He was about to take her like she was something holy—something that had never been allowed to feel holy in this room before.

Roxanne’s voice cracked the silence, hoarse and wrecked but utterly certain and firm with determination.

"No."

Phei paused mid-step, strong arms still cradling her naked, bruised body against his chest.

"His bed." She turned her head, steel-gray eyes locking onto the other bed—the wide, cold expanse of Jonathan’s bed. There was no heat in her voice, only ice-cold clarity. "I want it to be his bed."

Phei’s smile sharpened into something dark, possessive, and deeply satisfied. He understood perfectly. He carried her to Jonathan’s bed instead.

The bed where the bastard had slept for twenty years without once touching her like she deserved.

The bed that was about to become an altar of worship and ruin.

Phei laid her down with heartbreaking tenderness, as if she were made of the finest glass and spun sugar.

The moment her back met the sheets, the psychological weight of the moment crashed over her like a tidal wave.

This was his space. His domain.

The place where he slept after he was done hurting her, and discarded her night after night. Now her naked, marked body was sinking into the very mattress that had never offered her comfort—only hell, bruises and emptiness.

Her dark hair fanned across his pillows like a victory banner, the faint scent of Jonathan’s cologne still clinging to the fabric, now mixing with the sweet, musky aroma of her dripping arousal.

Every inch of her bruised skin pressed into sheets that had once absorbed her silent tears. The contrast burned deliciously in her chest: she was claiming the space that had claimed her suffering, turning it into something sacred and filthy at the same time.

The air in the room grew thick, heavy with the gravity of desecration and rebirth.

Minutes ago Phei had been swinging a golf club at a man’s groin with enough force to bend metal. Now his hands cradled her body with a reverence that made the very air ache with devotion... on his bed.

He started at her throat.

His lips pressed against the fluttering hollow where her pulse hammered wildly—rapid, desperate, alive. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over her skin, soft and scorching, tongue tracing the frantic beat with slow, deliberate licks.

Roxanne gasped sharply, her back arching clean off the sheets as goosebumps erupted across her entire body in prickling waves.

The soft, wet sound of his lips suckling gently at her throat filled the room—obscene little schlick noises that made her thighs tremble. Her hands flew to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in as if to anchor herself to this moment.

He kissed along her collarbone, retracing the path he’d taken earlier but infinitely slower, more deliberate. Each press of his hot, damp mouth left her skin tingling and glistening with saliva, prickling with fresh waves of goosebumps in its wake.

Her nipples—already drawn into tight, aching peaks—hardened even further, throbbing visibly, flushed dark rose and begging for attention long before he reached them.

Jonathan watched from his frozen prison, eyes pried wide, tears streaming silently.

His wife—his property, his punching bag, the woman he had owned and broken for two decades—was spread across his own bed beneath another man. And she was making sounds he had never heard in all their years together.

Small, breathless moans that slipped from her lips with every kiss. Whimpers that built in her throat and broke free in trembling, needy waves.

He had never made her sound like that. Not once.

Memories slammed into him like knives... the way he had gripped her throat too hard, the way he had slapped her until she bruised, the way he had shoved her into walls and angry while she lay silent and rigid beneath him.

She had never arched this beautifully in all their years. Never whimpered with want. Never dripped like this. She had been capable of this—this raw, beautiful surrender—all along. He had simply never unlocked it. Never even tried.

The realization gutted him deeper than any spike or ice ever could.

Phei’s mouth traveled lower.

Her heavy, soft breasts received the same reverent worship. He kissed every bruise first—the marks of Jonathan’s cruelty—then lavished the untouched skin between them. His tongue traced the heavy, sensitive curve of her underbreast in slow, wet strokes.

Roxanne’s entire body shuddered violently.

Then he sealed his mouth over her left nipple.

The wet heat engulfed the stiff peak completely. He sucked—slow, deep, hungry pulls that made obscene, slurping sounds echo through the room. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, teeth grazing lightly, tugging gently until her back bowed clean off the bed in a perfect, trembling arch.

"HHHNNNG—! Aaaahhh—haaaah—!"

The moan was guttural. Primal. Dragged from somewhere deep inside her that had been locked away for decades.

Her hands flew to his head, fingers twisting hard in his dark hair, yanking his mouth harder against her breast as her thighs pressed together desperately, then spread wide again. Fresh, hot motherly juice flooded from her cunt in thick, glossy waves, soaking the sheets beneath her ass.

He moved to the other nipple, sucking harder, teeth scraping just enough to send lightning bolts of pleasure straight to her core. Her heavy breasts jiggled and bounced with every ragged heave of her chest, bruises dancing under the wet shine of his saliva.

Phei kissed down her stomach. Her ribs. The soft swell of her belly that Jonathan had kicked and punched and treated like something to be damaged.

He kissed every inch like it was sacred, tongue dipping into her navel, lips sucking gently on the fading handprints until Roxanne was writhing beneath him.

Her thighs were trembling violently before he even reached them.

She knew exactly where he was going. Her body knew in every nerve ending in her core was firing wildly, her pussy clenching and fluttering around nothing, arousal flooding her in hot, endless streams.

Her hips lifted clean off the mattress without permission—rising toward his mouth, straining, begging. Her back arched sharply, breath coming in short, desperate pants, entire body reaching for the satisfaction it had been starving for so long it had forgotten the shape of it.

From his frozen position, Jonathan could see everything.

Roxanne’s pussy was a swollen, dripping masterpiece of need. The outer lips were plump and puffy, flushed a deep, glossy, cock-hungry pink that had darkened to angry red at the edges. They had parted slightly, revealing slick, swollen inner folds coated in thick, shiny strands of her creamy arousal.

Her clit stood proudly erect, swollen and hypersensitive—pebbled with raw urgency, twitching visibly in time with her racing heartbeat.

Her entrance fluttered and winked open with every desperate contraction, releasing fresh, molten waves of her arousal in rhythmic pulses. Silken strands of creamy nectar stretched and snapped between her flushed folds, reforming with each hungry clench.

Her inner thighs were drenched, rivers of warmth tracing slow, shining paths down to the cleft of her full, round ass and pooling beneath her, darkening the sheets in a steadily spreading stain.

The rich, heady scent of her desperate need hung thick in the air, musky and sweet, saturating the room.

Phei settled slowly between her widely parted thighs.

He paused.

His face hovered mere inches from her soaked, pulsing core. His hot breath fanned across her engorged lips and straining clit, sending a violent jolt through her hips. They bucked upward sharply as another powerful rush of liquid heat burst from her, arcing messily onto her own quivering lower belly.

Roxanne’s fingers twisted hard into the sheets, knuckles white. Her thighs shook uncontrollably, her plush ass cheeks rippling and bouncing softly against the mattress as she stared down at him with wide, glassy, starving eyes.

Her chest heaved, full breasts rising and falling, nipples stiff and shiny with his earlier saliva.

Every bruised, marked inch of her body trembled with raw, exposed hunger—offering herself completely, silently begging for his mouth.