The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

“Xavier,” she managed her voice a husky whisper that belied the steel in her gaze. “This isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He stepped closer, each movement calculated to rattle her composure. “You keep running. I keep chasing. It seems like a game to me, Cat. We both know how much you love to play.”

Her throat tightened, and words lodged like shrapnel. This man, this infuriatingly irresistible force, knew just how to wield control and manipulate the tension between them until it sang like a plucked string.

“Stop this,” she said, her command brittle. But even as she uttered the words, Cathleen knew they were fuel on the fire of his desire-an invitation scrawled across the distance that separated them.

“Make me,” he dared, twisting those sinful lips with a half-smirk.

The room contracted, the air heavy, charged with the electricity of their silent standoff. Here stood Cathleen, a woman who bent courtrooms to her will, now teetering on the precipice, one push from tumbling into the abyss Xavier offered-a fall she both dreaded and craved.

“Xavier,” she repeated, her voice stronger now, edged with the sharpness that had won her countless cases. “Get dressed.”

Her command hung between them, like a gauntlet thrown. But Xavier Knight was not a man easily bested, and the battle lines were drawn with a clarity that was as intoxicating as it was terrifying.

“Or what, little Cat?” He taunted her, and in his eyes-a feral gleam-Cathleen saw the reflection of her own unspoken desires, naked and raw.

Xavier’s advance was predatory, his intent as clear as the sharp cut of his jawline. Cathleen’s breath hitched a static charge filling the space between them. His hand moved with deliberate slowness as he stroked himself in front of her, commanding her gaze with the force of his will. She couldn’t look away, even if she tried.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, a whisper lost in the cavernous room.

With a calculated step backward, Xavier claimed the bed’s edge as his stage. A foot planted on the mattress, he was an exhibitionist sculpture come to life, each stroke a chisel against marble, striving to perfect the hardness of his desire.

Cathleen’s pulse thrummed in her veins, a drumbeat to the silent rhythm of his hand. The memory surged forward-the image of her sprawled as she touched herself the other day as Xavier watched her and drank her in. Is this some sort of payback? Cathleen thought. It had been a power play, a challenge thrown down. Now, he raised the stakes, flipping control like a well-played card.

“Like watching your own private show, Cat?” His voice was a low growl, vibrating through the charged air.

Her throat felt dry; words were barbed hooks that caught too deep. “You know I do, Xavier.” She teased, but she didn’t. She knew Olivia might be in this house somewhere.

His muscles danced beneath the skin, a testament to the force behind every pull and every flex. This wasn’t love; it was war-a battle waged in flesh and blood. He was the conqueror, and she was the defiant land, yielding no quarter while still shivering at the prospect of invasion.

“Do you remember how you squirmed, Cat?” He taunted, a smirk playing on his lips, now reddened with the flush of arousal.

“Keep stroking, Knight,” she shot back, her tongue as sharp as the rest of her. “Maybe you’ll impress me.”

He chuckled a sound dark and dripping with promise. Xavier knew the game they played and the dangerous edge they both danced on. Love was not part of their vocabulary, but lust was their mother tongue, fluent and unforgiving.

As his pace quickened, so did her heartbeat, a symphony of carnal anticipation building to a crescendo that promised nothing but destruction in its wake. They were fire and gasoline, drawn together only to burn. And in that moment, Cathleen understood that there was no recovery from this-only the relentless pursuit of pleasure at the hands of her greatest adversary.

Xavier’s gaze held her captive, a silent command echoing in the electric space between them. Cathleen’s breath hitched, caught in the limbo of indecision. Retreat or submit? Her mind was a battlefield of logic and desire, each side amassing its arguments with fervent passion. The air crackled with raw intensity as two forces of nature clashed without touching.

“Go on your knees.” His voice cut through the tension, like a blade so sharp it could slice the very atoms apart.

“Make me,” she shot back, defiance lacing her tone. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a drumbeat to their discordant symphony. She wouldn’t bend so easily, not to him. Not yet.

His sculpted body tensed, every line etched with the promise of a storm. “Suck my cock,” he demanded, words soaked in iron and ice.

Cathleen’s frown deepened, her stance unwavering. She would not be commanded. “No,” she said simply, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the turmoil within.

In a flash, Xavier bridged the gap, his presence engulfing her. Hands firm and unyielding, he dragged her towards the bed, a predator claiming his territory. With a swift movement, her world tilted-panties surrendered to the floor, a whisper against her skin now exposed and vulnerable.

