Some nights, Elena didn't want gentle. Some nights, she didn't want slow or sweet or careful. Some nights she wanted to be taken — hard, rough, primal, like an animal. And Damion, her husband of three years, was the only man on earth she trusted to give her that.

She told him so on a Tuesday, sitting on his lap on the couch, her arms around his neck.

— I want rough tonight, papacito, — she said. — Really rough. Hair pulling, spanking, throw me around. I want to feel it tomorrow.

He studied her face — she was twenty-eight, he was thirty-two, and he knew every version of her.

— How rough? — he asked.

— As rough as you want, — she said. — You know my limits. No face hits, nothing that leaves a real mark, nothing inside that I haven't already said yes to. Everything else — take it. Take me.

— Safeword? — he said.

— Red stops everything, — she said. — Yellow means ease up. And you check in, like always.

— I always check in, — he said, and kissed her hard. — Tonight, mamacita. After dinner. Be ready.

She spent the whole evening buzzing with anticipation. By the time they got to the bedroom, she was already wet, already trembling.

He didn't waste time. The door barely closed before his hand was in her hair, fisting it, yanking her head back, his mouth crashing down on hers in a brutal kiss. She moaned into him, her hands clawing at his shirt.

— You want rough? — he growled against her lips. — Then take your clothes off. Now.

She stripped frantically, her hands shaking, while he watched with hungry eyes, already unbuckling his belt. When she was naked, he grabbed her by the back of the neck and threw her onto the bed. She bounced, gasping, and before she could move he was on her, his weight pinning her, his cock already hard and throbbing against her thigh.

— God, look at you, — he said, his hand wrapping around her throat — holding, pressing, exactly the way they had agreed, firm but safe. — My beautiful little wife, begging to be wrecked.

— Wreck me, papacito, — she whispered. — Please.

He flipped her onto her stomach and yanked her hips up, and his hand came down on her ass with a crack that echoed off the walls.

— Fuck! — she screamed.

— Count, — he ordered, spanking her again, harder.

— One! — she gasped.

He spanked her mercilessly — ten, twelve, fifteen times — alternating cheeks, until her ass was on fire, glowing red, and she was sobbing into the mattress, her pussy dripping onto the sheets.

— You like that? — he demanded, his fingers suddenly shoving into her pussy, rough and deep. — You like your ass beat red, mamacita?

— Yes! — she screamed. — Yes, papacito, yes!

— Color, — he said, his fingers still pumping inside her.

— Green! — she gasped. — So green, don't stop —

He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock — driving into her pussy in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She screamed into the mattress, her walls stretching around his thick shaft, gripping him desperately.

— Fuck, — he groaned. — So tight. Take it, mamacita. Take all of me.

He fucked her like an animal — hard, fast, relentless, his hips slamming against her stinging ass, his cock driving in and out of her pussy with brutal force. She moaned nonstop, her fingers clawing at the sheets, her whole body rocking with every thrust.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, arching her spine, fucking her deeper.

— You feel that? — he growled. — You feel my cock tearing up your tight little pussy?

— Yes! — she screamed. — Harder, papacito! Harder!

He gave her harder — pounding into her, his balls slapping against her clit, his hand leaving her hair to spank her ass again, over and over, while he fucked her.

— I'm gonna come — she sobbed. — Papacito, I'm gonna come —

— Come, — he ordered. — Come on my cock, mamacita. Show me.

She exploded, her orgasm ripping through her, her pussy convulsing around his shaft, her scream muffled by the mattress. He didn't slow down — he fucked her straight through it, his cock hammering her sensitized pussy, driving her toward another one.

— Papacito — she wept. — It's too much —

— Color, — he said immediately.

— Green! — she screamed. — Don't you dare stop —

He pulled out of her suddenly, flipped her onto her back, and threw her legs over his shoulders. He drove back into her, deeper than before, the new angle hitting something inside her that made her vision go white.

— Fuck! — she screamed.

He pounded her without mercy, his cock slamming into her pussy, his thumb finding her clit and grinding it hard. She was moaning wildly, her nails raking down his back, leaving red lines.

— Scratch me, — he growled. — Mark me, mamacita. Show me you're mine.

She raked her nails down his chest, his shoulders, hard enough to leave marks, and he groaned and fucked her harder, his control fraying.

— That's it — he panted. — Fuck, that's it —

She came again, harder than the first time, her pussy gripping his cock in waves, her cry raw and endless. He followed her over the edge, his cock pulsing deep inside her, shooting thick ropes of hot cum into her pussy, his roar filling the room.

She lay there shaking, gasping, his cum leaking out of her, her ass still stinging, her hair a wild mess.

— Color, — he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.

— Green, — she breathed, smiling dazedly. — Papacito — that was — fuck —

— Too much? — he asked, suddenly gentle, his hands careful on her.

— Not enough, — she said, and laughed breathlessly. — I want more. I want everything.

