows. I catch it with my thumb smearing it across her skin.

“The tightness,” I murmur, my voice a rough whisper now against her skin. “It’s like you were made to hold me. To take me. Your body is fighting it, but it will learn. It will learn to crave this.” I start a slow, deep rhythm, each stroke a deliberate conquest. The initial pain in her expression gradually blurs, transforms. A soft, broken sigh replaces a gasp. Her legs, which had been locked rigid, began to loosen, tentatively wrapping around my waist.

Her reactions are a map, and I read every one. The hitch in her breath when I angle my hips just so. The way her inner muscles flutter around me, a frantic, innocent pulse. I am everywhere—in her body, in her space, in the very air she’s trying to breathe.

I whisper into the sweat-dampened skin of her neck, my words clear and deliberate promises. “This pussy is mine. These sounds are mine. The way you’re starting to cling to me is mine. You can push back with that clever mouth all you want, little one. But this?” I drive deeper, earning a sharp cry that melts into a moan. “This is a truth your body is already accepting.”

I thrust into her deep and unrelenting. My lips crash onto hers swallowing every sound she makes while my fingers find her rosey pink nipples kneading.

She whimpers and arches, taking me deeper.

Fuck.

She feels good. Cristo. She feels perfect. I can feel her tight little pussy working overtime to try to accommodate my cock. She takes all of it like a good fucking girl.

“That's it baby, just like that.’ i break the kiss murmuring against her skin as little sounds leave her throat.

“Xavion’ she whimpers my name like its her fucking religion.

My eyes find hers , my hips roll in deep.

“You take me so fucking well. Like you were meant to take this cock’ i murmur darkly. She clenches around me. I close my eyes for a second while still keeping my pace. My lips leave marks all over her skin as i suck and bite everywhere I can effortlessly reach while I stretch her tiny cunt to its limit.

My fingers find her clit and she gasps out. I rub the swollen bud in circles.

“Cum for me baby,” I murmured.

Her first orgasm takes her by surprise. It rips through her with a violence that makes her cry out, her back arching off the bed, her eyes wide with shock.

I do not stop.

I watch, captivated, as pleasure obliterates the last of her tension. She falls apart beautifully, chaotically, a storm of sensation in my arms. I swallow her cries with my mouth, kissing her with a focus that is its own kind of possession.

I work her through it, into a second, then a staggering third. Her body is no longer struggling; it’s pleading, milking me with a rhythm that is no longer innocent but hungry. Her fingers are tangled in my hair, her earlier panic replaced by a dazed, overwhelmed rapture.

All night long i take her over and over. She’s oversensitive, I know but I can’t get enough of her. Id already kicked any other woman out already but all i can think about is stretching those fucking walls.

I fold her knees to her against her chest and fuck. The angle is deeper, much deeper this way.

“Cazzo’ my italian falls thick as she milks me this way she cries out in pure pleasure.

“That's it baby, take it all, take all of me.’ i speed up , my eyes close my head tips back, i feel her clamping around me. She is close again. I kiss her hard.

The next orgasm is just as powerful. A sharp cry is swallowed by my mouth, and her entire body bows off the bed, clamping around me with a force that threatens my legendary control. I groan, the sound torn from a place I usually keep silent and locked away. I don’t stop. I guide her through it, my pace unrelenting, until she is sobbing with oversensitivity, her hands pushing weakly at my chest.

“Again,” I command, and it is not a request. It is a decision I have made for her. I shift us, rolling so she is straddling me. The new angle makes her cry out, her head falling back, that magnificent hair cascading down her back like a cloak. I let her set the pace for a few tentative, shaky bounces before my hands settle on her hips, taking over.

I piston up into her, watching her face contort in ecstasy. She shatters again, her inner muscles milking me with a frantic, sweet rhythm.

It is too much. The control I wear like a second skin begins to fissure. The perfect, calculated rhythm falters. My own breath becomes ragged. The sight of her—utterly spent, beautifully ruined, *mine*—is the final variable I cannot compute against.

My grip on her becomes bruising. I pull her down hard onto me, seating myself as deeply as possible. “Look at me,” I rasp.

Her sea-green eyes, glazed and hazy, manage to focus on my face.

“This is where I finish,” I tell her, the words guttural and final. “Deep inside you. Marking what’s mine. You will remember this. You will remember who you belong to.”

The possession in my voice is absolute, a cold, hard truth. I see the shiver it sends through her, a thrill that mixes with her exhaustion. It is the last thing I see before my own vision whites out. With a final, grinding thrust, I come, a hot, endless rush that empties me into her depths. It is less a release than a transfer of essence. A claim written in the most fundamental biology.

For long minutes, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing in the dark room. I remain inside her, softening, reluctant to sever the connection. Eventually, I withdrew and gathered her against me. She is asleep almost instantly, a small, warm weight against my chest. I do not sleep.

I analyze the feeling of her skin against mine, the unfamiliar scent of her strawberry shampoo in my sheets, the profound, unsettling tightness she has imprinted on my very nerves. I catalog it all. I will not name it.

