I swallow him down, despite the gagging and drool escaping my bruised lips.

He locks my head in place, controlling the angle, setting an unapologetic pace as he claims my mouth and throat with complete abandon.

It’s not until he’s close, breaths ragged and muscles tight, that he pulls out. His swollen tip gleams wet, and I only get a glimpse of his impressive shaft before he whirls me around again.

Lube drips between my ass cheeks.

My breath snags on a shudder.

Oliver isn’t afraid to inflict pain, so I know it’s going to hurt. As the straps of my dress tilt my ass in his favor, I brace myself.

Just breathe.

His hands are warm and steady on my hipbones as he eases in the tip, allowing me precious seconds to adjust. But it’s not enough, and I’m unprepared when he impales me on his cock in one savage thrust.

We let out identical groans that live on opposite ends of the spectrum.

One born of pain.

The other of pleasure.

He takes me like a force of nature, as if he’s been running this scenario through his head every night for the last three weeks. He’s a master at leveraging my vulnerability, employing gravity to open me to every thick inch of him.

Each thrust drags a sobbing moan from my being, and I don’t know which is stronger—the burn or the need to fly.

The elixir keeps me skyward as he drives toward the finish line. He lets go of my hips and hauls me back with an arm across my stomach, his chest flush to my spine. His mouth finds my neck, breath scorching against my skin. Then he sinks his teeth into my shoulder, and that’s when I feel it.

The instant he lets go.

Still buried deep, he groans through the release, his growl vibrating on my collarbone as he brands me there with a kiss.

It’s a mark of ownership that stings more than it soothes.

Because virgin or not, in the middle of a deviant circle in a foreign land, I belong to Oliver Whitney.

For several moments, his breaths outpace the beats of my heart. Tension bleeds from his frame, his release still echoing through our joined bodies. His fingertip trails down my thigh, the touch tender before slipping away.

He steps back, and I’m left hanging in the aftermath as the rasp of his zipper breaks the silence.

Around us, the chamber stirs. Tuxedo jackets rustle, and voices murmur as the men tend to their wives. One by one, the women descend with unsteady grace, limbs loosening as they return to the ground. But I remain suspended, a trussed offering, the storm quieting around me while it still screams through my blood.