Page 91 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I can taste him—mint and danger and something indefinably male that makes my head spin. And I can feel how much thisaffects him, the rigid length of his arousal pressing insistently against me despite—or because of—the violence of our chase.

My body responds like it’s been waiting for this moment, this claiming. Heat blooms between my thighs, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my bra. I hate that I want this. Hate that being hunted and caught and pinned like prey makes wetness gather at my core.

But I can’t deny it. Can’t pretend anymore.

“Rhea–”

“I’m yours,” I whisper against his mouth, the admission torn from somewhere deep and dark inside me.

His eyes flash with triumph, but it’s not enough. “Again.” His hands move to my shirt, fingers rough and impatient as he rips the seams. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Thatcher.” The words come easier now, like a confession that’s been building for months. “Even though you’re a fucking liar. Even though you manipulated everything.”

My shirt rips open for him, and the open air hits my exposed skin like a baptism. A rebirth into this darkness is between us.

“You killed him because he hurt me,” I continue, my voice growing stronger with each admission. “And I will always be yours.”

Something shifts in his expression at my words—a darkness that should terrify me but instead sends heat spiraling through my veins like liquid sin. His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black, reflecting the shadows of the forest around us.

“You killed for me,” I breathe, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. The thought should horrify me. Should send me running into the woods, screaming for help.

Instead, it makes me arch beneath him, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of whatever this is between us.

“I’d kill anyone who touches you.” His voice is low, guttural, more growl than human speech. The promise in those words—the absolute certainty—makes something clench deep inside me.

“That should terrify me.” My own voice sounds foreign, thick with want and need and things I don’t want to examine too closely.

“But it doesn’t.” His lips find the pulse point at my neck, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on my skin. “It turns you on.”

He’s right, and we both know it. The knowledge that he’s capable of violence, that he’s killed for me, that he would do it again without hesitation—it ignites something primal and desperate inside me. Something that recognizes him as exactly what I need.

A protector. A predator. Mine.

His hands are rough and demanding as he strips away my clothes, his own following until there’s nothing between us but want and the whisper of air against heated skin.

He turns me over with hands that shake slightly despite their firmness, pulling me up onto my knees on the carpet of fallen leaves. The position leaves me exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

When his palm connects with my ass, the sharp crack echoes through the woods followed by my gasp of surprise and arousal. The sting blooms across my skin, a perfect counterpoint to the wetness gathering between my thighs.

“If you ever run from me again—” he starts, his voice rough with desire and possession.

“Please,” I gasp, cutting him off as I push back against him, seeking more contact, more pressure, more everything. “Please, Thatcher.”

The desperation in my voice seems to snap whatever restraint he had left. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. And then he’s pressingagainst my pussy, the thick head of his cock sliding through my wetness.

“You’re mine,” he growls against my neck, and then he’s pushing inside, stretching me, filling me completely.

There’s no gentleness in what follows. Just pure need and claiming and being claimed in the most primal way possible. He moves inside me with a rhythm that’s violent, each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the breathless sounds torn from my throat.

My fingers claw at the earth beneath me, seeking something to anchor me as he takes me apart piece by piece. Leaves and dirt stick to my palms, grit working under my fingernails, but I don’t care. Can’t care about anything except the feeling of him moving inside me, owning me, marking me as his.

“Mine,” he pants against my ear, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp out, the words torn from me with each powerful thrust. “I’m yours, Thatcher. Always.”

The admission seems to drive him wild. His pace increases, becoming almost punishing in its intensity, and I can feel myself building toward something that feels less like orgasm and more like obliteration.

When it hits, it’s with the force of a tsunami, washing over me in waves that leave me gasping and shaking and completely undone. My inner walls clench around him, milking him, and he follows moments later with a roar that echoes through the darkness.

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