Again, I would already have kicked her out… I should be sipping whisky. Why do I have this infuriatingly tiny woman against me?

I fell asleep.

When the first grey light of dawn filters through the penthouse windows, my eyes crack open. The space beside me in the bed is warm, but empty. The scent of strawberries and sex lingers, a ghost in the air.

I reach out a hand. The sheets are cool where her body had been.

A quiet, cold fury settles in my chest, perfectly contained. She has slipped away again. A tactical error on my part, assuming the physical claim would be enough to ensure her presence upon waking.

I sit up. The room feels larger, emptier. The evidence of the night is everywhere—tangled sheets, her once discarded dress on the floor— is missing.

The silence of the penthouse was a physical presence, a hollow echo of the night’s fervor. I stood in the center of the bedroom, the cold fury in my chest a precise, focused instrument.

Efficient.*The word was a clinical concession. I should have admired the professionalism of her exit. Instead, it felt like a brand.

My phone was a cold, sleek weight in my palm. I navigated to a contact simply labeled V. Viktor. Few people had my private number; fewer still warranted a message before dawn.

My thumbs moved over the glass, the taps sharp and definitive.

> Me: V. I need a deep dive. Name: Nazenika Petrovenza. Everything. Lineage, education, financials, current residence, social circles, vulnerabilities. Discretion is paramount. Report directly to me. No intermediaries.

I sent it. Viktor would understand the tone. The lack of greeting, the bullet-point demand. It was a declaration of intent.

The shower was a tactical necessity, a ritual to wash away the night and prepare for the day. I stepped under the spray, the water calibrated to a punishing, near-scalding temperature. But as the steam rose, so did the memory.

It wasn’t a visual recollection. It was sensory, visceral. The memory of sinking into her, that impossible, velvet heat, a tightness that had felt less like anatomy and more like a fist closing around my very spine.

The sound of her gasp, sharp and stolen, when I first entered her. The broken, rhythmic moans that had vibrated against my throat, each one a surrender I had drunk like fine wine. The way her body had arched, not away, but *into* the possession, as if seeking to imprint me deeper.

A low, involuntary groan left my lips. My hand, braced against the cold marble tile, curled into a fist. Against the relentless, icy stream, my body betrayed me, hardening with a painful, urgent throb.

The contrast was obscene—the frigid water sluicing over my shoulders, the burning memory of her sheath, the rigid, aching evidence of its effect.

*What is this woman doing to my system?*

I growled, the sound lost in the drumming water. It was chemical. It had to be. A unique pheromonal cocktail designed to short-circuit logic. And the most galling part? The exit. No woman had ever willingly left my bed. They lingered, they hinted, they hoped for a breakfast, a callback, a glimpse of the world my name could open. They stayed until I made it clear the transaction was complete.

Nazenika had treated my penthouse, my bed, *my claim*, as a hotel room. She’d taken what she wanted and vanished.

The irritation was a live wire under my skin. I reached for the body wash, the scent of sandalwood and bergamot sharp and familiar. I scrubbed methodically, as if I could scour the memory of her from my pores.

The lather slid over my chest, my abdomen, and I refused to let my hand stray, refused to acknowledge the persistent ache. This was not a weakness I would indulge.

The routine was armor. The precise, measured strokes of the boar-bristle brush through my hair. The clean, astringent sting of the toner on my freshly-shaved jaw. Every movement was deliberate, a reassertion of control.

In the walk-in closet, the uniform awaited. A sharp, immaculate Armani suit, the wool a deep, fathomless black that absorbed the light. A white shirt, crisp as a legal document. A tie of charcoal silk.

I dressed slowly, each article a layer of civilization restored. The suit jacket settled on my shoulders with the weight of authority. I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror.

The man who stared back was impeccable, unassailable, a fortress of tailored cloth and cold ambition. The only thing out of place was the faint, lingering shadow in my own eyes—a hunter’s glint where there was usually only calculation.

The penthouse elevator descended in a silent, golden glide. The doors opened directly into the private underground garage, where the black Maybach idled, a silent beast of polished steel and darkened glass. My driver, Leo, stood by the open door, a nod his only greeting.

"To the corporate tower, sir?"

I slid into the rear cabin, the leather sighing under my weight. The interior smelled of lemon polish and chilled, recycled air. "Yes."

As the car glided into the grey dawn of the city, I stared out at the blurring streets. The boardroom meetings with my father awaited—a different kind of battlefield, one of spreadsheets, hostile takeovers, and thinly-veiled paternal disappointment. But my mind kept circling back to an empty pillow and a stolen dress.

The "only fuck once" rule was ashes. She had incinerated it with her exit. The game had changed. I hadn’t just wanted her last night; I had taken her. And now, her absence was a vacuum, an unfinished equation.

Nazenika Petrovenza had not just left my bed. She had issued a challenge. And I, Xavion DeSanto, had just decided to accept.

The Maybach pulled up to the curb of the soaring steel tower. I straightened my cufflinks, a final, unconscious adjustment.

*Run, little thief,* I thought, the cold fury settling into a glacier-cold resolve. See how far you get.