Page 40 of Secret Heir

He’s hard and thick and I remember the weight of him, the way he used to fill me so completely I couldn’t think.

“Aria.” My name is a growl and his hand covers mine, gripping hard enough to hurt. “I’ve waited eight years for this.”

“Then stop talking.” I pull him closer with my free hand, nails digging into his shoulder through his shirt hard enough to feel the muscle beneath. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just⁠—”

He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth crashes into mine again, brutal and demanding, and his hands are already yanking at my jeans.

He’s rough about it and impatient, jerking the denim down my hips along with my underwear in one harsh movement.

I have to brace myself against the bookshelf to step out of them.

Then his hands are on my thighs, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.

The display of strength should frighten me, but instead it sends heat pooling between my legs.

I wrap my legs around his waist, and he slams me back against the bookshelf hard enough that more books tumble down around us.

The edge of a shelf digs into my spine, but I don’t care. I can’t care about anything except the feel of him pressed against me.

“This is what you ran from,” he says against my mouth, his voice harsh. His hand grips my hip bruisingly hard while the other positions himself. “This is what you gave up.”

I can feel him pressing against my entrance—hot and hard and demanding—and I’m already wet for him even though I know this is wrong.

He enters me in one brutal thrust without asking for permission, and I cry out at the sudden invasion.

It’s too much, and I’m not quite ready for him.

The stretch burns and borders on painful, but he doesn’t stop. He drives in to the hilt and holds himself there, buried deep inside me.

“Maksim—” His name is a half gasp, half sob.

“You wanted this,” he growls against my ear. His breath is hot and sharp with vodka. “You’ve wanted this since I found you. So take it.”

He pulls out almost completely and slams back in, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.

He’s still mostly dressed—just his pants shoved down enough—and I’m completely naked except for my bra, and the contrast makes this feel even more degrading.

He couldn’t even bother to undress properly. This is just about using my body to exorcise his demons.

Maybe that’s exactly what it is.

“You left me,” he says, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. “You took my son. You stole eight years from me.”

“I had to—” The words dissolve into a moan as he changes the angle, hitting deeper.

“No.” His hand moves to my throat. He’s not squeezing, just holding, a reminder that he could hurt me if he wanted. “You chose to. You chose this.”

He fucks me against the bookshelf like he’s trying to break us both and punish me for every year I was gone and every secret I’m still keeping.

Books rain down around us, a cascade of knowledge while we destroy ourselves against the shelves.

I dig my nails into his shoulders through his shirt, hard enough that I feel the fabric tear.

He hisses at the pain but doesn’t slow down.

If anything, he goes harder.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks viciously, his lips on my ear. I shiver. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about while you’ve been playing the victim in my house?”