Page 91 of Jayson
She tries to speak, but I bite her lower lip instead, sucking until she whimpers. “Words later,” I mutter. “Right now, all I want to hear are your moans.”
Her nails rake my shoulders as I spin her to face the tile. Steam sheets off our bodies. I drag my knuckles down her spine, pausing at that bruise on her arm. Rage flashes red in my vision.
“This spot,” I snarl, brushing it with my thumb. “Belongs to me. Only I can mark you.”
I nip the curve of her neck. “Tell me, Keira—who owns your skin?”
She arches, pressing back into me, fearless now. “Do it, Jayson. Mark me.”
God, she’s lethal.
My hand circles her throat—gentle enough for trust, tight enough for obedience. She moans, hips rolling. I grin against her pulse.
“You love testing me, Little Chaos.”
“LittleChaos?” she fires back, breathless.
Challenge accepted.
I notch my knee between hers, forcing her legs wider, water cascading over us like shattered glass. One hand steadies her at the waist; the other slides lower, slick with soap and sin. She gasps—sharp, gorgeous, as my fingers slide between her legs and penetrate her core.
“That sound,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Let me hear it again. Only for me. I want to hear how good I break you.”
She shatters on my name—again and again—until water isn’t the only thing stealing her breath. Her nails score my thigh, begging for more even as her body trembles.
When she finally collapses against the tile, boneless and wrecked, I gather her close, muttering dark praises into her wet hair: “Little Chaos, you’re mine.”
She answers with a mewl, half sob, all satisfaction.
“We’re nowhere near finished baby,” I whisper against her ear.
She sighs, her voice a delicate hum in the soft mist fogging up the bathroom.
I press her into the tile, one hand steady at the base of her spine. I grab her long dark hair with my other hand and tug, pulling her head until her face arches to the ceiling. I move closer, pressing the front of my body into her back, lining my cock between her legs.
She pushes back into me, a rough sob escaping her lips. She’s more, so much more pliant than I had expected her to be, and she’s hungry. Hungry for me. Hungry for our bodies to merge as one. She’s thirsty for a good fuck, and I’m not one to back down from a woman that’s half way on her knees for me.
I wind an arm around her waist and break her away from the tiles, pressing her into my front.
“Bend for me, Keira. Touch your toes.”
Another moan escapes her and she folds herself and bends at the waist, her fingers touching her toes. I feel punch drunk looking at her like this, bent and ready to take my cock. Euphoria overcomes me even before I move into her and thrust - one long, deep thrust until I’m sheathed deep inside her. My hands go to her hips, my fingers a bruising punishment as they dig into her soft flesh and I start to move. The slap of my body against hers echoes throughout the bathroom. I pick up the pace, faster, deeper, harder, almost violent as Imove my cock out then drill back into her, slamming my weight into her.
“I’m going to come!” She screeches, as her breath comes in short spurts.
“Come for me, Little Chaos. Show me what you’re made of.”
She lets out a moan, raw, guttural, powerful, then thrusts back into me as she cries out. My name. She cries out my name, and the sound of her voice wrapped around those two syllables has me cracking wide open as I give one last, punishing thrust and detonate inside her.
The sheets area battlefield of damp linen and tangled limbs, yet somehow she’s found the only quiet left in the room. Keira sleeps on her side—knees drawn up, one hand curled into the pillow like she’s keeping a secret. Moonlight drips through the blinds, silvering every bruise I gave her and every bruise that came before me. I should feel guilt, I suppose. But I don’t. Because my bruises are my claim to her. My mark. Keira Bishop now belongs to me.
I never pictured permanence. I’m the man who signs contracts in blood, then burns the paper before the ink dries. My bed used to be a waystation—check in, check out, never leave your name. But she’s here now, softening the space like there’s a future stitched into the mattress springs. It’s a dangerous thought. One that comes with an ending. And I want it anyway.
Timing. That’s the cruel joke that fate played on me. She slammed into my life when it was already on fire, when all the exits were blocked. Wrong moment, wrong method—yet she’s the only thing that’s felt right in years.
I push a strand of hair off her cheek. She flinches in hersleep, lashes fluttering like trapped moths. Reflex—I flatten my palm over her ribs, thumb tracing lazy circles until her breathing evens again. She’s mine. And she’s safe. For now. For always.
My gaze maps the lines of her body: the slope of her spine, the faint tremor in her thigh where pleasure hasn’t fully settled. I stroke along the curve of her hip, memorizing texture and warmth, greedy for a touch I already own. She sighs, turning toward the heat of my hand, and something cold inside me—something I always counted on—begins to thaw in a slow, terrifying melt.
