Summer’s POV
“Brandon!” The voice on the phone was so loud I could hear it clearly even though I wasn’t on the call. The shrill, demanding tone made me wince.
Brandon’s expression hardened as he listened to whatever his mother was saying. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his eyes darkening dangerously.
“Mother, I don’t have time for this discussion,” he cut her off abruptly. “It’s late, and I need to eat dinner. Goodnight. He ended the call with a decisive tap, slipping the phone into his pocket.
I realized I was still gripping his hand and probably had been since his mother called. When he noticed, his expression softened immediately, one eyebrow lifting in question.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle.
I shook my head, hesitating for a moment before asking, “Do you and your mother… not get along well?”
The coldness in his voice when he spoke to Jane Sinclair had been impossible to miss. There was history there–a lot of it, and none of it good from what I could tell.
Is there some kind of misunderstanding between you two?” I pressed when he didn’t immediately answer.
“No,” Brandon replied, his tone suddenly light as he reached out to ruffle my hair. The abrupt shift was jarring. “Don’t overthink it. Weren’t you saying dinner’s ready? Let’s go.”
I recognized a deflection when I heard one. Whatever was going on between Brandon and his mother, he clearly didn’t want to discuss it. I decided to play along.
“Sure, I’ll dish up for you!” I said with forced brightness, heading toward the kitchen.
As I arranged our plates at the dining table, I couldn’t stop thinking about Brandon’s relationship with his mother. The Stark family dynamics were clearly complicated, with Jane Sinclair pushing Elle toward Brandon despite his obvious disinterest.
It reminded me a bit too much of my own family situation. Between Brandon’s fractured relationship with his mother and my toxic connection to the Taylors, we were quite the pair–both estranged from our families in different ways.
I should have known that Brandon’s bad mood would translate to the bedroom. Something about his mother always seemed to trigger him, and tonight was no exception. His touch was more demanding, his kisses deeper, his movements more intense.
ng off, and now that I should’ve known Brandon’s bad mood would spill into the bedroom. His mother’s shrill voice had set so… fire burned in his eyes–dark, wild, and unreadable. The door barely clicked shut before his hands were on me, yanking my shirt over my head with a roughness that stung my skin. His mouth crashed against mine, all teeth and hunger, swallowing my startled yelp as he shoved me onto the bed. The mattress groaned under his weight as he loomed over me, tearing at my pants without a word.
“Brandon-” I gasped, but he silenced me with another bruising kiss, his tongue forceful, claiming. His hands roamed, finding my breasts and squeezing hard, thumbs circling my nipples until they ached, stiffening under his relentless touch. A whimper escaped me, the sharp sting blending with heat low in my belly. This wasn’t the Brandon I knew–no teasing smiles, no gentle caresses–just raw, unfiltered need pouring out of him, sparked by whatever Jane Sinclair had dredged up.
He forced my thighs apart with his knee, and then he was inside me one deep, punishing thrust that stretched me to my breaking point. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he set a brutal pace. Each movement drove him to the hilt, his hips
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Chapter 204
slamming into mine with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the mom. There was no finesse, no variation–just relentless, full thrusts, his thick base grinding against that spot inside me until my head spun. Where it might’ve grazed me occasionally before, now it was constant, unbearable, sending jolts through me with every plunge.
Brandon—slow down-” My voice broke as the first orgasm hit, fast and fierce, my legs trembling as I arched beneath him. But he didn’t slow. “You can take it,” he growled, his voice rough and low, the first words he’d spoken since we’d stumbled in here. His hands gripped my hips harder, fingers bruising my flesh as he pounded into me, spurred on by my cry. Another climax tore through. me, then another, each one crashing faster than the last. “Please–I can’t- I sobbed, my hands pushing weakly at his chest, but he
didn’t stop.
His anger fueled him, spilling into every thrust, every touch. His hands slid up, kneading my breasts again, pinching my nipples until I yelped, the sharp pain twisting into the overwhelming pleasure below. My body betrayed me, shuddering through wave after
begged, my voice hoarse, but he leaned down, capturing my wave, my thighs slick with sweat and arousal. “Brandon–no more- mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with mine as he drove deeper still. “You’re mine,” he muttered against my lips, the possessiveness sending a shiver down my spine.
I was drowning in him–wrecked, exhausted, pushed beyond anything I’d thought possible. My pleas grew weaker, my strength sapped as he pinned me beneath him, one hand clamping my waist while the other hooked my thigh, folding me nearly in half. I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight–just take it, over and over, the slap of skin on skin relentless. Another orgasm hit–how many now?– and my whole body convulsed, toes curling, fingers clawing at the sheets. “Stop–please- I gasped, but he didn’t. His need was a bottomless well, and I was the outlet for it all.
Time blurred. My throat was raw from crying out, my muscles trembling with fatigue. His breaths came in harsh pants against my ear, his grip tightening as he chased his own release. Finally, with a guttural roar, he thrust one last time, burying himself deep as he came, hot and overwhelming inside me. His body shuddered, his weight collapsing onto me, crushing the air from my lungs. I lay there, boneless, my mind a haze of exhaustion and aftershocks, my skin slick with sweat and the mess of what he’d done.
He rolled off after a moment, his hand resting heavily on my stomach, a silent claim even now. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak–just stared at the ceiling, chest heaving as I tried to piece myself back together. My legs still quaked, my breasts tender from his rough handling, and that spot inside me throbbed with the memory of his relentless assault. As my eyes fluttered shut, the thought drifted through; men were terrifying when upset. Brandon’s anger hadn’t been aimed at me, but I’d taken it all–pounded into me until I was a quivering, shattered wreck in his wake.
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