The pain was a white-hot fire, a searing agony that bordered on ecstasy. Each brutal thrust was a reminder of my place, a punishment for my transgression, a claim so absolute it obliterated thought. I was no longer Eric, the man with a plan, the ghost seeking revenge. I was just a body, a vessel for Charles's rage and his desire, a canvas for his brutal art. The storm outside raged, a chaotic symphony of wind and rain that mirrored the tempest inside me, inside this room. The cold glass against my chest was a shock, a stark contrast to the inferno at my back, the heat of his body a brand, a mark of ownership.
His hands were like vices, gripping my hips, holding me in place as he pounded into me, his rhythm a relentless, punishing beat. "You thought you could outsmart me," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl, his breath hot against my ear. "You thought you could play my game."
