His words send a jolt of pure power through me. I stalk toward him, my hips rolling to the rhythm of the music. “You wanted a show, East?” I whisper, stopping just inches from him. “You should have just asked.”
“I’m not asking now,” he rasps. He pulls me onto his lap on the couch, his hands immediately going to the laces of the corset.His mouth is on mine, a hot, messy kiss that tastes of coffee and him. His fingers are fumbling with the laces, his frustration a low groan against my lips.
“This... fucking... thing,” he growls.
I laugh against his mouth, a breathless, giddy sound. “You’re the one who picked it.”
“I’m starting to regret it,” he mutters, finally ripping the laces loose. The corset falls open. His hands are on my breasts instantly, his palms hot, his thumbs raking over my already-pebbled nipples. I cry out, a sharp, needy sound, and he swallows it with his kiss.
He slides us both off the couch onto the living room rug. The carpet is soft against my back, a stark contrast to the hard, desperate energy coming from him. He rips the sequined thong aside, his eyes feasting on my pussy. “So fucking wet for me already, princess,” he breathes, his voice full of awe.
East doesn’t wait. He lowers his head, his mouth claiming me. It’s not the slow worship from this morning; it’s a greedy, demanding feast. His tongue is a hot, relentless brand, lapping at my pussy, dipping inside to taste my slickness, then flicking, hard and fast, against my clit. My world dissolves. My fingers fist in his hair as I shatter, my first orgasm ripping through me, a violent, bucking wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
I’m still trembling, still gasping his name, when he moves up, his body covering mine. He’s already kicked off his boxers, his cock a thick, hard, impressive length.
“Mine,” I whisper, my hands finding him, wrapping around his shaft. He’s so hot, so hard.
He pushes my hand away, his eyes blazing. “I’m not done with you.” He positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock rubbing against my still-sensitive clit. “Lift your hips, baby.”
I obey, a desperate, broken sound tearing from my throat. He slams into me, a single, deep, perfect thrust that fills mecompletely. I scream, my back arching, my pussy clenching around him.
He finds a rhythm immediately—fast, punishing, perfect. This is the “desperate tangle” I’ve craved. He’s all mine, his muscles bunched, his face a mask of pained pleasure as he moves inside me. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Fuck, Darla,” he groans, his forehead pressed to mine. “You feel so good. Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I sob, the words a surrender, a prayer. “East, fuck.” I devour his moans with my mouth, kissing him with a savage hunger that matches his.
I feel my second orgasm building, a hot, coiling spring. “East, I’m close, I’m so close—” I gasp.
“Good, princess,” he growls, his thrusts becoming frantic. “Come for me.” He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit, and he presses down, a relentless, grinding pressure. It’s too much. I shatter again, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. My pussy pulses and milks his cock, and the sight of me, completely undone and screaming his name, sends him over the edge. He roars, a primal, guttural sound, and comes, his hips slamming into me in a final, violent surrender.
He doesn’t pull out. He just collapses on top of me, his weight a heavy, sated blanket, his face buried in my hair. I’m boneless, trembling, my arms shaking so hard I can barely hold myself up. We’re both panting, our bodies slick with sweat. The silence in the room has transformed, now filled with the heavy scent of sex and the erratic sound of our hearts beating in sync, a shared rhythm that binds us together in this moment.
Chapter 37
Darla
EastdrivesmetoFrankie’s tattoo shop. I’m still wearing the ridiculous crimson showgirl costume, and as we walk from the bike to the door, I can feel the eyes of passersby on us. But for once, I don’t feel a shred of shame. I feel… powerful. My head is held high. He walks me to the door, his arm possessively around my waist, a proud, shit-eating grin on his face. This is my woman. Look all you want.
The shop door is locked, but the lights are on, and the sound of music and laughter is already bleeding out onto the street. He knocks, a heavy, rhythmic pound.
The shop is already buzzing with the low hum of female voices and music. Frankie, Candace, Sloane, and Maggie are all there.But it’s Ruby who yanks the door open. Her eyes go wide as saucers, her gaze dropping from my face, down the sequined corset, to the fishnets and heels.
“No. Fucking. Way,” she breathes, a slow, delighted, almost reverent grin spreading across her face. “He actually did it. And you wore it. You magnificent bitch.”
East leans down, his hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me in for a hard, lingering kiss that’s just for show, all possessive male for the audience.
“Have fun, princess,” he growls softly against my lips. Then he looks up, his gaze sweeping over the other girls. He nods at Frankie, at Candace, at Sloane and Maggie. His eyes deliberately, completely, skip Ruby. He turns and walks out without another word.
Ruby’s jaw drops. “He… he just ignored me! The bastard! That’s his prank, isn’t it? The silent treatment! Oh, he is going to pay for this. Artie is going to get an extra dose of chaos, I swear to God.”
We all erupt into laughter as I step inside, and Frankie locks the door behind me. The shop is a chaotic sanctuary, smelling of green soap, sage, and the sharp tang of tequila that’s already been poured. A bottle sits on the counter next to a bowl of lime wedges and a salt shaker.
“He got you good,” Candace says, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she hands me a shot. “But at least you get to keep the outfit. Malachi’s ‘Baby Shark’ notebook went straight into the fire pit. I almost had an aneurysm.”
“At least yours was creative,” Sloane mutters, shuddering. “I spent the morning playing eeny-meeny-miny-mo with relabeled medical supplies again. If Knox thinks he’s walking upright into the club next week, he’s wrong.”
“And James,” Maggie adds with a groan, “has been knocking on death’s door every time he claims my cooking is ‘good, butnot like his mother’s.’ Hot dogs in boiling water. That’s what his mother made.”
