The Wedding Night Claim
Mia’s POV
I thought I married a cold-hearted monster… until he had me bent over, dripping and screaming his name every single night.
The heavy oak door of the penthouse clicked shut with terrifying finality. My heart slammed against my ribs as Damien Voss — my contract husband turned to face me.
At thirty-six, he was power incarnate: tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes, and the kind of presence that made lesser men crumble. He’d built an empire on blood and ruthlessness. And tonight, I was the newest acquisition.
I was twenty-two. A virgin. Penniless. And I had just signed away one year of my life to him to save my father from ruin.
“Take off the dress,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. No softness. No romance.
My fingers trembled as I unzipped the white wedding gown. It pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but delicate white lace. My n*****s hardened under his hungry stare.
Damien shed his black shirt, revealing a sculpted chest marked with faint scars. He stepped closer, towering over me.
“You’re trembling, little wife.” His fingers traced my collarbone, then slipped between my breasts. “Scared?”
“I’ve never… been with anyone,” I whispered.
A dark, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Perfect. This tight little body will only ever know my cock.”
He spun me around and bent me over against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lights sparkled far below. His hand pressed between my shoulder blades as he ripped my thong away.
“Spread your legs wider.”
I obeyed. His thick fingers slid through my soaked folds, circling my c**t before pushing two deep inside me. I moaned loudly at the invasion.
“So f*****g tight,” he groaned, pumping and curling them. “This virgin cunt is going to look beautiful stretched around me.”
He replaced his fingers with the thick head of his massive c**k and slammed in with one brutal thrust, tearing through my virginity.
I screamed, the burning stretch turning into overwhelming fullness. He f****d me hard against the glass, one hand wrapped around my throat, the other gripping my hip.
“Take every inch, wife,” he snarled, biting my shoulder. “This p***y belongs to me now.”
Pleasure built fast and violent. I shattered around him, squirting down my thighs as my first orgasm ripped through me. Damien didn’t stop. He pulled out, forced me to my knees, and painted my tongue, t**s, and dripping p***y with thick ropes of his c*m.
Then he threw me on the bed and took me again. And again.
By the time he finally flooded my womb with another massive load, I was a trembling, c*m-soaked mess — addicted, terrified, and already craving more.
He collapsed over me, hand possessively stroking my lower belly, and whispered against my ear:
“Round one is done. By the end of this contract, you’ll be pregnant with my heir and completely ruined for any other man.”
I lay there panting, covered in his seed, heart racing with fear and forbidden desire.
This was only the first night.
But as his phone lit up on the nightstand with a message from an unknown number, Damien’s body tensed against mine. He read it quickly, jaw clenching.
“Sleep, wife,” he said, voice suddenly cold. “We have bigger problems than your greedy little cunt.”
My blood ran cold.
What had I really married into?
