Page 134 of Riot

His mouth crashed into mine, all teeth and tongue and possession. I fought him. My hands pushing at his chest, nails digging into his skin. But he was immovable, a force of nature pinning me to the silk. When I bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, he pulled back with a hiss.

"There she is," he murmured, blood on his mouth like war paint. "My good girl's got claws."

"I'm not your anything."

"No?" His hand slid up my thigh, under the hem of his hoodie I wore. "Then why are you so wet for me?"

I bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand. Theother traced patterns on my skin that made me shiver despite myself.

"You want to fight me?" he asked, voice rough with want. "Then fight. But we both know how this ends."

I twisted beneath him, testing his grip. "You think you own me because you took my innocence?"

"I don't think shit." He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "I know."

His free hand found the edge of my panties, and I gasped as he tore them away like tissue paper. The sound echoed in the room—violent and intimate all at once.

"Riot—"

"That's not what you call me in here," he corrected, fingers ghosting over my most sensitive places but never quite touching. "Try again."

I pressed my lips together, refusing. He could take my body, but he couldn't have my surrender. Not after what I'd learned.

"Stubborn," he mused. Then without warning, he flipped me onto my stomach, the movement so swift I barely registered it before I was face-down in the sheets. "That's fine. I like breaking you."

His weight settled over me, chest pressed to my back, and I could feel every hard inch of him through his pants. One hand stayed locked around my wrists while the other lifted my hips, positioning me exactly how he wanted.

"You pointed a gun at me," he said again, and this time his voice held an edge that made me tremble. "You know what the punishment is for that?"

I turned my face to the side, breathing hard. "Do your worst."

The first smack came without warning—his palm connecting with my ass in a crack that echoed off the walls. I bit down on a cry, body jerking forward, but he held me in place.

"Count," he ordered.

"Fuck you."

Another strike, harder this time. The sting bloomed across my skin like fire.

"Count, or I'll keep going until you pass out."

"One," I gritted out.

"Good girl."

By the fifth, tears pricked my eyes. By the tenth, I was panting, skin burning, body trembling with a confusing mix of pain and need. He soothed the marks with gentle touches between each strike, the contrast making my head spin.

"Look at you," he murmured, admiring his work. "So pretty when you're marked up. When everyone can see you belong to me."

"I don't?—"

He cut me off by sliding two fingers inside me, and the protest died on my lips. I was embarrassingly wet, body responding to his dominance even as my mind rebelled.

"Your mouth lies," he said, working me with expert precision, "but this pussy tells the truth."

I buried my face in the sheets, muffling the sounds trying to escape. But he wasn't having it. He pulled his fingers away, making me whimper at the loss.

"Nah, baby. You're gonna look at me while I fuck you. You're gonna see exactly who owns this body."

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