He’s halfway inside me. With a moan drenched in urgency and sweat, I push back, impaling myself on him, trying to repeat his heavy plunges, imagining how it must look, with me wide open, slick on slick, his cock disappearing inside me, then sliding out again.
He curses and groans, then resumes driving into me harder, deeper, his hips snapping with purpose. One hand slips around to rub my clit in tight circles, fast and furious.
I climax again. Louder than before, it’s primal, unhinged, an endless stream of sensation blasting through me. He urges out every shudder before he pulls out and turns me around. I’m shaking all over.
He faces me, hands at my waist, lowering his body to align our centers. Holding my gaze when I would have otherwise closed my eyes.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he grits, thrusting back into me. His eyes are dark, features taut, on the edge. “Say it, Lot. Say you’re mine.”
My emotions explode. “I’m yours, Dice,” I gasp mindlessly. “All yours.”
His body tenses, hitting the end of me, growing impossibly harder. My eyes are glued to his face, to the arousal ravaging his features as a groan rumbles from his chest the second he comes.
“Fuuck.” He pumps out his release, his arms wrapped around me like I’m the only thing tethering him to Earth.
I slump against him, rocked to my core.
“Damn,” he murmurs, still breathing hard. “I’m not sure how I’m gonna spin after that.”
“The show must go on,” I say lightly and ease away, needing space. “I’m gonna clean up and go check on Queenie.”
He watches me, eyes unreadable as I adjust my clothes and tuck everything back in.
“See you out there,” I say, grabbing my purse and making my exit—all casual. Like my pulse isn’t racing. Like I’m not breathing too fast. Like I hadn’t just told him I’m his.
And meant it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dice
Comfort food and a movie.
The sun’s pouring through the blinds when I crack an eye open. Dust floats in the light, slow and lazy. Lot’s tangled in the sheets, face smushed into the pillow, silk bonnet slipping off her head, one bare leg kicked free from the covers. Even in sleep, she looks like trouble. Beautiful, badass trouble.
I watch her while the night before plays in high-def across my mind. Every erotic detail. The public toy play. Her coming in my booth while the crowd partied around us. Fucking each other senseless in the stockroom. The way she moaned my name like a prayer. The way she trembled against me. The way she said,I’m yours.
Yeah. That part.
Tell me you’re mine.
Say it.
Say you’re mine.
That came right outta my mouth. Sure, I’ve said things in the heatof the moment. Dirty talk. But asking a woman to say she’smine? That’s some next-level shit I’ve never said before. Never even thought to say it.
Lot was already sidestepping feelings before she even pulled her skirt back down, hurrying from the room like she wanted to take her own words back. Can’t say I like how that sat. But we both acted like those claims didn’t mean a thing, spinning tracks till three, bouncing off each other’s energy like we used to. Afterward, we dragged ourselves home with Queenie in tow, showered and crashed.
Now I can’t stop the words from circling. I slip out of bed to get my head together before Lot wakes up. After using the bathroom and pulling on sweats, I shuffle into the kitchen. I fill Queenie’s bowls, and the sound draws her out of hiding. She eyes me like I’m trespassing, then slinks over to inspect the goods. She sniffs and lets out a sharp, disgruntled meow, batting the bowl in offense.
Okay, Your Royal Highness. I scramble an egg, nuke it, and let it cool before adding it to her dish. She inches forward, sniffs again, and purrs this time. She even lets me rub behind her ears before diving in.
“Was it good?” I ask when she’s done, trying to pet her again.
She flicks thatfuck-youtail and struts away.
Go on, Queenie, with your fake self.
