“Good,” he breathes out.
“Wait, how did you know where I am?”
“All of my guns have trackers in them. Which reminds me to put one on you, too.”
This should feel invasive; it should feel like he doesn’t trust me, like he wants to keep me a prisoner in the prison he’ll build for me. Yet, it doesn’t. It feels like everything I’ve ever wanted and more, to be protected and cherished. And if it means being a prisoner in Arlo’s prison, so be it. I’d be a willing prisoner, with chains on my wrists. The chains he’ll put on me will feel safer than anything I’ve ever known, anyway.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, leaning in. “I love you.”
He doesn’t respond verbally.
Arlo presses his lips against mine, and I’m gone. He’s not kissing me — he’s claiming my soul. It’s his to taint with all the blood we’ve spilled together, his to ruin and shatter into a million pieces, until each one is screaming his name.
My hands wrap around his neck, toying with the backstrands of his hair, staining the white locks in deep, crimson red. He groans into my mouth, pushing his tongue past the seam of my lips.
My heart flutters, heat pools between my legs, and Arlo can fucking sense it. He smirks into the kiss, his hands coming to grip my thighs. He picks me up and pushes me against the nearby wall, his chest pressed against mine.
His tongue is addictive, the taste of nicotine sending shockwaves down my body. He’s supporting my weight with one hand, his free one traveling all over my body, cupping, mapping, and carving out every contour he possibly can.
My legs are tightly wrapped around his waist, tugging him closer. I feel his cock harden in his pants, pressing against my stomach. A soft moan slips from me into the kiss, and it’s like that single sound manages to flip a switch inside of him.
Something resembling an animalistic growl comes from the depth of his throat, and I feel the shift. His hand’s clamping onto my thigh rougher, promising to leave bruises — and they’re much welcome.
“Butterfly,” he groans, sucking my bottom lip and dragging it between his teeth. “I need you. Please let me have you.”
My stomach clenches in anticipation when Arlo pulls back, his eyes searching my face. He’s not continuing until he hears a clear yes, and I swallow down the knot that forms in my throat.
“Yes, please.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs. He kisses me again, deeper this time, my head slumping against the wall. Skillfully, he tears through the material of my sweatpants, pushing my underwear to the side.
“Those were new.”
The sound of his belt coming undone echoes in the room, a smirk on his handsome face. “Butterfly, I’ll buy you twenty new pairs for each one I ruin.”
My eyes dip down when he pulls the zipper, taking his cock out. He strokes it a few times, and I lick my lips when I see the precum oozing out of the tip, falling over his hand.
He rubs the tip against my clit, and I don’t even try to stop the moans that reverberate through the room. My mind is focused solely on Arlo, and for the time being, I forget that Amy’s lying on the floor, half-dead, and probably watching all of this unfold.
He smears his precum all over my clit, and my wetness coats his cock perfectly. He pushes the tip in, and my eyes close. The feeling of him easing into me, slowly stretching me to accommodate his big cock, is as exhilarating as always.
Arlo fills me up in one, rough thrust, and I release a scream of pure ecstasy, and he plops his head against my shoulder. He stays buried inside me for a brief moment, not moving.
Then, he starts thrusting, his lips sucking that sweet spot where my neck and shoulder meet. To support myself, I grip his arms harshly, and I feel his cock twitch inside of me.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice muffled by my skin. “You feel incredible, butterfly.”
The words boost my ego, and I pull him in deeper until he’s buried to the hilt inside me. His hold on me toughens, and the groans that fall off his tongue make this whole experience at least ten times more surreal.
He’s moving inside of me like he’s a starving beast, and I’m his only and last meal. And with each thrust, he reaches that sweet spot inside of me that makes the orgasm start to build in the pit of my stomach.
“Arlo,” I moan his name out like the sweetest prayer, and it only makes him snap his hips against mine harder.
“That’s it,” he encourages, lifting his head off my shoulder to look at me. “Scream my name, butterfly. Show me who owns you.”
The command in his voice is indisputable. His name fallsfrom my lips time and time again, and each time, I see his eyes darken a shade. There’s a permanent grin on his face, the little tooth gem shining under the moonlight.
The blatant statement of ownership over me makes my stomach clench, and the orgasm almost bursts through me. He stops, just enough to tease me, before starting to move again, the sound of our bodies slamming against each other filling the room.
