It happened so fast she barely had time to gasp. His hands released their bruising grip on her hip and ass, and in a single, fluid motion, he flipped her. The world spun, and suddenly she was on her back, pinned against the plush cushions. He moved with her, his body a seamless, unstoppable force as he settled between her legs, his hips wedging themselves firmly against hers, spreading her thighs apart with his own.
Before she could even draw a breath to scream, his hand shot out and grabbed both of her wrists, his grip crushing them together in one large, unyielding fist. He slammed her arms above her head, pinning them to the arm of the couch, rendering her completely helpless. She was trapped, a butterfly pinned to a board, her body open and vulnerable beneath him.
His other hand didn't waste a second. It closed over her breast, the lace of the pink lingerie doing absolutely nothing to cushion his grip. He squeezed, hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, kneading it roughly, possessively. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that was swallowed by the heavy bass of the music still pulsing through the room.
And then his fingers found her nipple through the thin fabric. He pinched, twisting the hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger with a vicious, deliberate pressure that sent a bolt of white-hot agony shooting through her chest. Her back arched off the couch involuntarily, a ragged scream tearing from her throat, her body bucking against his in a futile attempt to escape the pain.
He used the moment. His mouth crashed down onto hers, claiming her lips in a rough, possessive kiss that was anything but gentle. It wasn't a kiss; it was an invasion. His tongue forced its way past her parted lips, the taste of him flooding her mouth as he kissed her with a brutal, demanding hunger. He swallowed her cries, her gasps, her whimpers, consuming them like a man starving for her pain. His hand on her breast continued its assault, squeezing and pinching and twisting, while his hips ground against hers, pinning her deeper into the velvet cushions.
She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't do anything except lie there, pinned beneath him, her wrists aching in his iron grip, her breast throbbing with pain, her mouth claimed by his ruthless kiss. The pink lace, that innocent, submissive lingerie, was now a cage, a beautiful, terrible prison that offered no protection from the monster above her.
He didn't wait, he couldn't anymore. His hand shot out, grabbing the delicate pink lace at her collar, and with a single, brutal yank, he ripped it from her body. The sound of tearing fabric was sharp in the room, the innocent lingerie reduced to nothing but shreds that fell away to leave her completely bare beneath him.
Before she could even gasp at the sudden exposure, his head dipped, his mouth clamping down on her exposed breast. He claimed her nipple, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh, sucking hard enough to leave a dark bruise. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that echoed off the velvet walls, but he didn't stop. He bit down harder, his tongue rasping against the sensitive peak, inflicting a mix of pain and a twisted pleasure that made her stomach turn.
He released her wrists for only a fraction of a second, his hand diving into his back pocket. He pulled out a small foil wrapper, his movements hurried and impatient. He shoved his suit pants down just enough to free his hard, long, dick, tearing the condom packet open with his teeth and sheathing himself in a rough, efficient motion. And then he thrust into her.
A scream tore from her throat, raw and agonizing, as he buried himself deep inside her in one brutal, unrelenting push. He didn't give her time to adjust, didn't care about the pain or the shock. He just started moving.
For the next hour, he took what he wanted with a rough, possessive fury that left no room for anything else. His one hand returned to her wrists, his grip an iron shackle that pinned both her arms above her head against the arm of the couch, leaving her completely helpless to do anything but take it. He moved with a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, a physical claiming that was meant to dominate, not to please.
His free hand was a weapon, roaming her body to inflict pain and control. He squeezed her neck, his fingers tightening around her throat just enough to make her vision swim and her breath come in short, panicked gasps, only to release her when he felt her body go limp, letting her suck in air before doing it again.
He mauled her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh until she whimpered, biting the nipples until they were sore and bruised. And whenever she tried to turn her head away, to escape the horror of what was happening, he claimed her lips in rough, bruising kisses, forcing his tongue into her mouth, swallowing her sobs, pleas and tears.
He was relentless. He didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't show a single ounce of mercy. He fucked her like she was nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, a thing to be used and discarded. The music still pulsed in the background, a sick, rhythmic counterpoint to the sound of skin hitting skin and her muffled cries.
When he finally finished, his body shuddering with his release deep inside the condom, he didn't collapse on her. He didn't cuddle her. He simply stilled, his breathing heavy, his body still pinning hers to the couch for a long, suffocating moment.
Then, with a cold, detached efficiency, he pulled out of her. He tied off the condom, disposed of it in a small bin beside the couch, and began fixing his clothes, tucking his shirt back in, zipping his pants, adjusting his suit jacket, as if nothing had happened. As if he had just finished a business meeting rather than assaulting his wife on a velvet couch in a private fitting room.
He left her there. Naomi lay on the red velvet, a limp, sobbing mess. Her body was covered in fresh bruises—on her neck, her breasts, her hips, her wrists—dark, angry marks that mapped the hour of hell she had just endured.
