It had been five days since Lila had walked away—and not once had she looked back with regret.
In those five days, Dominic hadn’t just wrecked her body; he’d rebuilt her understanding of what it could mean to be wanted. Their days blurred into a whirlwind of raw, intense physicality—his hands finding her in every corner of her apartment, his mouth claiming hers against walls, counters, the shower tile, her own trembling skin.
But it wasn’t just the heat. It wasn’t just how her body softened for him, opened for him, needed him. It was the way he looked at her after—the way he stayed. The way he saw her. As if he wasn’t just drawn to her shape, but to everything she was. As if no one had ever reached for her soul and called it beautiful.
Brian had called. Texted. Pleaded. But all he got was silence.
No, that wasn’t true.
He got one message, the morning after the move, right around the time Dominic’s rough hands were peeling her shirt off again—his mouth at her throat, his voice telling her she’d never lift a finger again unless it was to beg. She’d stared at her phone, heart oddly steady, and with one hand typed three words: I’m done. Enough.
That was it.
She didn’t read his reply for for hours. When she finally did, she laughed—actually laughed—because the bastard had tried to sweet-talk his way back in with a text so pitiful it almost didn’t warrant mockery.
“babe cmon i kno i fucked up but we both kno how i can make it bettr. come over n lets fix it. let me giv u what u kno nobdy else can.”
If only he knew.
If he could see her body then—bruised, aching, glowing—he’d understand how laughable that promise sounded now. If he’d heard the things Dominic growled into her ear while fucking her against her own bedroom wall, if he’d seen the way she begged, broke, came undone—he’d know.
Brian never handled her.
Brian barely noticed her.
Still, she read every text that followed, just to leave it on read. Just so he’d know what it felt like to be the one discarded. Unwanted. Unanswered.
And yet—it still took him five fucking days to drag himself to her front door.
She heard the knock and smiled without realizing it, her body reacting blindly before her thoughts caught up—wetness blooming low and deep, the heat of memory rising in her cheeks. Dominic. Her hand flew to the knob with the kind of eagerness she wouldn’t dare admit aloud.
But when the door swung open—
The arousal vanished like mist under cold water.
Brian stood there, looking exactly like the man she’d left behind—hair styled in some haphazard, slept-on mess, clothes unironed, face scrunched with irritation instead of apology. He didn’t look sorry. He looked offended to be ignored.
Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed, and she moved to slam the door without a word.
But he shoved his arm into the frame.
“Don’t you dare shut the door on me!” he barked, forcing the door open again with a sharp, masculine grunt.
She stepped back instinctively as he took a step into the threshold, red-faced, jaw tight with unearned fury.
But this time—she didn’t shrink.
Her spine straightened. Chin lifted.
“We’re done,” she said, voice steady and clear. “Now leave.”
She moved to shut the door again, hand firm on the edge—but he pushed it right back open, louder this time, more force behind it, like he had something to prove.
“Leave?” he mocked, loud enough it echoed against the walls. “And then what?” His eyes scanned her like an insult. His lip curled.
“Oh, come on.” He scoffed, stepping further inside, hands gesturing like he was the one making sense. “What is this really, huh? Some little tantrum? A guilt trip?” His gaze raked over her with casual cruelty, eyes pausing at her hair, her loose dress, the flush in her cheeks he didn’t put there. “You gonna sulk forever over one bad weekend?”
He laughed, but it was cold. Forced.
“You’re not really going to toss us over that,” he said, as if they’d built something worthy of preserving. “You get like this sometimes. You blow shit up, need to feel in control. I let it happen. It’s part of your thing.”
She felt it—his words reaching for the parts of her he used to hook into. Need to feel in control. You get like this. Reframing her as irrational. Hysterical. Small.
“You gonna go back to being single?” he went on, voice hardening. “Late-night takeout and empty beds? You think anyone’s gonna be lining up? Lila, be serious.”
But before she could even draw breath—a shadow fell across him.
Brian paused. Confused.
Then a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Dominic.
Tall, silent, solid—his frame filled the doorway behind Brian like a wall that had always been there, just waiting to rise. His expression was carved from stone, jaw set, eyes locked on Brian with the kind of stillness that came before something broke.
Without a word, Dominic shoved Brian aside, a sharp, deliberate gesture of control. Brian stumbled to the side with a surprised grunt, off-balance, mouth half open.
Dominic stepped into the apartment.
Turned.
Planted himself between her and the man she used to let hurt her.
And didn’t move.
“Who the hell is this?” Brian barked, voice cutting through the thick silence as he straightened himself with a puffed chest and bruised ego, looking past Dominic toward Lila like she owed him an answer.
