I wiped the spit, a savage, unhinged need electrifying my veins. It must be evident on my face, because Gemma blinked rapidly, swallowed audibly.
Well, fuck. Best-laid plans and all that.
I slammed inside her. She arched up on a cry, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Fuck.” The curse slipped out of me on a hiss.
Her pussy was perfect.
Magic.
Fuck.
“Oh yeah,” I groaned. “This is definitely for me.” I pulled my cock out, and back in, over and over, the slick sound of her louder than the waves at our back.
Her rose gold hair fanned around her head. Her mouth parted, soft whimpers escaping on each thrust. I pressed my face against her neck. Until I could smell her skin, the real her, not the expensive candy flower shit she tried to hide behind.
Fuck.
She was headier than any drug I sold.
Shit went straight to my head.
“What a good fucking girl,” I groaned.
Her cunt gripped my cock like it was made for me, which was maddening.
Because it wasn’t.
No matter how fucking right, how fucking cosmic she felt, we only had this night. I wrapped my hand lightly around her neck. Gemma didn’t like choking. She didn’t actually want violence. She wanted to feel the threat, the power, and give in to it.
Her eyes rolled back in full submission, body accepting me. The walls in her mind, fucking gone. Obliterated.
“I’m going to ruin you,” I said, pressing my thumb deeper into her jugular, thrusting harder inside her. “Fucking ruin you for anyone else.”
I lifted her leg up to my hip, getting deeper inside her cunt. She let me without hesitation, body soft and pliable, spreading easily for me. Her eyes hazy and starry, like the ocean right at sunset. The one I thought I imagined—no, the one Irecognizedand have been trying to forget for years.
“So fucking perfect.” The words scraped my throat, rough and breathless. “So fucking good opening up for me like this.”
A strangled moan that sounded suspiciously like my name slipped from her lips.
“Santos,” I corrected.
She stilled beneath me, confusion arching her brows.
“Call me Santos,” I explained. “That’s my name.”
“Santos,” she repeated, like she was licking the flavor off my name, and it made me feral. I thrust harder and deeper, wanting to mark her forever with me. So even when I’m gone, anytime she comes she remembers my fucking name.
“Say it again,” I said, and thrust harder.
“Sa-antos!” she cried out, my name breaking into a crythat slid under my skin, rippled and vibrated through my blood. I didn’t care if it was fucked up and selfish and wrong. If I had to be strung out, so did she.
She scraped my back, nails digging blood. She arched up, meeting each thrust. She bit her lip, trying to keep from crying out again.
I knew Gemma’s favorite foods, her favorite books. I knew that she secretly loved spiders and she hated cute things. But I never thought I’d have the privilege to memorize how Gemma looked as she was about to come. The way her baby blue eyes widened and drooped when I tested the grip on her neck. The way she groaned when I thrust inside her just right. The flush on her cheeks. The haze in her eyes. The pain of her nails in my flesh as she reached for something, anything, to ground her.
I stopped.
