Page 92 of Wicked Spite
Moving my fingers from her ass, I wind my free hand in her dark hair, pulling her head back to expose the elegant curve of her throat. “You have no idea how much I want tomark you right now,” I murmur, my breath hot against her skin. “But I’ll settle for this.”
I increase the pace of the dildo switch the vibration setting higher, watching as her body arches and spasms beneath me. Her moans escalate into desperate cries, and I can sense her teetering on the edge.
“Let go, hellfire,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her ear. “Just fucking let go and give yourself to me.”
And as if my words are a command, her body shatters beneath me, her screams echoing in the room.
Her body is still trembling with the aftershocks of the orgasm I just pulled from her, but I’m far from satisfied. I want more—need more. No breaks, no mercy.
Before she can catch her breath, I flip her over so she’s on her back again. Her eyes are wide, glazed with pleasure. I grab her legs and press them against my shoulders, feeling the heat of her skin against mine as I position myself at her entrance.
I thrust into her warm, wet cunt. The sensation is like plunging into molten lava. Reagan gasps, her back arching off the bed as I bury myself deep inside her.
I set a brutal pace, fucking her hard and fast. Each stroke is a claim, each thrust a declaration of my intent to possess every inch of her. Her fingers claw at my skin, her moans interspersed with gasps and whimpers as I drive into her relentlessly. Her nails leave angry red marks on my forearms. The sound of our bodies smacking against each other fills the room, mingling with ragged breaths.
She’s panting, still reeling from the orgasm I gave her moments ago. But I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve had my fill of her. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers as I push deeper inside of her. The angle drives me crazy—the way she wraps around me so perfectly.
“Look at me,” I command through gritted teeth.
Her liquid amber eyes flutter open, locking onto mine.
“You’re mine,” I growl, punctuating each word with a powerful thrust. “Every part of you. Nothing between us. Ever.”
I don’t let up, driving into her harder, using every ounce of control to keep myself from coming. It’s torture—sweet fucking torture—but worth every second just to see the way she unravels beneath me. She’s so damn close.
And then…I stop.
I pull out slowly, savoring the way she quivers and whimpers in protest. For a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to simply look at her, hair wild and tangled around her flushed face.
I reach over to the bag on the bed, never breaking eye contact with her. My fingers find the cool metal handle of the switchblade. The weight of it in my hand is familiar, comforting—a reminder of all the times I’ve taken control in ways most men wouldn’t dare. With a flick of my wrist, the blade snaps open, glinting in the low light.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Her voice is hoarse, thick with lust and incredulity.
I press the blade against her left bicep, feeling her muscles tense under its edge. My heart races not from fear but exhilaration. This is control. This is possession.
“I just told you,” I whisper, leaning in so close our breaths mingle. “There won’t be anything between us.”
Her eyes narrow in anger, but she can’t mask the tremble in her lips. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Yes, yes I am,” I admit with a chuckle, pressing the blade just enough to leave a faint line on her skin without breakingit. “But I’m very clear on this. Your little fucking birth control implant? It’s history.”
Her eyes widen as realization hits her. “You can’t be actually serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” The words are low, dangerous. “No barriers. Nothing between us ever again.”
She tries to pull away, but I grip her tighter with my free hand, pinning her in place. Her struggle only fuels my desire further; every bit of resistance makes me want to claim her even more completely.
“Penn—” she begins, but I silence her by pressing my lips against hers with almost a brutal intensity. When I pull back, she’s gasping for air, the anger and helplessness palpable in every heave of her chest.
“I’m sick of your walls,” I murmur against her skin as I trace delicate patterns with the flat of the blade across her arm. “Sick of what you hide behind them.”
I shift my weight and use my free hand to twist her arm slightly, exposing a small scar where the implant lies beneath. Her breath catches again.
“You don’t get to decide this,” she says in a low growl filled with defiance.
“I decide everything where you’re concerned,” I reply with merciless finality before lowering my voice conspiratorially. “And trust me...you’ll thank me for it someday.”
Before she can respond or resist further, I move swiftly—disabling any chance she has at stopping me—and make a precise incision over that scarred area just deep enough to remove something I didn’t put in her. That tiny piece of plastic embedded beneath flesh and sinew.