Dominic didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance back.
He just stepped forward—once, maybe twice—forcing Brian to retreat without laying a single hand on him. The air between them snapped tight with unspoken authority. Where Brian spit noise and volume, Dominic emanated a kind of still, impenetrable pressure.
“You should leave,” Dominic said, voice low and calm, the kind that didn’t need to raise itself to dominate the room.
Brian let out a short laugh, but there was a crack in it now. “You serious? You think this little act is gonna impress her? You don’t even know her—”
“I know she asked you to leave.” Dominic’s words cut like clean glass. Still no rise. Just weight. “Twice. You ignored her. That ends now.”
He took another step, and Brian faltered, instinctively backing away. He looked between them, searching Lila’s face for a flicker of doubt—but it wasn’t there. Her eyes were calm. Clear. Watching Dominic like gravity had reattached to her bones.
That was when Brian knew.
His face contorted, the realization slamming into him like a punch. His fists clenched at his sides, breath hissing through gritted teeth. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he spat, voice rising, eyes darting between them. “You’re fucking him?!”
Dominic didn’t flinch, his stance unyielding, calm force radiating from every inch of his broad frame. His voice, low and deliberate, cut through Brian’s fury like a blade through silk.
“What she does,” he said, eyes dark with a warning that needed no volume, “isn’t your concern anymore.”
Brian’s breath stopped, mouth open as if to argue, but the weight of Dominic’s words and presence pressed down on him. His face twisted—frustration, helpless anger, something close to fear flaring in his eyes.
Lila stood still, heart thundering, watching the man who used to control her unravel under Dominic’s quiet authority. A small, fierce pride bloomed in her chest.
Brian’s shoulders sagged, his bluster collapsing under the silent, immovable wall before him. With a sharp, bitter curse, he backed away and stormed out.
Dominic followed to the threshold, not rushing, just ensuring.
He closed the door softly behind him—not slamming it, not even locking it. Just a quiet, certain click that felt more final than any shout. His kind of force had already been delivered.
Then he turned.
And Lila was still there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in silence, her hands twitching with the adrenaline of confrontation and the unbearable thrum of arousal creeping back into her veins.
Dominic stepped to her—not fast, not hard, just deliberate. His palm lifted to her cheek, warm and rough and grounding.
His voice was low. Certain. “You don’t ever have to worry about him deciding your worth.”
His thumb brushed her skin.
“And he lied. There’s absolutely a line out there for you, Lila.”
His lips brushed hers—barely.
“And I’ll be first in that line, showing you exactly what you’re worth.”
That was enough.
She surged up into him, mouth crushing his, fingers fisting in his shirt like she could drag him into her bones, like she needed to. The kiss was messy, gasping, all tongue and fire, and he took it—met it—answered it with hands anchoring at her hips, sliding lower, pulling her in.
Then he broke just far enough to speak, breath ghosting over her mouth.
“I’m going to show you. Right now.”
He spun them like it was instinct, one fluid motion, and her back hit the wall with a thud softened only by the heat of his body pressing against her. Their mouths collided again—his kiss was open, consuming, hungry, his tongue tasting her moan as his hands moved over her, up, around, claiming. Fingers dragged the fabric of her dress tight across her breasts as he cupped them through the thin layer, thumbs pressing into nipples already straining for more. She gasped into his mouth, her hands flying to his waist, fumbling for his belt like she could take control back with desperation alone.
She got it unbuckled—barely—before his hand snatched hers and slammed them up above her head, pinning them high to the wall with one palm like she weighed nothing.
His mouth tore from hers just long enough to look down at her—really look.
His eyes were dark, ravenous. His jaw flexed.
Possession poured off of him like heat.
Still pinning her, he used his free hand to finish what she started—pulling his belt free with a low whisper of leather, then popping the button, dragging the zipper down so slowly it made her knees tremble. He shoved down his jeans, then his briefs, baring himself to her fully, thick and hard, flushed, glistening already at the tip.
She couldn’t look away.
Her hips twitched forward—her dress brushing against him, her heat rubbing over the rigid length of him in helpless rhythm. He let her. For an extended second. Let her rut against him, soaking the fabric between them. Watching her come undone just from friction.
Then he seized her.
One strong hand dropped from her wrists to grip her thigh, yanking her leg up and out, bracing it high against the wall as he pressed between her thighs, his fingers briefly rubbing the slickness of her panties.
Her breath shuddered.
“This wet for me already?” he growled, voice thick and low at her ear. “Good. I want you messy when I break you open.”
