Page 57 of Desperate Crimes
Her walls flutter around my fingers, soaking, pulsing, trying to drag me deeper as wave after wave rocks her.
It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever witnessed.
And I did that.
I made Leanna Volkov—spoiled princess, guarded heiress, beautiful, untouchable—break apart like a girl on fire in my bed.
“Oh my God,” she moans, her voice all ruin and need, eyes glazed in the dark, her hands grabbing for my shoulders like I’m the only thing anchoring her to this world.
I don’t stop.
I keep stroking her through it, circling her clit with my thumb, curling my fingers inside her until she’s twitching and gasping beneath me, hips rolling in helpless aftershocks.
“That’s it,” I growl, my voice unrecognizable now.
Rough. Possessive. Final.
“That’s mine.”
I pull my fingers free, slick with her arousal, and lift them to my lips.
I suck them clean while watching her face in the dim light.
She whimpers.
My cock throbs painfully inside my jeans, and I know—I know—there’s no holding back now.
I’ve waited.
I’ve been patient.
I built her this place from top to bottom.
Took her here—however unconventionally.
Worshipped her body—because it’s fucking mine.
Gave her pleasure before I ever gave myself the taste I’ve craved for years.
But now?
Now I’m done waiting.
My pants are shoved down with one hand.
My cock springs free, hard, thick, leaking from the tip.
I hiss at the rush of cool air, my hand bracing beside her head as I position myself between her trembling thighs.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
My voice is shaking.
From control.
From reverence.
From need so deep it’s carved into my bones.
