Chapter 8 The Boy Is Not Alright #2
“I’m gonna stretch you open.” His voice is a dark, demonic promise. “Gonna make you beg for it. Then I’m gonna gape you nice and dirty. Fill you with the best cream pie in the world.”
The filthy words send jolts of pleasure through me, and when my pussy clenches around his cock, he throws his head back and hisses, his grip tightening. “Fuck, just like that. Milk my cock, Ruby.”
His finger presses harder against my ass, not quite breaching me, just teasing, and the dual sensation of his cock pounding into my pussy and his finger threatening to invade me, has me spiraling.
My moans turn to desperate pleas, my body trembling as my orgasm builds like a storm I can’t outrun.
Zane, so attuned to my body we almost share one heartbeat, feels it.
His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back so my neck is exposed, my back arching. And holy hell, the way my tits sway with every thrust is so dirty I could come just from that motion alone.
“Gonna cum so deep inside you,” he grates. “Gonna fill you up now, mix my seed with this fucking glitter. Mark you. Own you.” His cock swells inside me, his thrusts turning erratic as his control shatters.
His hands move from my hip to my clit, and he strums me as expertly as his favourite strings. And my body? It delivers. With a wail and a scream that sears my throat, I come hard on Zane’s beautiful cock.
Less than a second later, he’s coming too, with a guttural roar.
His seed floods me in thick, hot pulses, his brutal grip keeping me pinned as he buries himself to the hilt and unloads inside.
Courtesy of a medical he insisted on before we left LA, a three-month supply of contraceptive pills, and a dual declaration of perfect health, I can take the leader of the best rock band in the world without a condom.
And that shiny new, unvarnished sensation seems to escalate my libido another level, I cry out again as the sensation of his come drenching my insides sends another wave of bliss crashing over me, my pussy clenching around him harder as pleasure batters me nice and good.
“Fuck, you love taking me raw, don’t you?” His voice is thick with pure male satisfaction.
There’s no point denying it, so I don’t. “Yes.” It comes out a girly sob of gratification because he doesn’t stop thrusting, doesn’t stop filling me until he’s dripping down my thighs, mixing with the glitter still clinging to my skin.
Just as he promised.
And for long moments afterward, the only sound in the room is our ragged breathing, the slick, obscene noises of his cock sliding in and out of my oversensitive pussy.
Then, when he slowly pulls out and his seed spills from me, he curses.
His hand returns between my legs, and I feel him pushing the spill back in.
I don’t waste my breath asking why he’s doing it, or point out the senselessness of it. Zane Draven is rabid and stubborn about a laundry list of things in life, but especially I’m discovering, where I’m concerned.
So I let him finish his little ritual.
Paint the residual spend on his fingers all over my body.
Then I collapse onto the bed, my body boneless, my skin tingling everywhere he touched me.
I close my eyes even though I feel him watching me.
And sure as shit, he doesn’t let me stay there long.
His hands are on me again, lifting me, his mouth crashing down on mine in a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger.
“Shower. Now,” he growls against my lips, already dragging me toward the en-suite bathroom. “I don’t want any fucker out there smelling your beautiful come and getting ideas.”
The water is scalding when he turns it on, steam filling the air, but I barely notice. His hands are on me again, plumping my tits, plucking my nipples before he groans and drops his head to suckle me.
And the moment we’re under the spray, he presses me against the tile wall, his body caging me in. The water sluices over us and washes away the glitter, the cum, the evidence of what we’ve just done, but his hands are already replacing it, his fingers tracing over my skin like he’s memorizing me.
Marking me all over again.
“Fuck, I can’t get enough of you. You’re addictive, Ruby,” he whispers as his lips brushes the shell of my ear.
Wicked teeth graze my collarbone before his lips close around my other nipple, sucking hard.
“God, Zane. What are you doing to me?”
“Giving you everything you deserve. And more.”
He finishes the dark promise with a bite, and I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair. His cock is hard again, pressing against my stomach, his desire for me already renewed. “One more, baby. Please.”
The water rages hotter, but neither of us move.
The carnal tension between us is electric, the story far from over. When his hand slides between my thighs, when his fingers find my clit, circling slowly, possessively my head falls back in open, raging hunger.
And when he murmurs, “Again, I want you again,” I sigh to the heavens.
And I give in.
Who cares about five minutes of peace when I can have an hour of bliss?
Fifteen minutes later, we’re showered and in bed.
I’ve hydrated with the bottled water he insisted I drink and the bowl of fruit he fed me with his fingers.
I’m beautifully exhausted and I could sleep for a thousand years, but the day isn’t over. And already I feel fresh tension building in him.
I sigh into his skin as he trails a hand down my back. And I know he’s about to say something charged even before he speaks.
“Baby,” he whispers, forehead pressing to mine, “I swear to God, if you ever leave my sight again—”
The door rattles.
A knock.
“Ten minutes!” someone calls. “Scene with the backup dancers!”
Zane bristles.
Backup dancers means other men.
Other men means jealousy.
Fantastic.
We return to set.
A male extra, hot, tattooed and shirtless, takes his mark beside me and I grimace even before he smiles politely and offers a hand. “Hey, you must be Ruby. I’m—”
Zane appears between us like a demon spawned from hellfire.
“She doesn’t need to know your name,” he snarls. “And she doesn’t shake hands.”
“Uh—” the guy stutters.
“Back up,” Zane snaps, making shooing signs with his hands. “Further. Further. Try the parking lot.”
The guy stumbles away and the director sighs a loud, theatrical sigh. “Draven, please, I’m begging you from the bottom of my Tom Fords to behave for five minutes.”
“Then don’t put another man two feet from my girl,” Zane fires back.
“YOUR girl?” I hiss.
“Yes! My girl,” he repeats, eyes flashing, daring me to refute it. “Mine.”
And the worst part?
The part that should embarrass me, infuriate me, terrify me?
It sends a hot, liquid tremor straight down my spine.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.