Page 135 of Riot

He flipped me again, and this time I didn't fight. Couldn't. My limbs felt like water, skin hypersensitive, core aching with need I hated myself for feeling. He stood at the edge of the bed, undoing his belt with slow, deliberate movements.

"Take off my hoodie," he commanded.

My hands shook as I pulled it over my head, leaving me bare and vulnerable under his burning gaze. He drank me in like a man dying of thirst, eyes lingering on every mark he'd left.

"Perfect," he said, more to himself than me.

When he finally freed himself, I couldn't look away. Everything about Riot was oversized—his presence, his power, his body. He gripped my ankles, pulling me to the edge of the bed until my legs wrapped around his waist.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, teasing my entrance but not pushing in. "Tell me you need it."

"I hate you," I whispered instead.

"I know." He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tasted like blood and broken promises. "But you're still gonna beg for my dick."

He pushed in just the tip, and my back arched off the bed. The stretch, the fullness it was almost too much. But he held back, torturing us both.

"Beg," he growled against my lips.

"No."

He pulled out completely, and the emptiness was worse than any punishment. My body cried out for him, hips lifting, searching. But he stayed just out of reach, stroking himself while I watched.

"You think you got power here?" he asked. "You think pointing that gun at me gave you control?"

I glared up at him, nails digging into the sheets.

"The only power you got," he continued, "is the power I give you. And right now? I'm giving you the power to choose. Beg for it, or I'll jack off on your pretty skin and leave you here desperate."

My pride warred with my need. But when he groaned, hand moving faster, I broke.

"Please," I whispered.

"Please what?”

“Please... Daddy."

The word tasted like surrender on my tongue. Like giving up a piece of my soul. But the way his eyes darkened, the way his control finally snapped—it was worth it.

He slammed into me without warning, burying himself deep within. I screamed, the sound torn from somewhere primal. He didn't give me time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that had the headboard banging against the wall.

"This what you needed?" he growled, one hand around my throat, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. "Your daddy's killer fucking you stupid?"

The words should have made me sick. Should have made me fight. Instead, they pushed me closer to the edge, body tightening around him.

"Look at me," he commanded when my eyes started to close. "Look at me while I ruin you."

I met his gaze, and what I saw there broke something inside me. It wasn't just lust or dominance. It was possession so complete it bordered on obsession. He fucked me like he was trying to brand himself on my soul, like he could make me forget everything but him.

"You're mine," he said, pace becoming erratic. "Say it."

"I'm—" I gasped as he hit that spot deep inside that made me see stars. "I'm yours."

"Even though I killed him?"

Tears streamed down my face, but I nodded. Because in that moment, with him inside me, owning every inch of my body—it was true.

"Even though you killed him," I sobbed.

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