Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-Four: Fishermen [EXPLICIT CONTENT; OTHERS MIGHT FIND THIS DISTURBING... OR NOT... READ AT YOUR OWN RISK]

//CLARA//

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, the moonlight carving his face into harsh planes.

"I wanted to drag you from the table. Throw you over my shoulder. Fuck you in front of all of them so they’d know—"

He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard I thought the bone might snap.

"So they’d know what—"

He didn’t let me finish. He shifted his hips and drove his cock into me in one brutal, unceremonious movement. No preparation. No warning. He simply used his weight to impale me against the rock, cutting the air from my lungs and the words from my tongue.

My body was forced to accommodate him, the sudden fullness an ache that was immediately, overwhelmingly good.

"So they’d know you’re mine," he finished, his breath coming in jagged hitches. "Even if you aren’t. Even if you never—fuck—"

He pulled out nearly all the way and slammed back in, harder, my back scraping against the barnacles on the rock with each movement. "Even if you marry some goddamn prince."

Marry? Gosh, he’s too far gone with this shit.

I laughed, breathless, furious, so turned on I could have screamed. Every feeling I had slammed into me at the same time. "I fucking hate you."

That’s a lie... not that he needs to know. Ever.

"I know." He bit my collarbone.

His mouth sealed over the spot, sucking hard enough to feel the edges of his teeth. Pain flared for a moment, then melted into heat.

His tongue pressed flat against the mark, drinking me in. When he finally pulled away, the wet sound of his mouth leaving my skin echoed the waves. A thin strand of saliva stretched between his lips and the bruise blooming on the surface.

His gaze branded into mine, and I let it burn.

"I fucking hate you too."

The words should have hurt, yet all I could think was: Does he really hate me?

The question stung, but I shoved it down as I met his next thrust, forcing him deeper, angrier this time. We collided like we were trying to destroy each other. Like the only thing keeping us alive was our own ruin.

The water slapped against the rocks, hiding the sounds we couldn’t suppress.

He shifted the angle of our hips, driving upward, my head falling back against the jagged surface.

"There—" I keened. "Right fucking there—"

"Like this?" He did it again, watching my face. "You want me to fuck you like this? Rough and dirty like a whore on the rocks while your precious prince sleeps soundly in his bed?"

"Yes."

I should have felt shame. But I was babbling, incoherent, everything forgotten but the salted friction and the fullness and the ravaged look in his eyes, hating me as much as he wanted me.

"Yes, god, don’t stop—"

He didn’t. He fucked me with single-minded intensity, each thrust pushing me higher, the rough stone at my back a counterpoint to the slickness between us.

I could feel my orgasm building, not the slow ascent of careful lovemaking but a sudden precipice, a fall I was already tumbling down.

"Casimir—"

I felt him swell inside me. He was close. Too close.

No. No. No.

The word formed in my mind with crystalline clarity.

Not yet. Not like this. Not with him thinking he had won, that his cock inside me meant he owned me, that his pleasure mattered more than my power over him.

I wrenched my hips back, sliding off him with a wet schlick. The loss of him was a shock to both of us. He groaned in agony, his hands reaching blindly for my waist.

"Clara—what the fuck—"

I twisted out of his grip, moving into the surf until the water swirled at my waist. He stumbled back, caught off guard, his eyes wild and confused in the moonlight.

"No," I said, the word crisp and final. "You don’t get to come inside me. Not tonight. Not unless I fucking say so."

His face was twisted with fury. His cock bobbed just beneath the surface, the tip occasionally breaching the water, still hard and leaking. His hands clenched at his sides as if he didn’t trust himself not to reach out and break me, or worse, murder me.

A flicker of fear passed through me. He could easily snap my wrist or pin me down and take what he wanted. He was faster than me, absolutely stronger, and right now, he looked like he wanted to tear me apart. But he didn’t do those things. Which gave me enough courage.

I swallowed the fear and lifted my chin.

