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“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he groans.

He begins to move, pulling back until he’s almost out and then slamming back in, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing through the kitchen.

It’s raw and hungry. Each thrust driving me further back onto the table. I wrap my arms around his neck, moaning incoherently as he hammers into me, hitting that perfect spot over and over again.

“You’re mine, Madison. All fucking mine,” he grunts, his grip tightening on my hips.

The words trigger me. My internal muscles clamp down hard around him in rhythmic spasms as my orgasm crashes over me. I cry out, my head tossing back as the pleasure breaks me apart.

Feeling me peak, Torch lets out a guttural roar. He delivers three more devastatingly deep thrusts, burying himself as far as he can go, and freezes as he cums. I feel the hot, thick jets of his seed pumping deep inside me, filling me up completely.

But I’m still pissed at him.

Chapter 8

Torch

Madison is still pissed at me.

Can't say I blame her.

The kitchen table didn't solve a damn thing. If anything, it proved we're both spectacularly bad at staying away from each other when we're angry.

Now she's sitting on the couch with her phone, pretending I don't exist.

I'm leaning against the kitchen counter, trying not to stare at her.

Going about as well as you'd expect.

“You planning to ignore me all day, sweetheart?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How much more you plan on talking.”

Jesus Christ.

I almost smile.

Before I can come up with a response, my phone rings.

Striker.

“Yeah, brother?”

“Need you at the clubhouse.”

I straighten.

“What happened?”

“Found something. Grim wants you here.”

“Then tell me what you've got.”

“Not over the phone.”