Chapter 9 #3
“I might still make you bleed.”
“Good.” His mouth drags down my stomach. “I would deserve it.”
His mouth follows the path his hand started, down my ribs, over my stomach, to the inside of my thigh.
I stop breathing for one second when his beard scrapes sensitive skin.
He looks up at me from between my legs, ice-blue eyes gone dark and hungry, his big hands spread on my thighs but not holding them open.
Waiting.
Still fucking waiting.
“Say it,” he says.
My pulse punches between my legs. “Say what?”
“That I can put my mouth on you.”
Cono.
Every dirty, angry part of me lights up.
“You can put your mouth on me.”
His hands tighten once, like the permission hurts. “Thank fuck.”
Then his mouth is on me.
My head falls back against the pillows. A sound tears out of me before I can bite it down. He groans like he feels it in his own body, like my pleasure has teeth in him. He licks me slow, deep, filthy, then looks up when I curse and does it again.
“Shady.”
“Tell me.”
“Do not stop.”
“Would not fucking dream of it.”
He treats me like a lock he has been dying to pick, tongue and fingers working together until I lose the thread of every thought except yes, more, there. Every sound I make pulls another curse from him, rough and low, like my pleasure is turning him feral one breath at a time.
I grip his hair. He likes it. I know because his eyes close and his hips press hard into the mattress like he is trying not to fuck the bed.
“Look at you,” he says against me. “Bossy until I get my mouth on this sweet pussy.”
My whole body clenches.
He feels it.
“Yeah,” he growls. “You like that.”
“Pendejo.”
“Your pendejo.”
“Not yet.”
He laughs against my thigh like the man has a death wish.
I make a furious little sound when he pulls back.
“If you have a reason, it better be medical.”
His smile turns wicked. “Condom.”
“Fine. Responsible men are annoying.”
“Only outside the bedroom.”
“Prove it.”
He does.
He stands long enough to strip, and I hate how badly I watch. The jeans go. The belt hits the floor. He is all hard lines, tattooed skin, scars, muscle, and that bandage at his side reminding me he came here hurt and still looks like sin built a man out of bad intentions.
His cock is hard and thick in his hand, and my mouth goes dry.
His eyes catch mine. “Still with me?”
I swallow. “Do I look like I left?”
“You look like you are thinking about biting me.”
“I am.”
“Anywhere specific?”
“Do not get hopeful.”
“Too late.”
He rolls the condom on with shaking hands, then comes over me, braced on his arms, waiting. That waiting nearly ruins me. A biker like Shady, all muscle and mouth and murder in his eyes, holding himself still because I have not given him the next yes yet.
The pause is infuriating. Beautiful. Terrible.
I hook my leg over his hip. “Now.”
He pushes in slow enough to make both of us curse. Slow is worse than rough. Slow makes me feel every inch of his cock, every tremor in his arms, every place my body opens for the man my heart still does not trust.
My eyes sting.
Not from pain.
From too much.
He fills me with his body, with truth, with all his rushed promises hanging over us like dangerous weather. For one second, we are still. His forehead presses to mine. His breath breaks.
“I love you, baby,” he says again.
“Move.”
He laughs, broken and rough.
Then he moves.
The first stroke steals my air. The second gives it back wrong. He fucks like he talks when he isn’t hiding. Dirty. Direct. No pretty lies. His hips snap into mine, then slow when my breath catches near a bruise, then hard again when I dig my nails into his back and demand it.
The headboard hits the wall, once, twice, a dirty little rhythm under our breathing. He lowers his mouth to mine and makes me taste every groan I drag out of him.
“That what you need?” he growls.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I need it.”
His eyes flash.
“I need you rough,” I breathe. “But keep looking at me.”
His control frays. I see it happen. Feel it in the way his hips drive deeper, in the way his hand grips the sheet beside my head instead of my wrists, in the way he gives me exactly what I asked for and still watches my face like my yes is the only road he knows how to follow.
“That is mine,” he says against my mouth. “That look. That sound. Not Carmen’s. Not theirs. Not the assholes with cameras. Yours.”
My throat tightens.
“Mine,” I gasp.
“Again.”
“Mine.”
“Damn right.”
He fucks me harder, and the bed knocks the wall again. I should care. I do not. Let the rich neighbors hear. Let the tower know I am alive. Let every ghost of that flower warehouse choke on the sound of me choosing what happens to my body.
“Do not get so bossy, gringo.”
His mouth finds my ear. “You like me bossy while I am fucking you.”
“Only when you listen.”
His teeth scrape my jaw. “Then tell me how to fuck you.”
Cono.
My body answers before my pride can.
“Harder,” I gasp. “And do not look away.”
He smiles against my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Pendejo.”
“Your pendejo.”
“Not yet.”
He drives into me harder, and my vision sparks. “Then I’ll earn it.”
He says it like a vow and fucks me like a punishment, like he is willing to take every bit of anger my body can give him and turn it into heat. His hand slides under my knee, opening me more, changing the angle until I cry out into his shoulder.