Page 77 of Never Die for a Sinner
At this angle, it allows him to fuck me hard and fast, taking everything I have and giving me nothing but pleasure in return.
I wonder if the rope will snap, even if I couldn’t even get it to budge. My body responds to his harsh fucking in ways I didn’t know were possible.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t be begging for it, but even as I realize all these things, I know it’s pointless. I want him like my next breath. I want this side of Levi. The demanding, powerful side that gives me so many orgasms, I can’t think, let alone be afraid.
“Yes, yes, yes . . .” I whimper when he hits that perfect spot, dragging the head of his cock over it again and again. “Levi,” I gasp, my entire body trembling in his hands. “Please, I’m going to come. I—”
Dragging me back to him, his lips find mine, and he kisses me hard. He bounces me on his cock, and that’s what sends me over the edge. I gasp and writhe against him, and he curses under his breath, his hand tightening on my ass.
The moment I come, the orgasm tears me to shreds. I’m not sure if I even breathe when the euphoria washes over me, my entire body vibrating and spent. Levi growls against my throat,fucking me through it, and my chest heaves with each breath as I cling to him. He fucks me once, twice, three more times, and snarls, his hips colliding sharply with mine one last time before he stills.
His come fills me, and I come harder, clinging to him with my last shred of sanity as both of us silently float back down from whatever ethereal plane we made it to.
I expect him to release me immediately, but he doesn’t; instead, he presses his damp forehead against mine, his eyes closed as we both try to catch our breath.
“I’ll take care of it, Ava.”
I open my mouth to snap back at him, but nothing comes out but a quiet, exhausted groan.
I’ve been told that before.
LEVI
The Columbia Club.
I’ve always hated the place.
“How quaint,” Christian remarks, following behind me. I’m not stupid enough not to bring a second.
Christian and I get yearly invites to join, despite rejecting them every time. Now, standing in front of the old brick building located in the heart of Seattle, I find my skin is crawling like I’ve been swarmed by a thousand fire ants.
The air feels . . . pompous. Thick with expectation and pansy-assed men who would rather pay someone to hold their dicks for them when they piss than get their hands dirty.
The Cross’s prefer the dirt and grime. The Columbia Club is for men like our father, who hire men like us to do the dirty work for them.
I don’t belong here.
I stride up to the front door, and the doorman holds out a hand to stop me.
Of course he does. I don’t fit the part.
Black hoodie. Dark jeans and boots. I don’t use gel of that fancy pomade shit in my hair, so it’s wild and unkempt. The scar on my lip, ironically, from Dad’s Columbia ring, which he was so proud of.
I’m exactly the type of man this club was created to avoid.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Both of us answer in unison. “No.”
I move to step past him, but he remains determined to be in the way.
“Ten o’clock meeting with Palmer,” I grunt.
He glances at the Rolex on his wrist. “It’s fifteen after.”
“Which is why you need to get the fuck out of my way.”
If he were wearing pearls, he’d be clutching them, judging by the shocked expression on his face. How dare I use a curse word on the great steps of douche?