His eyes darkened, and he kissed her — deep, hungry, already hardening again inside her.

— Then you'll get everything, — he said. — Turn over, mamacita. We're not done.

She turned over, her cheek on the mattress, her ass in the air, and he pulled out of her slowly — she whimpered at the loss — only to push back in, slow and deep, his cock sliding through her cum-slick pussy.

— Fuck, — he groaned. — You feel incredible, mamacita. So wet, so full of my cum.

He started fucking her again — slower this time, deeper, each thrust deliberate and powerful. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise — the good kind of bruise, the kind she'd look at tomorrow and smile — and he pulled her back onto his cock with every stroke.

— You like being used? — he said, his voice low and rough. — You like being your husband's fuck toy?

— Yes, — she moaned. — Yes, papacito, use me, I'm yours —

He reached around and found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles while he pounded into her. She screamed, her pussy clenching around his cock, another orgasm building fast.

— Come for me, — he ordered. — Come all over my cock, mamacita.

She came with a cry, her walls convulsing around his shaft, her whole body shaking. He kept going, his thrusts getting harder, wilder, his own release building.

— Fuck — he groaned. — I'm gonna fill you up again. I'm gonna pump you so full —

— Yes! — she screamed. — Fill me up, papacito! Give me all of it!

He drove deep and came, his cock pulsing inside her, shooting his hot cum into her already-full pussy. She moaned at the feeling — the heat, the fullness, the pulse of him inside her.

He collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, both of them drenched in sweat, breathing hard.

— Color, — he murmured.

— Green, — she whispered. — Always green, papacito.

They lay there for a long time, his fingers gentle in her tangled hair, her head on his chest. Then she lifted her head and looked at him with those dark, hungry eyes.

— The shower, — she said. — I want you in the shower. I want you to take me against the wall.

He laughed, low and delighted, and scooped her up — she squealed — carrying her to the bathroom. He turned the water on hot, and they stepped in together, the steam rising around them.

He pressed her against the cold tile wall, her back arching, and lifted one of her legs over his hip. His cock — hard again, already, insatiable — pushed into her pussy, and she cried out, the hot water pounding down on them.

— Fuck, papacito — she gasped. — Yes —

He fucked her against the wall, hard and fast, the water streaming over their bodies, her leg hooked over his hip, her arms around his neck. She could feel every thrust, his cock driving deep, the tile cold against her back, his body hot against her front.

— You feel so good, — he groaned against her neck, biting down lightly. — So fucking tight, even now.

She came again — she had lost count — her pussy gripping his cock, her cry echoing off the tile. He came with her, his cock pulsing inside her, his hot cum mixing with the shower water, running down their legs.

They stood under the water for a long time, holding each other, the roughness gone, just tenderness now. He washed her hair gently, soaped her body with careful hands, kissed her shoulders.

— Any yellow? — he asked quietly, checking her over. — Anything I missed?

— None, — she said. — You checked every time. I felt it. I always feel safe with you, papacito. Even when you're wrecking me.

He wrapped her in a towel and carried her back to bed — she was too spent to walk — and tucked her in against his chest.

— I love you, mamacita, — he murmured into her hair.

— I love you, papacito, — she whispered back. — My rough, gentle, perfect man.

She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, her body aching in all the best ways, her heart completely full. And in the morning, when she saw the faint marks on her hips and the red lines on his back, she smiled — and started planning the next rough night.

Three nights later, she was waiting for him when he got home from work — naked on the bed, on her hands and knees, her ass in the air.

— Well, — he said from the doorway, dropping his bag, his eyes darkening instantly. — What's this?

— I need it rough again, papacito, — she said, looking back at him over her shoulder. — I can't stop thinking about it. Please.

He was across the room in seconds, his hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back.

— You don't have to beg, mamacita, — he growled. — But I like it when you do.

He stripped fast, his cock already thick and hard, and positioned himself behind her. He didn't ease in — he drove into her pussy in one brutal thrust, and she screamed, her walls stretching around him.

— Fuck! — she cried. — Papacito!

— You wanted rough, — he snarled, and started pounding her.

His cock slammed in and out of her pussy, each thrust jolting her forward on the bed. He grabbed her hips and yanked her back onto him, impaling her deeper, harder. She was moaning nonstop, her arms giving out, her cheek pressed to the mattress.

— Harder! — she screamed. — Harder, papacito!

He gave her harder — his hips a blur, his cock driving into her with savage force, his hand coming down on her ass, crack after crack, the sting making her pussy clench around him.

— Color, — he grunted.

— Green! — she screamed. — Green, green, don't stop!

He pulled her up by her hair, her back against his chest, his cock still buried deep in her pussy, and wrapped his hand around her throat — holding, firm, safe. His other hand found her breast, squeezing hard, pinching her nipple.

— You like this? — he demanded, his teeth on her neck. — You like being taken like an animal?

