Chapter 19 The Chase （Because of Course）
THE CHASE (BECAUSE OF COURSE)
RUBY
Iscream.
Turn on my heel.
And run.
Because I may be losing my mind one day at a time, but even I know you run when a six-foot-three tattooed feral rockstar stalks you with his mother cheerleading in the background.
Behind me she screams, “Go, sweetheart! Get her, Zane!”
“No, Mama Draven—STOP ENCOURAGING—AH!”
He catches me after approximately three strides.
One massive arm hooks around my waist, lifting me off the ground as easily as a hawk scooping up a rabbit.
The world spins and then settles as he pins me against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing onto mine in a kiss that nearly empties my lungs.
His hands skim down my sides as his breath heats the shell of my ear, as his voice drops, rough and low. “You running from me, baby girl?” he rasps.
I shove at his chest weakly. “N-no…? I was just…practicing cardio.”
He presses his hips against mine and I feel his hard dick poking my ass. “Yeah. I felt the great workout. I think I’ll join you. We can spot each other.”
I choke, because there’s only one thing he means. “Zane—”
“Ruby,” he warns, kissing down the side of my throat and leaving a trail of heat that spreads through every nerve I own.
My hands fist in his hair.
This man is going to be the death of me.
He lifts me—again—carrying me toward the master bedroom everyone in the mansion knows is the place where Zane blows out my brain cells nightly.
I try to speak but he isn’t having it. He tosses me back on the mattress, bracing over me with a certainty that steals thought.
One deep kiss becomes more.
Touch becomes heat. Heat becomes desperation.
My underwear turns to shredded spaghetti with a loud snarl and he yanks what’s left of it roughly down my legs. And then I’m arching beneath him, holding onto him, letting him take me apart in the way only he can.
He moves slow, then harder, then slow again, deep and relentless and claiming.
He keeps my thighs locked around him with his hands. Mouth on my shoulder. Breathing hard against my skin.
I lose track of where I end and he begins. All I know is his cock impaling me with the same animal noises he made downstairs.
I shudder at the sublime stretch and when I claw at his back, his ass, his head jerks back in raw delight.
“Fuck yes. Mark me, baby. Fight me. Unleash that beautiful spirit on me.”
I still have zero clue what’s happening but fucking Zane Draven has become a high and addiction I can’t quit. And I’ve regrettably learned that fucking him while angsty lends a sizzling edge to the act that I’m also getting addicted to.
So I bite and scratch and yank at him as he pounds my pussy, unleashing a litany of filthy words that makes me slicker. A thing he notes with smug triumph.
“That’s it, make that pretty pussy wetter for me. I need all the way inside, little girl.” And when in three thrusts, he hits my end, he grinds his pelvis hard into me, as if squeezing every last millimeter.
He keeps his hands on my hips, thumbs moving in deliberate circles. “You feel that?” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Feel what?”
“The way your body opens for me.”
I choke. “Okay, no. No poetry. Not today. We’ve had enough crazy for one morning.”
“You say crazy, I say enthusiastic,” he slurs, drunk on sex. “I’m going to give you so much cum, sweetheart. You ready?”
My back arches, desperate and anxious for him to move. “Yes, Zane. Please, I’m ready.”
“Good girl. Here it comes.”
With a series of punishing drives that tosses me over the cliff, Zane fucks into me like his life depends on it.
I scream my release three seconds before he shouts, loud and unfettered to the ceiling, pulsing repeatedly inside me as he cradles me in his arms.
We finish breathless and tangled, a mess of heat and sweat and pounding hearts, and he doesn’t give me a second before rolling us so I end up straddling him, my body still trembling with aftershocks.
He lifts his head and bites my lower lip—soft, but enough to make my breath hitch. “I love fucking you when you’re fertile. You glow, baby. And you’re so fucking ripe.” He shudders at his own words and my mouth drops open at the ferocity of feeling unravelling through him.
I break into a sputter. “Zane, wait. What your mom said…you know it’s not…even if I was fertile, which I’m not…I’m still on the pill. You know that right?”
That seems to enrage him.
“If you’re on the fucking pill, then there’s nothing stopping us from raw-dogging it, is there?” he says.
”Hey, do I need to repeat myself?”
“About what?”
“Oh my God—Zane—I TOLD you. I’m on birth control. And we’ve been raw-dogging it for weeks.”
“I know, baby.”
God, I’m so confused because his voice is soft and dark and terrifyingly tender. “So…what’s different now?”
He shrugs. “I just like the idea of being inside you when you’re fertile. It makes everything in me settle,” he mutters as he drags his tongue over one peaked nipple.
But…something is off. In what he’s not saying. The extra untamed look in his eyes.
His eyes flick up then, and I see him visibly reining himself in. “It’s my kink. We all have them.” He presses a kiss between my breasts. “Mine is to breed you.”
My soul exits my body, files a complaint, returns, and faints.
He smirks. “So let me enjoy it, hm?”
I stare down at him.
He looks sinful and gorgeous and absolutely impossible to manage.
I want to argue.
I want to yell.
I want to demand his brain be medically scanned.
Instead…I let the moment pass.
Because fighting him is like trying to fight a hurricane. And because a part of me, a traitorous, needy, reckless part, likes how far he goes for me.
Likes how wild he gets.
Loves how wanted I feel.
I collapse on top of him with my face pressed to his chest and my breath shaking out of me.
He wraps me tight, a fortress made of muscle and obsession.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs.
I could argue that he’s said that too, repeatedly.
But at this point, what’s the fucking point of wasting my breath?