The remains of the pink lingerie were scattered around her like confetti at a funeral, a pathetic reminder of the innocence he had just destroyed. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except lie there and cry, her tears soaking into the expensive cushion beneath her, her mind fractured and broken, a hollow shell of the girl who had walked into this boutique just a few hours ago.
He moved with a calm, unhurried efficiency that was almost more sickening than the violence that had preceded it. He walked onto the stage, disappearing behind the red curtain for a moment. When he emerged, he was carrying the black dress Naomi had worn into the boutique, the expensive fabric draped over his arm like a trophy.
He returned to the couch, where Naomi still lay, a limp, broken mess on the velvet cushions. She didn't move, didn't resist, didn't even flinch as he approached. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling with a hollow, vacant expression, her body covered in bruises and drying tears. She was gone, retreated to some deep, dark place inside her mind where the horror couldn't reach her.
He pulled her up into a sitting position, and she was like a ragdoll in his hands, her head lolling forward, her limbs loose and unresponsive. He maneuvered her arms through the sleeves of the black dress, his movements rough but quick, not gentle but not deliberately cruel either. Just... efficient. Like he was dressing a mannequin.
He didn't bother with the bra or the underwear. They were gone, discarded somewhere behind the curtain, and he clearly didn't care enough to look for them. He simply pulled the dress up her body and zipped it up the back, the fabric settling over her bare skin, the absence of undergarments a subtle, humiliating reminder of what had just happened. The bruises on her neck and chest were partially hidden by the neckline of the dress, but if anyone looked closely, they would see the dark marks peeking out above the fabric.
Then he bent down and scooped her up, one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. She was cradled against his chest in a bridal style, a sick parody of the romantic gesture, her head falling against his shoulder. And then, of her own volition, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her body curling into him as the silent sobs began to wrack her frame.
She wasn't seeking comfort. She wasn't leaning on him for support. She was hiding. She buried her face in his neck so she wouldn't have to see the room, the stage, the red curtain, the couch where he had just taken her apart piece by piece. The sobs were silent, her shoulders shaking with the force of them, but no sound escaped her lips. She had learned that lesson too well. Crying out loud only made it worse. So she cried in silence, her tears soaking into the collar of his suit jacket, her hot breath puffing against his skin.
Xavier didn't acknowledge her tears. He didn't comfort her, didn't push her away, didn't say a word. He simply held her, his expression blank and unreadable, and reached for the small button on the wall beside the couch.
The sales assistant appeared almost instantly, the door clicking open to reveal the sharp-bobbed woman with her carefully practiced smile. Her eyes flicked to Naomi, curled up in Xavier's arms, her face hidden, her body trembling, and the smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she smoothed it back into place.
"Is everything well, Mr. Thorne?" she asked, her voice perfectly pitched between professional concern and polite distance. She knew better than to ask directly. She knew better than to see anything.
Xavier smiled. It was a warm, charming expression, the kind that probably made people trust him, the kind that belonged on the face of a successful businessman, not a monster. "Everything is perfect," he said, his voice smooth and pleasant. "I'll take all of them. The entire collection." He paused, his smile widening slightly. "And I'll pay for the damages on the pink one. Get me another one of those, same size. I want it delivered to the house."
The assistant's eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of surprise that she quickly masked. The entire collection was worth a small fortune, enough to fund a moderate lifestyle for a year. But she didn't question it. She simply nodded, her smile sharpening into something more genuine now that a massive commission was secured.
"Of course, Mr. Thorne," she said. "Right this way to the till."
Xavier followed her, Naomi still cradled in his arms, her face still buried in his neck, her silent sobs continuing unabated. He walked past the racks of expensive clothes, past the few remaining customers who glanced up with curious, envious eyes at the man carrying his beautiful wife like she was something precious. They didn't see the bruises. They didn't see the tear-stained face. They only saw the picture of wealth and power that Xavier Thorne projected so perfectly.
At the till, he shifted Naomi slightly, balancing her against his chest with one arm while reaching into his jacket pocket with the other. He pulled out a sleek black card, and handed it to the assistant with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Charge it," he said, his tone dismissive, as if the amount were nothing more than a rounding error.
The assistant took the card with reverent hands, her eyes widening slightly at the name embossed on it. She turned to the register, her fingers flying over the keys, the total climbing higher and higher with each item scanned. She didn't say a word about the amount, didn't flinch, didn't react. She simply processed the transaction with the quiet efficiency of someone who was well paid to ask no questions and see nothing.
Naomi remained hidden against his neck throughout, a silent, trembling burden, her world reduced to the darkness behind her closed eyelids and the steady, unnerving thrum of his heartbeat against her cheek. The transaction was completed, the black card returned to its owner, and the assistant handed him along with the receipt.
"Thank you for your generous purchase, Mr. Thorne," she said, her smile now firmly professional. "The replacement lingerie along with the entire set will be delivered to your residence within 24 hours."
Xavier gave a curt nod, already turning towards the door. "See that it is," he said, and walked out, his wife a broken doll in his arms.