Spanks punctuated the silence-the sound crisp, like an exclamation mark to their twisted narrative. A gasp escaped her lips, betraying her resolve. It was a battle of wills, and his touch was both the weapon and the balm.

“Fight feels good, doesn’t it, Cat?” Xavier taunted, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction.

Cathleen’s inner fire blazed at the challenge. Yes, she wanted to fight-to push back against the tidal wave that threatened to sweep her under. But damn him, it did feel good-the heat, the sting, the undeniable pleasure-pain that danced across her skin like flames licking at dry timber.

“Better watch yourself, Knight,” she managed through gritted teeth. “I bite back.”

Their dance was one of power and surrender, a choreography mapped out in the language of bodies clashing with an equal measure of hate and lust. This wasn’t love; this was something darker, deeper-a connection forged in the crucible of their mutual destruction. And as much as they resisted, they were inexorably drawn into the blaze, each stoking the fire higher, neither willing to extinguish the flame.

Xavier’s grip was iron, unyielding as he anchored Cathleen to the edge of their marital battleground. The bed creaked under the force of his hold, a discordant symphony to the storm brewing between them.

“You defy me every time, Cat, and I don’t like it.” His words were a growl of possession, his tone brooking no argument as he pressed her palms into the mattress, her legs dangling helplessly off the edge. She was displayed for him, a feast for his eyes-every curve and contour at his mercy. He devoured the sight of her with a predator’s intensity, and she felt the heat of his gaze slide over her exposed flesh.

The memory of his girlfriend ignited a fury within Cathleen, a fiery cocktail of jealousy and resentment. But before she could spin around and hurl accusations, Xavier filled her with one swift, brutal thrust. Her scream was torn from her lips, raw and untamed, echoing off the walls of their prison of pleasure and pain.NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

“You are mine, Cat. I will fucking show you that no man can have you; only I can penetrate you like this. You will only scream my name, not any other man.” Xavier’s declaration was edged with a primal claim; his voice was harsh and possessive as he paused, allowing her body to conform to his intrusion. His hands clamped onto her waist, fingers digging in for leverage, preparing for the onslaught.

“Answer me!” The command was an ultimatum, hanging heavy in the air.

Cathleen was lost in the sensory overload; her mind was grappling for coherence. “I don’t know what to say,” she managed, her voice a mere whisper against the tide of sensations overwhelming her.

“Say yes, or I understand.” He left no room for negotiation, his demand punctuated by the rhythmic drive of his hips, each thrust a powerful assertion of his dominance. This wasn’t love-making; this was claiming-a carnal declaration wrought through flesh and force.

“Yes, I understand,” Cathleen says between pants.

“God, you are tight.” Xavier ground out the words, each syllable laden with raw lust as he continued his relentless conquest of her body.

Cathleen clutched at the sheets, her knuckles white, her nails threatening to tear through the fabric, as she braced against the onslaught. Each thrust was a statement, and each withdrawal was a promise of more to come. This was their dance-a destructive tango where love had no quarter and hate set the rhythm.

Xavier’s eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the raw pleasure of seizing his body. His pace was relentless, pistoning into Cathleen with a fervor that spoke of unspoken hunger and battles waged through the language of flesh. Her fingers clawed at the bedsheet, desperately seeking anchor, as he drove into her with a ferocity that blurred the line between passion and possession.

“Come with me, Cat,” he growled low, a visceral rumble of need that vibrated through the tense air. It was more than a command; it was an invocation, calling forth the storm within them both.

Cathleen’s body responded as if electrified, with tremors racking her form in cascading waves. Her breath hitched, a strangled sound lost amidst the cacophony of their union. She could feel every inch of him-hard and demanding, claiming her as if staking territory in the wild throes of nature itself.

Xavier held himself buried deep inside her, his groan melding with the soft creak of the bed beneath them. A primal cry escaped his lips, muffled against the damp skin on Cathleen’s back, as he reached the precipice and tipped over. The sensation of his release set off her own, a supernova of sensation that obliterated thought and reason.

“Good night, Mrs. Knight,” he whispered, his voice thick with spent desire, pulling away from the heat of their entwined bodies. Xavier stood, composed yet disheveled, leaving Cathleen still quivering, sprawled amidst the tangled sheets. Without another glance, he retreated to his solitary refuge, the echo of his footsteps marking the end of their tempestuous encounter.