Chapter 11 #2
Really, I do. But his chest is a goddamn mural of sin—chains snaking up his ribs, flames licking across his shoulder, a coiled serpent winding down his side like it’s daring me to trace it. And over his heart? A clock with no hands, like time itself gave up on him. I fail.
So fucking hard.
His abs are cut from granite, his ink dark and brutal, and his skin looks like it’d be hot to the touch.
Riot catches me. Of course he fucking does.
His smirk curls like he’s already won.
“What?” I snap, trying to sound bored. “Just checking for bad decisions. Thought maybe you had your ex’s name inked in Comic Sans or something.”
He chuckles, low and rough. “Nah, sweetheart. But you keep staring like that, and I might let you put your name on me next.”
My mouth opens, then shuts, because what the fuck. Why is that actually hot?
I roll my eyes, snatching the cards like they’re to blame for my flushed cheeks. “Please. I’d spell it wrong just to piss you off.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mutters, voice dripping with amusement.
And just like that, the tension ratchets tighter.
Round Three
I lose again.
“Shorts,” Riot says, voice like gravel.
I flip him off and shimmy out of the tiny gray sweat-shorts—the kind that barely count as clothes anyway.
Now I’m down to nothing but my black lace bra and panties, holding that bottle of moonshine like it’s a damn trophy.
I tip it back, taking a long swig that burns all the way down.
Good. I like the burn, means I’m still breathing.
Riot watches me as he polishes off his second bottle like it’s water. Eyes locked. Unblinking.
“See something you like, Carter?” I ask, arching a brow, lips curling around the rim of the bottle.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking at me like I’m the last cigarette on Earth and he’s dying for a hit.
It makes my skin buzz, stomach twist, but not in fear, something hotter. Dirtier. There’s heat in that stare, something feral and barely restrained. Like he’s one wrong breath away from forgetting every reason why this is a bad fucking idea.
And I like it.
Which is exactly the problem.
Bastard.
Round Four
He loses.
I flash my cards—full house, queens and eights.
“Jeans,” I say, sugary sweet, sitting up straighter and tilting my head like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
Riot smirks, eyes glinting as he stands. He doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t. He unbuttons them slowly, like he knows I’m watching, like he wants me to. The denim slides down his hips, over those carved thighs, pooling at his feet before he kicks them aside.
And just like that, he’s down to nothing but those black boxer-briefs. Tight. Fitted. And yeah, there’s no hiding a damn thing.
My lips part slightly. My gaze drags over every inch of him—scarred muscle, tattooed skin, that impossible mix of brutal and beautiful that makes him look like he crawled out of some post-apocalyptic biker fantasy. My thighs press together without permission, and his smirk deepens.
“Done checking me out?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, and full of goddamn sin.
I drag my eyes back up to his, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every second of my stare.
“Not even close.”
Round Five
I lose. Again.
I stare down at my shitty hand—two pair, tens, and fives—and toss the cards down with a groan, letting them scatter across the mattress.
“This shit is rigged.”
Riot doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans back with that slow, smug grin spreading across his face like he already knows what comes next.
Because he does.
And fuck, so do I.
“Bra,” he says, voice rough.
I meet his gaze, watching the way his jaw tightens, the hunger in his eyes barely restrained.
Slowly—so fucking slowly—I reach behind me, fingers brushing over the clasp like I’ve got all the time in the world.
I don’t take my eyes off him as I pop it open, the lace slipping down my arms before I toss it carelessly to the floor.
“Try not to pass out,” I murmur, smug as hell.
His nostrils flare and his gaze drops.
And I swear—if looks could touch, I’d already be on my knees.
I cross the small space between us, hips swaying with every step, until I’m standing between his knees. Then, with zero hesitation, I climb onto his lap—knees bracketing his thighs, chest bare, skin prickling from the heat radiating off him.
His hands find my hips instantly, fingers flexing like he’s caught between restraint and instinct. I slide my arms around his neck, arching slightly, letting every inch of me press into him—warm skin to tattooed heat.
I grind once, slow and deep.
His breath catches.
My lips ghost over his, just a whisper of contact, just enough to make him feel how close I am without giving him anything real.
“What’s it gonna be?” I breathe, my voice low, soaked in heat and challenge. “What are you gonna use that wild card for, Riot?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Not with that usual cocky smirk or some sarcastic comeback.
He just stares at me.
His hand shoots up, fingers twisting into my hair as he yanks my head back, forcing my gaze to meet his.
His eyes are lit up, feral and wild, so full of heat it steals the breath from my lungs.
There’s something primal in them, something unspoken and hungry, and for a second, neither of us breathes.
Then he kisses me.
Hard. Rough. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and finally gave himself permission to take it.
His mouth crashes over mine, lips claiming, tongue fierce, and it wrecks me in a way I didn’t know I could be wrecked.
My moan slips free, unbidden and needy, as I roll my hips against his, desperate for more friction, more of him.
His grip in my hair tightens, anchoring me to him as the other hand slides down my back and palms my ass, grinding me against the hard length pressing between us. I feel the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles, the control he’s barely clinging to as I move against him.
I’m dizzy from it—this kiss, this pressure, this fire that won’t stop climbing.
His mouth moves like he owns mine, like he’s staking a claim with every bruising pull and punishing slide of his tongue. It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle.
It’s everything I’ve come to expect from Riot Carter.
And just when I think he’s going to let go, finally give in and burn with me, he breaks the kiss.
His hand slides from my hair, tracing down the curve of my neck, over my spine, until both of them are on my ass—firm, commanding, like he owns the grip he’s got. And then, without a word, he stands. Lifts me with him like I weigh nothing, like I’m not half-naked and trembling in his arms.
I don’t fight it.
Of course he’s putting me on the bed. Where else would he put me? Riot Carter needs to be in control, and if we’re doing this—if he’s going to finally ruin me the way I know we both want—then yeah, the cot’s exactly where he’d want me.
I’m already bracing for it. Ready.
But instead of crawling on top of me, he just… walks away. Back toward the chair and away from me.
“What the fuck,” I mutter, voice sharp. “You can’t be serious.”
He grabs his shirt off the chair, not even looking at me when he tosses it aside again. “Go to sleep.”
“Sleep?” I snap, pushing up onto my elbows. “You just kissed me like you wanted to fuck the soul out of me and now you want me to sleep?”
He glances over, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t say I didn’t want to. I said it’s not happening tonight.”
“Why the hell not?”
His gaze drops to my chest—bare, flushed, still rising and falling fast—before flicking back up to meet mine.
“Because if I fuck you right now, Sin,” he says, voice low, and rough as gravel, “I won’t stop until you forget every man who’s ever laid a hand on you. And you’re not ready for that.”
My mouth opens. Closes. My brain short-circuits.
He settles back in the chair, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Now shut up and sleep.”
Taz lets out a sigh from beside me, like even she knows better than to argue with him.
I drag the blanket over myself, fuming, half turned on and entirely wrecked.
Insufferable fucking bastard.