Page 77 of Desperate Crimes
I slide her down my body, licking and nibbling her as I go.
She’s sated, boneless, but eager as I spin her around, slapping her hands on the counter.
I grab her hips, pull them back towards me, and I unzip my jeans.
“Tell me you’re mine, Leanna,” I growl as I fist my aching cock and glide the fat crown against her orgasm-slick folds.
“Please,” she begs, and fuck me, I am undone.
“Tell me,” I demand, barely holding on.
“I’m yours, Nico. Yours.”
“Good girl,” I praise her. “And because you’re so good. I’m gonna fuck this pretty pink pussy like I own it. Because I do.”
I drive into her with a force that borders on reverence, my hands gripping her hips like she’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
Her soft ass molds perfectly to me, and the heat of her needy little cunt surrounds me—wet, pulsing, and impossibly tight.
She’s so goddamn greedy for me.
For this.
And I give it to her—every inch, every thrust, every filthy promise I’ve ever made in the dark corners of my mind when she didn’t even know I existed.
I slam into her again, groaning as her pussy clamps down around my cock like it knows me—claims me right back.
The only sound is skin on skin and our ragged breathing, tangled in a rhythm that feels ancient.
Like we’ve done this a million times before.
Like we were carved from the same sin and stitched together in the same fire.
My voice breaks the silence, low and raw.
“Mine.”
She doesn’t fight it.
Doesn’t deny me.
Because she knows.
And when I moan—open, guttural, full of the kind of truth that lives in bone and blood—it’s not just from pleasure.
It’s from purpose.
From the holy, unholy knowing that Leanna Volkov is mine now.
Not borrowed. Not imagined.
Mine.
And she accepts it.
That knowledge hits harder than any climax, more powerful than any victory I’ve ever tasted.
Because nothing—nothing—has ever felt better than this.
