Her body shakes beneath me, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as her pussy clenches around me in a death-grip. A scream rips from her lungs as she creams all over me, her entire world collapsing.
“Fuck yes, baby. So.”Thrust.“Fucking.”Thrust.“Good.”Thrust.
I let out a guttural groan as I finally empty myself deep inside her, the heat of it joining us together.
“Mine,” she sighs, her voice a ghost of a sound as she runs her fingers through my hair.
“Mine,” I murmur, leaning down to steal her lips in one last, heated kiss.
I don't know how long we stay there.
Long enough for the red light to feel normal. Long enough for her breathing to even out and her fingers to slow in my hair.
For the first time in four years, everything is exactly where it's supposed to be.
I am hers.
She is mine.
And as I look at her, wrecked and beautiful on the floor, I wonder exactly how quickly I can get my property ink branded across the middle of her throat.
Chapter Fourteen
Myfingersweavethroughthe damp, tangled strands of Goldie’s hair as she sprawls against my chest. The room is still humming with the aftermath, that heavy, post-coital haze that makes everything slow down for a while. Every time her skin brushes over the jagged, fresh cuts of her name over my heart, my dick gives a tiny, involuntary twitch.
Not happening, buddy.
We've gone enough rounds that I'm fairly certain the thing has filed for early retirement.
“You broke my dick,” I mumble, wincing as the muscle jumps again.
Marigold lets out a giggle, and it’s the best goddamn sound I’ve ever heard. It’s light, genuine, and completely at odds with the creature of the night who just carved her name into me.
I'll be spending considerable effort collecting more of them.
She pats my chest, her palm warm over the blood-crusted lines. “Poor guy. From what I’ve seen of your sexual history, I’m surprised it didn't just rot and fall off before now.”
I use my grip in her hair to gently tilt her head back, forcing her to look at me. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The breath from her snicker brushes across my collarbone. “It means you’re a fuck-boy, lover. If it had a heartbeat and a vagina, you’d find your way into it.”
“Was,” I murmur.
My eyelids are heavy, the exhaustion finally pulling at me. The muffled bass from the club floor vibrates through the walls, a distant reminder of the world outside, but in here, the sensual air still lingers. The red light cocoons us in a bloody embrace, a silent witness to the onslaught of hunger that just tore through us.
“Was?” she repeats, lifting her head to rest her chin on my chest. Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie.
"Was a fuckboy. Only one pussy I'm finding my way into from here on out."
Her gaze grows distant, her focus shifting inward, and she bites her bottom lip. I can practically see the gears turning, the old habit of retreating into her shell starting to take hold.
“You try to run from this,” I growl, my voice dropping into a register of pure, unadulterated promise. “I’ll find you, spank your ass, and chain you to my bed until you’re ready to finally stand still at my side.”
Her lips fold into a pout. “But then that ruins the whole aesthetic.”
My fingers pause their rhythm in her hair, and my brows draw together. “What aesthetic?”
She lifts a hand, waving it vaguely around the room before pointing a finger at the discarded, silver-spiked mask lying on the floor. "The masked biker thing. Solid ten out of ten, by theway. But I think a chase adds something, don't you? I mean—" she props herself up slightly, very serious about this "—if your man isn't wearing a creepy mask and threatening forced orgasms while he hunts you down, is he even reallythe one?"
