Page 28 of His to Hunt

I gasp as he slams deeper.

"You're going to come again," he says with absolute certainty.

"No—"

"Yes. You are. And you're going to look me in the eye while you do it."

His hand tightens around my jaw, forcing me to look up at him as he drives into me—deep, relentless, each thrust stealing my breath and thoughts and everything I thought I had left.

I'm shaking. Wrecked. So far gone I don't even recognize the sounds coming from my mouth—whimpers, gasps, broken little cries that only he has ever pulled from me.

My eyes try to roll back, but he growls, "Don't you darefucking look away. You're going to watch me when you come again. You're going to let me see it when you fall apart on my cock."

I try to resist. I really do. But when his thumb presses harder against my clit, when he buries himself completely and grinds against me like he wants to fuck me straight through the forest floor—I break completely.

"Oh my God?—"

"That's it. Look at me while I ruin you."

And I do. I look up at him, jaw clenched, his heavy gaze burning, that mouth slightly open as he watches me fall apart. I see the man who hunted me through the dark and is now fucking me like I was made to be taken.

I come harder than I ever have before—violent, shaking, loud. My cry splits through the trees as my body spasms around him, clenching so tight I feel him groan deep in his chest.

And he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking me through it, faster now, rougher, chasing his own release like he's waited his whole life to finish inside me.

"You feel that?" he grits out, voice raw, thrusts turning erratic. "This pussy belongs to me."

I sob—because I know it's true. I gave myself to him the second I stopped running.

"Say it," he snarls. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasp, wrecked and shaking. "I'm—fuck—I'm yours, please?—"

And then he loses control completely.

He slams into me one last time and growls—low and guttural and broken—as he spills inside me, his cock pulsing.

He stays like that—still, pressed against me, inside me—like he can't bear to pull away.

Like he has no intention to.

My breathing gradually slows, but my heart refuses to settle. With trembling fingers, I reach up toward his mask.

He flinches slightly, but doesn't move away.

"Please," I whisper, the word hanging between us, fragile and hopeful.

For a moment, he's completely still. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

I trace the edge of the mask with my fingertips, feeling the smooth material against his skin. Slowly, I peel it away, holding my breath.

And then I see him—truly see him.

Beckett Sinclair.

Thirteen

LUNA

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