— Yes! — she sobbed. — Yes, papacito, I love it!

He bit her shoulder — hard enough to leave a mark, exactly as agreed — and she screamed, her pussy convulsing around his cock, an orgasm tearing through her.

— Fuck, — he groaned, feeling her come. — That's it, mamacita. Come on my cock.

He didn't let up — he fucked her through the orgasm, his cock hammering her, his hand still on her throat, his teeth still on her shoulder. She came again, screaming, her whole body shaking.

— Please — she wept. — Papacito — I can't —

— Color, — he said, slowing just enough to let her breathe.

— Green! — she gasped. — Don't stop, please, I need you —

He laid her on her back, threw her legs over his shoulders, and drove into her deep — so deep she swore she could feel him in her throat. He pounded her relentlessly, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside her with every thrust, his thumb grinding her clit.

— I'm gonna fill you up, — he growled. — I'm gonna come so deep inside you —

— Yes! — she screamed. — Come in me, papacito! Fill me up!

She came first — her pussy gripping his cock, her cry raw — and he followed, his cock pulsing deep inside her, pumping thick hot cum into her pussy, his body shuddering over hers.

She lay there panting, trembling, completely wrecked. He kissed her — soft, sweet, the animal gone — and gathered her into his arms.

— Color, — he whispered.

— Green, — she breathed. — Papacito — that was — everything —

He held her while she came down, his hands gentle now, stroking her hair, her back.

— I love how much you trust me, — he said quietly. — Letting me be that rough with you — that's everything, mamacita.

— I trust you with my life, — she said. — And my body. And all of this. You're the only one, papacito. The only one who gets this version of me.

He kissed her forehead and held her tighter.

— And you're the only one who gets this version of me, — he said. — The animal. I only let him out for you.

She smiled against his chest and fell asleep in his arms — sore, satisfied, and completely, utterly his.

In the morning, she woke up aching everywhere — her ass, her thighs, her throat, her pussy — and she stretched like a cat, grinning.

— Worth it? — he asked, handing her coffee.

— Every ache, — she said. — When can we do it again?

He laughed and pulled her into his lap, kissing her deeply.

— Whenever you want it rough, mamacita, — he said. — All you have to do is ask. Or just get on the bed like that again. That works too.

She grinned and kissed him back, already counting the days. Rough love — their love, the truest kind she knew. Primal and tender, savage and safe, all at once. All his. All hers.

That weekend, they took it further — the way they always did, planned in daylight, executed in the dark.

She met him at the door in nothing but his shirt, and he grabbed her, spun her around, and bent her over the couch. No warmup, no warning — just his cock driving into her pussy, hard and deep, her cry muffled by the cushions.

— Fuck, mamacita, — he groaned. — You're always so ready for me. So wet.

He fucked her over the couch, his hand fisted in her hair, his other hand spanking her ass — crack, crack, crack — until she was screaming into the cushions, her pussy clenching around his cock.

— Please — she sobbed. — Papacito, please —

— Please what? — he demanded, pounding into her harder.

— Please don't stop! — she screamed. — Please fuck me harder!

He pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the couch, and drove back into her, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, meeting his thrusts, moaning into his mouth.

— Color, — he breathed against her lips.

— Green! — she gasped. — So green, papacito!

He sat back on the couch and pulled her onto his lap, impaling her on his cock. She rode him hard — bouncing on his shaft, her breasts in his face, his hands gripping her ass, guiding her, slamming her down onto him.

— Fuck, — he groaned, his mouth on her breast, sucking her nipple hard. — Ride me, mamacita. Ride my cock.

She rode him faster, her pussy gripping his shaft, her moans getting higher, and he reached between them to rub her clit hard.

— Come, — he ordered. — Come on my cock, mamacita. Now.

She came, her pussy convulsing around him, her scream echoing through the house. He stood up — lifting her with him, his cock still buried deep — and carried her to the wall, pressing her back against it, fucking her standing up, her legs wrapped around his waist.

— Papacito! — she screamed, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He pounded into her against the wall, his cock driving deep, and she came again, her whole body shaking. He followed her, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his hot cum, his groan raw against her neck.

They slid to the floor together, tangled and spent, laughing breathlessly.

— Color, — he whispered.

— Green, — she said, kissing him. — Green, green, green. I love your rough love, papacito. I love all of you.

He carried her to bed — she was too wrecked to walk — and held her until she fell asleep, his arms around her, her head on his chest.

Rough love. Their love. Primal, passionate, and perfectly, completely safe — because underneath the animal was the man who checked in every time, who held her trust like it was sacred, who would stop the second she said red.

She never had to say red. She never wanted to. Green — always green — for her papacito, her animal, her love.

And whenever she wanted it again — whenever the hunger for his rough hands and his primal hunger rose up in her — all she had to do was look at him a certain way, and he knew. He always knew. Because he was hers, completely, the way she was his: body, heart, and every wild, aching inch in between.