20. Riggs
Riggs
I watch Maren's face half-buried in the pillow, her eyes glazed over in that post-orgasm haze.
My cum glistens on her back like some primitive marking, and something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I drag my index finger through the mess, writing “MINE” in capital letters across the small of her back.
Mine. Fucking mine.
The word doesn't feel big enough. It doesn't capture the fucking hurricane raging inside me. I want to carve it into her skin, tattoo it over her heart, whisper it into her ear until it's the only word she knows.
“You okay?” I ask again when she doesn't answer, my voice still rough from exertion.
She mumbles something incoherent, and I can't help the smug satisfaction that spreads through me.
I did this. I reduced this dangerous, untouchable woman to this fucked-out puddle.
Her pussy's still pulsing—I can see the tremors rippling through her thighs—and knowing I caused that sends a surge of blood to my already spent dick.
I've never wanted to possess someone like this.
Never felt this uncontrollable, vicious need to claim, to mark, to own.
I'm struck with the sudden urge to track down every man who's ever touched her—kissed her full lips, tasted her cunt, heard her scream like I just did—and beat them until they can't remember their own names, let alone hers.
Feel their lives end underneath my hands.
The thought of her with anyone else makes my blood boil. Makes me want to lock her in this room and throw away the fucking key. Keep her here, naked and wanting, where only I can see her, touch her, taste her.
I get up, legs still a bit unsteady, and grab a towel from the bathroom. I wipe up the mess on her back and the one I made on the floor, then turn back to Maren, who hasn't moved an inch.
“Come on, baby,” I say, tapping her ass lightly. “Get up.”
She groans, face still buried in the pillow. “Can't move.”
I chuckle, but insist, “Bathroom. Now.”
She groans, burying her face deeper into the pillow. “Seriously? Now?”
“Yes, now.” I swat her ass lightly. “Up.”
“Someone's cooked here before,” she mutters, reluctantly pushing herself up.
I snort. “Or maybe I'm a decent fucking guy who cares about women's health.” I pull her into a sitting position.
She gives me a look that's equal parts surprise and amusement before sliding off the bed, wincing slightly as her feet hit the floor. I watch her naked form as she walks to the bathroom; the sight of her ass swaying makes me wanna drag her under me again.
The bathroom door closes, and I listen to the sound of water running.
My back stings where her nails raked down it earlier.
I walk to the mirror hanging on her closet door and turn to examine the damage.
Holy shit. Four perfect red lines on each side, some deep enough to have drawn blood.
The marks look like I've been mauled by something wild.
Something inside me likes it. Likes being marked by her the way I marked her.
The toilet flushes, and a minute later Maren emerges, still gloriously naked, her hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. She catches me looking at my back in the mirror and smirks.
“There you go, golden boy,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “I peed, and no UTIs will be making an appearance.” Her eyes drift to my reflection, to the claw marks she left. “Huh. Looks like I fucked up your back a little bit.” She doesn't sound sorry at all. “You deserved it.”
“Yeah, you did,” I agree, turning to face her. “And you're lucky I'm not a peacock strutting around to show everyone my back and your claim on me.”
She yawns, stretching her arms above her head like a lazy, satisfied cat.
“Well, enjoy the marks then,” she says with that dangerous little smirk. “Consider it a gift.”
Before I can process what she means, she grabs a pillow off the bed and fucking launches it at my face. I catch it reflexively, confused.
“There's a blanket on the back of the couch,” she continues, casual as hell, like she's telling me about the fucking weather. “It should be warm enough for your nap.”
I stand there, pillow in hand, my brain struggling to catch up. “What the fuck?”
“What?” She raises an eyebrow, that perfect mask of indifference sliding into place.
“What do you mean 'what'?” I toss the pillow back onto the bed. “I'm sleeping here. With you.”
She laughs—actually fucking laughs—a short, sharp sound without humor. “No, you're not.”
“Maren—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Respect my boundaries, Riggs.” Her voice drops, turns to ice. “You get the couch, or you can get the fuck out. Your choice.”
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. “Are you serious right now? After what we just did? After I was literally inside you ten minutes ago?”
“Sex doesn't equal sleepovers,” she says flatly. “I don't do that.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer, crowding her space. “You're pushing me away because you're scared.”
Her eyes flash dangerously. “Don't pretend you know what I'm thinking.”
“I know exactly what you're thinking,” I growl, backing her against the wall. “You're thinking if you let me stay, if you let me hold you while you sleep, it makes this real. Makes us real.”
She tilts her chin up defiantly. “There is no 'us,' Riggs.”
Something inside me snaps. I slam my palm against the wall beside her head, making her flinch. “Don't give me that shit. You don't fuck someone like you just fucked me if there's no 'us.'”
Her eyes are cold, calculating. “Maybe I just wanted to get off.”
“Liar.” I lean in until my lips are inches from hers. “You're so full of shit your eyes are turning brown.”
“I'm being serious, Riggs.” Her voice shifts, losing its edge. Something in her eyes changes—not softening exactly, but becoming more...real. “Just respect that.”
The fight drains out of me like someone pulled a fucking plug. I step back, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots until it hurts.
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the pillow off her bed again.
Stalking away from the bed, I throw the pillow onto the couch with more force than necessary, then grab the blanket she mentioned.
I lay there, listening to the sounds of her moving around in the bedroom behind the makeshift divider. The soft pad of her feet on the hardwood. The rustle of sheets.
Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. I stare at the water stain on her ceiling, counting the cracks that spider out from it. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty.
I can hear her tossing and turning, the bed creaking with each movement. She's restless and can't get comfortable.
I close my eyes, not because I'm sleepy but because I'm tired of looking at her shitty ceiling. The couch springs dig into my back where her nails left their mark earlier. The scratches sting, but I like it. Physical proof that I was inside her, that she lost control because of me.
Just when I've resigned myself to a sleepless few hours on this torture device she calls a couch, I hear soft footsteps approach.
I open my eyes to find Maren standing over me.
Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the ends just barely covering her nipples. Her blood-red manicure gleams even in the dim light as she extends her hand toward me, silent as a fucking ghost.
She doesn't say a word. Just reaches down, grabs my wrist with surprising strength, and tugs.
She walks backward, leading me like I'm some animal on a leash, her eyes never leaving mine.
When we reach the bed, she releases me, climbing onto the mattress with the grace of a predator. She doesn't say a word, just settles on her side, her back to me, leaving enough space that her invitation is clear.
I stand there for a second, staring at the curve of her spine, the dip at her waist, the swell of her ass.
Sliding in behind her, the mattress dips under my weight. I pull her body to my own, snaking my arm around her waist to keep her flush against me. She doesn't resist.
I press a kiss to her hair before nuzzling into her neck. Now I can take a fucking nap.