"Stroke yourself," I commanded.

He stared at me, unmoving.

"I said play with your own cock, Casimir. I want to watch."

When he didn’t move, I stepped forward, took his hand, and wrapped his fingers around his shaft. I pumped him once—just to show him I could—and then let go. Frustration bled into every line of his body, from the way his jaw clenched to the tremor in his thighs.

"That’s it."

"Damn you, woman." He gasped, the words ragged, completely wrecked. "Damn you to hell."

I tilted my head, watching him suffer. "Maybe. But you’re coming with me."

Then I reached between my own legs.

The contrast was electric—the freezing water lapping at my skin, the white-hot heat under my fingers, raw from his assault. I watched his eyes dart to where I was working, his hips jerking involuntarily toward me, seeking the release I was holding hostage.

I lifted my free hand and pinched my nipple through the spray, then harder, rolling the sensitive flesh until I was arching into my own touch.

"Suck them," I ordered.

Casimir let out a sound that was half-growl, half-plea, and surged forward. He didn’t use his hands—I wouldn’t let him. He buried his face in my chest, his teeth grazing my nipple before he sucked hard enough to make my ears ping.

His hand stayed on himself, stroking in a jagged rhythm.

"Harder," I demanded, my fingers never stopping, circling my clit, sliding through my own wetness.

He obeyed. His tongue flattened around the areola, then his teeth closed on my nipple with sharp pressure, my body jerking against his mouth.

I was so close. So close. Just then he tried to push his cock inside me, to replace my hand, and I kicked his thigh.

"No."

"Clara—"

"I said no."

He tried again. I stopped him again. He bristled, grunting with the need to bury himself inside me, his cock spurting white ropes of pre-cum into the water.

I reached for him with my free hand, fisting my fingers in his wet hair and dragging his mouth to mine. The kiss was brutal and biting with hunger. I controlled every second of it, dominating his mouth with the same ruthless focus I applied to my own body.

I came with his name on my lips, my body shuddering against his as I worked my fingers through the waves of pleasure. I was gasping, trembling, utterly spent.

Then I pulled my hand away and shoved him backward.

"Clara—" My name ripped from his chest, sounding like a curse.

I didn’t answer. I turned and waded toward the shore. The water sluiced down my skin like silk as I emerged, finding my robe where I’d left it. I pulled it around me, the fabric clinging to my wet body.

I heard him behind me. The splash of him breaking the surface, the stumble of his feet on the sand as he scrambled to follow. I heard the rustle of his clothes—fumbled on hastily and barely fastened.

I did not turn. I kept walking.

Rough fingers closed around my wrist, yanking me around. He slammed me against the stone, pinning both my wrists above my head with one hand, his body crushing into me.

His eyes were feral, wild, warring with himself over whether to fuck me against my will or simply just kill me—chances are, the first one. His lips parted in labored breaths.

"You cannot just—" He swallowed hard. His other hand cinched around my waist, his nails searing crescents into my skin. I could feel him through his wet trousers, the stone-ridge of him pressing into my hip, his need unfinished and screaming. "You cannot leave me like that."

I held his gaze. "I just did."

"Clara—"

"Not now." I pushed at his chest. "The fishermen are coming. I heard them."

He went still, his head turning to listen. The sound came from somewhere down the beach, voices, followed by the creak of wood and the splash of oars.

He cursed under his breath. Then pulled me into the shadows just as the first dark shape of the boat emerged around the point.

We heard every word of their conversation about the weather and the catch and Mrs. Gould’s impossible demands for fresh lobster. One of them glanced our way, lifting the gas lamp above his head.

The light swept across the spot where we had been moments ago. My heart stopped for a moment.

Casimir’s fingers tightened on mine.

Then they moved on. We waited until the sound faded, their voices drifted back from the darkness, faint now and directionless.

"You’re insane," I whispered, finally pulling my hand back.

"You’re worse," he bit back.