Then fingers tore her panties aside, and in the next second he drove into her—deep—in one brutal, perfect thrust that punched a cry straight from her throat.
Her moan cracked open as he dragged out of her slowly, cruelly, her insides clinging to every inch. Then—snap—his hips slammed forward, forcing a broken sound from her lips that she couldn’t even recognize.
He leaned in, lips at her ear, voice a growl soaked in heat and possession:
“I’m not here to fuck you, Lila. I’m here to show you what it means to belong to me.”
Her hands flew up to his shoulders, desperate to ground herself—but he didn’t let her. With a sudden snarl of motion, he dropped her leg and tore her arms off of him, gripped her biceps, forced them down, then behind her back in one fluid movement. One hand wrapped around both her wrists—tight, commanding—pinning them there low like a shackle forged just for her. The other slid up her body, rough and reverent, until it cradled her throat.
Not choking. Not painful.
Just power.
His fingers flexed as he tilted her head back to the wall, made her look at him. Eyes locked, fire to fire, hers wide and ruined, his dark with hunger and heat and a possessive calm that made her knees weak.
Then he pulled back again.
Slow. Dragging. Devastating.
And drove forward with force that made her whimper once more, her whole body jolting from the impact of his hips to hers, held together by nothing but the clamp on her wrists and the weight of his hand at her throat.
“You feel that?” he growled, low and lethal. “That’s how wanted you are.”
Then his hips began again—brutal, perfect, every thrust hitting deep, angled, designed. She was helpless—pressed to the wall, crying out between gritted teeth and hungry kisses that came between his words. He kissed her like he couldn’t stop. Lips crashing. Biting. Possessing.
She was nothing but sensation—held, taken, adored through dominance.
And just as the pleasure threatened to tear her open again—
He broke away.
Let go of her wrists. Released her throat. And with hands that still trembled from restraint, grabbed her dress and yanked it up, over, off—ripping the fabric away like it didn’t matter, like only she did. He tossed it aside, and with a quick flick his own top was gone, revealing that sweat-slicked, muscle-carved chest that sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs.
Then—in a blur—she was off the ground.
His powerful hands gripped her thighs and ass, lifting her like she weighed nothing, her body instinctively clamping around him. He lined up, thick and hard, and thrust back inside with a rough, claiming push that sent her head tilting back, her mouth parting in a gasping moan.
His hips drove up into her, deep and demanding, the impact colliding them together as her arms wrapped tight around his neck. Her hips moved with his, back and down, meeting each snap of his pelvis with a frantic grind, chasing the exquisite pressure. Her legs tightened around his waist, holding herself on him, anchoring herself as the pleasure built.
And then—he stilled.
His hips stopped moving, just a thick fullness inside her, deep enough to make her gasp. He leaned back slightly, forcing her to cling harder. She felt his hands leave her ass, slip away and then behind his own back, crossed and deliberate, making a show of leaving her suspended on his cock, her body doing the work.
Her breath stuttered, sweat slipping down her spine as she trembled in her mania. Her hips started to move, frantic now, grinding, plunging down on him, using him, chasing the raw edge of release with a desperation that cracked her voice. His dark eyes pinned her, burning with satisfaction, with a gleam of pride and power that made her legs tighten and her core clench even harder.
His mouth curled in a smirk, voice low, wrecked, thick with dominance and approval:
“Yeah, you are mine, aren’t you?”
She gasped out a broken, breathless “Yes, yes—I’m yours,” the words catching between gasps and whimpers.
That was all he needed.
His hands snapped forward, wrapped around her back, slamming her against him as his hips snapped back into motion. Harder. Deeper. Savage. Each thrust punched sound from her throat, her mind a white blur of pleasure, of submission, of him owning her completely. There was no space to think—only the relentless, overwhelming drive of his cock slamming into her, grinding against every sensitive spot inside, dragging her higher and higher until her entire world shattered in a scream as she came.
The next thing she knew, her body was slumped on the futon, her limbs slack, her breathing shattered—though she couldn’t hardly remember being dropped there. Through the tangled strands of her hair, she saw him—Dominic—standing over her, the overhead light sketching his body in lines of shadow and gold. His chest rose and fell, damp with sweat, his muscles flexing with restrained control. His eyes, dark and unyielding, fixed on her with a hunger so deliberate it felt like gravity thickened in the room.
He knelt.
Slow. Predatory. Between her trembling thighs. Her legs twitched and closed instinctively, her body still raw with overstimulation, nerves frayed and sparking.
His hands were patient but dominating. He pulled her back open.
