Page 23 of Relapse

It says congratulations Blair, you just made the emotionally unstable biker lose his fucking mind while he’s inside you.

Which might be my most toxic achievement yet.

I grin against his mouth, breathless and smug and probably making several terrible life choices simultaneously.

“Admit it, pretty boy,” I murmur, dragging my nails lightly along the back of his neck just to feel him shiver for half a second. “You missed me.”

The look he gives me after that?

Sweet jesus.

Okay Blair. Fantastic work really.

One stupid look from a tattooed drug dealer and suddenly your entire nervous system’s preparing to fold like a lawn chair.

Humiliating. Truly.

His mouth crashes into mine immediately after, but it’s not really a kiss anymore—it feels more like a whole fucking claim.

Teeth and tongue and heat and desperation while his hands drag over every inch of me like he’s trying to prove I’m actually here this time.

One hand fists into my split pink-and-purple hair hard enough to pull a gasp out of me while the other grips my waist, hauling me off the counter so fast I barely catch my balance before he spins me around.

My palms slap against the countertop, cool marble biting into overheated skin while my fuzzy lavender tube top hangs dangerously low from all the grabbing and pulling. Glitter smears across the counter beneath me while my holographic high-waisted panties catch the kitchen light every time I move, flashing pink and silver between the straps of my platform boots planted shakily against the floor.

A bowl skitters off the edge and explodes somewhere near the sink.

Neither of us even looks.

“You wanna know how much I fucking missed you?” His voice comes rough against my ear, wrecked enough to send heat spiraling low through my stomach while his hand presses between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my back arches.

The position makes my hair spill over one shoulder in messy cotton candy waves, the ends sticking slightly to sweaty skin while his eyes drag slowly over me like he’s starving.

Like he’s been starving.

His grip tightens possessively against my hip.

“I’m gonna show you,” he growls darkly against my throat, “until you can’t fucking walk straight.”

I should say something clever back.

I want to.

Really.

Unfortunately, that plan dies the second he pushes into me from behind.

The stretch from this angle knocks the air straight out of my lungs, deep enough that my hands slip against the counter while a sharp cry tears out of me before I can stop it.

His Jacob’s Ladder drags along every sensitive nerve inside me on the way in, the pressure rough and intense and so fucking overwhelming after months without him that my knees nearly give out instantly

“Jesus—fuck—”

My voice breaks embarrassingly hard on the last word.

Dagger catches me immediately, one arm wrapping hard around my waist before I can collapse completely, dragging me back against him while a groan rips out of his chest that sounds almost painful.

“Fuck, Blair,” he growls against my shoulder, voice wrecked enough to make heat spiral low through my stomach. “You feel—”