He obliges, setting a punishing rhythm that has the couch scraping across the floor.
Each thrust drives deeper than the last, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
His hand in my hair keeps my head pulled back, my throat exposed, and I feel him lean down to bite another mark into my shoulder.
"Everyone's going to see these," he murmurs against my skin, his accent thicker than usual. "Every single person in this clubhouse is going to knowexactlywhat I did to you. What I do to you every fucking night."
"Good." I push back against him, meeting his thrusts. "I want them to know."
"Want Njal to know?" The question is growled against my ear, dangerous and dark.
I feel another bite, this one on the curve of my neck, hard enough to make me cry out.
"Yes," I gasp. "Want him to know I'm yours."
"That's right. You're mine. This pussy is mine." He punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to make you scream like this."
"Only you. Only ever you."
"Fucking right." His hand slides around to find my clit, circling it with rough, desperate strokes.
The dual sensation—his cock pounding into me, his fingers working my clit, his teeth marking my skin—is overwhelming.
I feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every thrust.
"Tell me," he demands. "Tell me who makes you feel like this."
"You do. RJ—fuck—only you."
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You. I belong to you. Please, I'm so close?—"
He bites down on the junction of my neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise that will last for weeks, and I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like lightning, every nerve ending firing at once.
I clench around him, my whole body convulsing, and I hear him groan as he follows me over the edge.
He buries himself deep and pulses inside me, filling me with his release, and we collapse together over the back of the couch.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Just breathing. Just existing. His weight presses me into the leather, his heart pounding against my back.
"Holy shit," I finally manage.
He laughs weakly against my shoulder. "Aye. Holy shit."
Later, in the basement, we lie tangled together in the dark.
RJ's fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare back, and I press kisses to the scars on his chest.
The marks he left are already darkening—I counted three on my neck, two on my shoulders, one on my collarbone.
I'll be wearing high necklines for the next week.
I don't mind.
