Again and again and again.
"Gabriel," she cries out as she rakes her nails down my back.
Good.
I want scars. I want proof.
Hearing my name torn from her throat while I’m buried inside her is better than any deal I’ve ever closed. It’s better than the first million I made.
I pound into her, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. I’m not being gentle. Gentle is for boys who are afraid they’ll break something.
I know exactly how much she can take. I know she’s strong enough for this. I’ve watched her hold herself together while my son tore her down piece by piece.
Now I’m going to build her back up, but I’m going to do it my way.
"Tell me who you belong to," I growl, grinding my thumb against her clit while I thrust.
She unravels.
I feel the spasms start deep inside her, tightening around my dick like a vice as she comes.
"You," she cries out, her eyes rolling back. "Yours. I’m yours."
The words hit me like heroin injected straight into my veins. I’ve waited years for those two words and with them, my control disintegrates.
I’m close. Too fucking close.
My mind flashes to the fact that I’m bare inside her.
Most men would pull out. Most men would worry about the consequences, about the scandal, about the complication of knocking up their son's ex-girlfriend.
I am not most men.
I drive into her harder, aiming for her womb.
I’m going to fill her. I’m going to give her a reason to stay. A reason that grows for nine months and binds us together for eighteen years.
"I’m not pulling out," I tell her.
I want her to know.
I want her to feel the danger.
Her eyes snap to mine, hazy and drugged with lust, but I see the spark of realization.
She doesn’t tell me to stop.
She wraps her legs tighter around my waist.
"Give it to me," she whispers.
That’s it.
I’m gone.
I bury my face in her neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there as I hammer into her one last time, embedding myself as deep as physically possible.
I pour myself into her.
