Page 112 of Twisted Shot
“You’re so tight around me. So wet. You want it, don’t you? Want to be ruined slow.”
Her moans rise, hands pulling him closer, and Theo’s control frays with every sound that leaves her mouth. He kisses her—sloppy, needy—pressing his forehead to hers as their bodies rock together.
“You’re mine now,” he says, voice breaking, eyes locked on hers. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps. “God, Theo—I’m yours.”
He groans as her words undo him. His pace stutters, deeper now, slower—grinding into her in a way that makes her legs shake around him.
“I’ll never get enough of this. Never get enough of you.”
When she comes, it’s with a cry that echoes through the room, her whole body arching under him. Theo holds her there, riding it out, whispering her name like a mantra.
And when he finally lets go—buried deep inside her, moaning into her neck—it’s not just pleasure that consumes him. It’s something older. Deeper. Territorial.
Mila. His. Completely.
CHAPTER 42
MILA
Mila wakes up with the distinct, luxurious ache of being thoroughly—thoroughly—fucked. It’s everywhere. In the lazy throb between her legs, the pleasant soreness in her hips, the tender scrape of stubble burn along her inner thighs. Her body feels like it’s been put through the wringer in the best possible way. She stretches like a cat in the soft gray sheets, and even that makes her wince and grin at the same time.
She feels delicious. Her whole body is loose, sated, humming with the echo of last night, Theo’s mouth, his hands, that filthy voice in her ear. The way he looked at her, like she was made of fire and he wanted to burn. She presses her face deeper into his pillow and breathes in.
God. His smell.
It’s all over the sheets—clean skin, spicy sandalwood, something warm that’s just him. She’s never been in Theo’s room before, and now she doesn’t want to leave. It’s bigger than she expected and less sleek than she would’ve guessed, more lived in. Dark walls, blackout curtains pulled back to let in a stream of honeyed morning light. His desk is cluttered with hockey tape, tangled chargers, and an empty shaker bottle.
It’s masculine, warm, quiet. It feels like him.
She rolls over, and the sheets slide off her bare skin. She’s cool without his body heat beside her, and she only now notices the faint hiss of the shower running in the ensuite. A crooked smile pulls at her lips.
Look at him, she thinks, feeling a blush climb her neck. Up early. Being responsible. Being hot.
She slips through the bathroom’s open door, leaning against the frame. Steam billows from the running shower, curling into lazy, inviting spirals like a beckoning finger. She can’t see him—only the blurred silhouette of his broad back behind the frosted glass—but she can hear him humming something under his breath.
Her heart does stupid little flutter kicks in her chest as she makes her way back to the warm bed.
She’s so screwed.
When he finally emerges, toweling his hair, low-slung shorts hanging just right on his hips, he pauses when he sees her sitting up in bed, sheet barely clinging to her chest.
His eyes rake over her in a way that makes her whole body tighten again.
“Morning,” she says, voice raspy and soft.
Theo smirks, walks over to her side of the bed, and leans down to kiss the corner of her mouth.
“You look wrecked,” he murmurs against her lips.
“Gee, I wonder why,” she says, grinning into the kiss. “You planning to help me walk today, or…?”
“I could carry you,” he offers, and it’s not even a joke. The way he says it—deadpan, warm—makes her laugh.
“You would.”
“You know I would.”
