I don’t have to say a word because he already understands.
The once-clean sheets are streaked in blacks and blues, handprints and smudges that were painted with lust and longing.
“I’ve signed my name on you, you just haven’t realized it yet,” he murmurs.
He grabs my wrists in one hand, trapping them above my head, and sinks inside me with long deep strokes, slowing his pace to a crawl that makes me want to scream. He cocks his head to the side, studying me with a dark fascination as I give in to him, like he’s cataloging every gasp, moan, and shudder.
“You may know how to make me snap, but you break just as easily.” I prepare to bite back with a quick retort, but I’ve got nothing. I can hardly think with the way his cock slowly drags in and out of me. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk. “You can be a smartass later,” he says, knowing he’s got me cornered. “Right now, you’ll take what I give you.”
Pinned beneath him, throbbing and desperate, I realize there’s nothing left for me to do but obey and do as he says. He’s dishing out his own torment—and I savor every thick inch of it.
“That’s better.” He nips at my lower lip. “How’s that surrender feel?”
“So fucking big,” I whimper.
“That’s my good girl.”
His forearm flexes above me as he claims me with untamed, inelegant thrusts. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his hazel eyes are unforgiving as he punishes my body in the most delicious ways. He fucks as if he has a personal vendetta against meaningless sex. He’s feral. Uncontrolled. Exactly how I like him.
My gaze traces the ink up his blacked-out arm until it bleeds into delicate strands of hair. The piece I tattooed on him—the piece of me he will carry with him for the rest of his life. Fifty years from now, I’ll still be inked into his flesh.I’m permanent.Few things in life make me feel more invincible than Logan, who seems more god than man, fucking me while proudly wearing my face on his arm.
“Give it to me, Chaos.” He wraps his arms around my chest and rolls us so I’m on top. I straddle him with my knees dippinginto the mattress as I roll my hips, sliding up and down his length.
“Goddamn it, sweetheart. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Driving me fucking mad . . .” His hand finds my throat, and I lean into it, letting him squeeze as I ride.
I groan, undulating and circling over him. My body is eager and begging, wanting not only my own gratification but his too. I want to make him come, see Logan vulnerable and helpless to the way I affect him.
“Slow,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m on top, I pick the pace.”
“You’re on top.” He smirks. “But I’m the one fucking you.” His strong fingers dig into my left hip, surely leaving marks that will turn into bruises by morning. He sits up, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. My breasts press against his chest, smearing more of the greasy paint. He grips under my ass and bounces me on him like I’m a rag doll he’s not done playing with.
I pull him closer, capturing his lips, and kissing him long, slow, and deep. This is the moment. This is what it’s all about. This feeling right here.
“Please, Logan, make me come,” I beg, my voice pleading, and he kisses me again. I kneel on either side of his hips, but he’s doing all the work. Relentlessly filling me over and over. Hitting every spot just right.
He nods, burying his forehead into my neck, and pushes me onto my back, then sits above me and takes me with brutal thrusts, sending me into oblivion. His hand slips between us, and he circles my clit. “Fuck,” I say between pants. “Don’t stop.”
My mind starts to empty, and the world falls away. Every worry evaporates until there’s nothing but him. In this moment, Logan and I are the only two people in the world. My eyes find his and he nods, offering a silent permission. I clutch the back ofhis neck, arching into him, surrendering completely as my body seizes, every muscle locking before the release tears me apart.
“Oh hell, you were made for this. Good fucking girl.”
His jaw sets and his strokes grow frantic; he looks just as wrecked as I feel. The sight of him makes me want to unravel all over again. His head drops to my shoulder, breath harsh against my ear, but he doesn’t stop moving, he grinds deeper, rocking his hips into me and wringing every ounce of pleasure from the both of us. Logan growls, spilling into me—seeing this man lose control is its own kind of high.
Our chests heave ragged breaths in unison as the last shudders roll through us, racing pulses finally slowing as the tension leaves our bodies.
Not a noise is uttered between us; the thump of our racing hearts syncs together. There’s no need for words when our eyes say everything.
Paint streaks where his hungry hands roamed over my body, a visual display of his physical lust and yearning. But what Logan doesn’t realize is, his art has bled into my flesh, so deep that if they cut me open right now, I’m certain they would find his streaks of paint on my heart too.
Ruined sheets envelop our ruined bodies, spent and tired. Oil paint is smeared across her thighs, cheeks, chin, stomach, breasts, and neck. She’s adorned with my fingerprints, each one tied to an action fueled by emotion. A grasp, a squeeze, a stroke, a kiss, a thrust. It’s beautiful.
Her fingers trace the paint on my skin, her touch delicate and tender. She’s covered me too; we’re quite the sight.
Odin sits on the floor at the foot of the bed, blinking at us, his eyes filled with judgment and slight concern. He probably hasn’t seen moves like that since he left the wolf pack he escaped from.
“Your mom’s gonna be walking funny later.”
