Page 110 of His to Hunt

Because I don't want to run. I don't want to hide.

Not from him. Not from this.

"Good girl," Beckett's voice rasps behind me, rough like gravel but smooth as velvet. The command drips with barely restrained hunger. "I'm not done with you."

No. He's not. And God help me, I don't want him to be.

I hear the rustle of fabric as he sheds the rest of his clothes before he steps closer, the heat of his body warming my back before he touches me. His hand drags deliberately up the outside of my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, his paint-streaked fingers catching on skin he's already claimed. The cool studio air against my heated flesh makes me shiver as I feel the blunt head of his cock brush between my legs, the heavy length of it sliding through the wetness he left behind with his mouth.

"Look how wet you still are," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "Soaked for me. Needy for me."

I choke on a breath as my eyes flutter shut. When he pushes inside me—one deep, devastating thrust that steals the air from my lungs—I can barely stay on my feet.

"Oh my—fuck—Beckett—" The words break apart in my throat, fragmenting into sounds I barely recognize as my own.

"Yeah," he groans into my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin. His hands grip my hips tighter, anchoring me against him. "You feel that?" Another thrust, harder this time. "That's me. That's every inch of me. Inside you."

He pulls back slowly before driving forward again—deliberate, brutal, dragging every inch through me like he's carving his name into my fucking soul. The controlled power behind each movement makes my knees buckle.

"So tight, baby," he praises, his fingers digging into my flesh. "So goddamn perfect. This pussy was made for me."

My hands scramble for a better grip on the easel. Paint smears under my fingertips, blue and gold mixing into something new. The wooden frame creaks beneath my weight with each thrust, and still he doesn't stop, doesn't slow.

"You hear that?" His voice drops lower, almost reverent. "You hear how wet you are for me?"

His hips crash into mine, the sound of our bodies meeting loud and perfect in the quiet studio. Each thrust steals another gasp from my lips.

"You take me so well," he says, one hand sliding up myspine to tangle in my hair. "So fucking good for me. Letting me fuck you like this—like you need to be ruined."

"I do," I whimper, surprised by my own honesty. "I need—fuck—I need?—"

"You need me." It's not a question. His fingers tighten in my hair. "Say it."

"You," I breathe, the admission tearing something open inside me. "I need you."

He leans forward, his chest pressing against my back as his mouth drags over my shoulder, up my neck, to my ear. His body covers mine completely, possessive and protective all at once.

"God, Luna..." His voice breaks slightly, revealing something raw beneath all that control. "You don't even know what you do to me." His pace quickens, each thrust more devastating than the last. "I'm obsessed. You hear me? Obsessed with this pussy, this body, the way you break for me and beg for more."

I'm trembling now, coming undone beneath him, crying out with each perfect thrust. My world narrows to the points where our bodies connect—his chest against my back, his hands on my skin, his cock stretching me open in ways I never knew I needed.

Without warning, he pulls out completely. Before I can protest the loss, he's lifting me as if I weigh nothing, knocking both the easel and canvas onto the floor with a crash neither of us cares about. He lays me down with surprising gentleness?—

Right on top of the fallen canvas.

"You see this?" he pants, his eyes burning into mine as he positions himself between my thighs again. "This is ours now. This moment. This mess."

The wet paint beneath me smears across my back, my thighs, my shoulders, my hair—a kaleidoscope of colorsmarking me as surely as his hands do. His fingers drag through it as he grips me, spreading gold and black over my skin like it was always meant to live there.

Paint transfers to his chest, his arms, his hips. When he thrusts back inside me—harder than before—I scream his name. I'm so full, so completely consumed by him that there's nowhere to hide from the truth of what's happening. He's fucking me like he wants to erase every man who ever touched me before. Like he wants to make me forget they ever existed.

And it's working.

"Scream my name again," he growls, each thrust hitting deeper, darker places inside me. "Let the whole world hear who owns you."

I do.

I fucking do.

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