One hand slid to her thigh, thumb pressing into the flesh just beside her knee—not bruising, but claiming, reminding. The other rose to her breast, cupping it with an almost reverent weight, thumb brushing the curve softly, sending a jolt down her spine.
Her body twitched. Breath shivered. His thumbs inched upward—the one on her thigh tracing maddening circles closer, closer to where she felt slick and trembling, nerves crackling from the aftershocks; the other on her breast teasing along the edge, closer, closer to the sensitive nipple that made her shiver.
His voice was low, a rumble she felt in her belly.
“I’m not even close to done satisfying you.”
Her back arched slightly, body tightening under his hands, as the slow tease of his thumbs inched closer, closer brushing just shy of the places already wrung tight and helpless. She let out a high, overwhelmed whimper, legs pressing against his hand, breasts rising into his touch.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly, but there was iron beneath the words.
Her eyes snapped up to his, breath shallow.
And God, those eyes—they burned into her like the sun, an intensity that stripped her bare, made her his without even touching.
She vaguely felt the pressure of his hand slip away from her thigh—just as his voice, low and wrecked, cut through the moment.
“I don’t think I can ever be done satisfying you.”
And then—a thick finger pressed inside, slow and purposeful, curling up into her, drawing a broken, gasping cry from her lips. At the same moment, his thumb brushed directly over her nipple, a stroke so precise it sent her spine arching from the futon, her body caught in a wave of helpless sensation.
“Tell me again,” he murmured, the slow curling stroke of his finger inside her pushing her higher.
Her body twisted, breath a ragged mess, hips grinding down against his hand as his thumb continued its tantalizing torment.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
Her voice cracked—too raw, too overwhelmed to control.
“I am—God, I am,” she cried.
Suddenly, his thumb pressed directly to her swollen clit, and her body jerked, an overwhelmed cry tearing from her throat. She was on the edge of shattering again—too much, too soon, too perfect—but just as it threatened to claim her, the thumb was teasingly, deliberately gone. The loss made her sob, a desperate, choked whimper caught in her throat.
Before she could breathe, he rose, looming over her with that unbearable, controlled heat. His cock stood thick, hard, flushed—demanding—and he bent down, wrapped his arms around her trembling legs, roughly dragging them forward, flush to the edge of the futon. The sudden shift made her gasp, her core still fluttering from denial, her skin tingling from his touch.
And then—he was inside her once more.
One thrust. Deep. Owning.
She cried out, head tipping back as the fullness stole the air from her lungs, as he seated himself entirely within her, stretching her walls until she was nothing but sensation.
His fingers curled around her neck—not choking, just holding, owning, making her look up into his dark, relentless gaze.
And then—he moved.
Fast. Hard. His hips pistoned into her with a rhythm that bordered on violent pleasure, the slap of his body against hers echoing through the room. Her moans spilled wild and raw, her legs trembling around his waist, her nails scratching at his forearms, the air thick with her breathless gasps.
Every thrust was a promise. This is mine. You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.
Her body couldn’t hold back, couldn’t resist—didn’t want to. She was spiraling up and up, a wild, mindless ascent she couldn’t control. The orgasm crashed into her, tearing her apart—but he didn’t stop. He kept going, hips driving her through the release, knowing the body that he had claimed, knowing how to make her sob, make her shake.
Another climax tore through her.
And another. And another.
Her cries turned to helpless, desperate screams, her body spasming uncontrollably as she clenched around him, her mind blank with sensation.
Then—he pulled out, fast and rough, and his hand wrapped around his cock. His body jerked, his voice a low, wrecked growl, and he came—hot, thick, endless—painting her trembling stomach, her breasts, her thighs with his release.
For a moment, the world hung still. Her body trembled, breath shattered.
Dominic leaned down, his lips brushing her forehead, her cheek, her jaw. His voice rough silk against her ear:
“You were made for this,” he murmured, worshipping her through the aftershocks. “You were made to be mine.”
The air between them felt heavy—thick with something she couldn’t name. Her body ached in the best ways, her legs limp, her mind a haze of oversensitive skin and the slow, creeping realization that she’d given him more than her body. She’d given him her need. Her surrender. Her trust.
And the way he held her now—gaze steady, chest heaving, still hard and glistening with sweat—she could tell. He wasn’t done. Not even close.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
He didn’t need her words.
The unspoken hung thick in the air: her wrecked submission, his unrelenting claim, the sharp and undeniable truth that whatever this was between them, it had only just begun.
And it was going to destroy her—in the best, most beautiful way she’d ever know.
