Page 151 of Blood & Throttle
My other hand clamps down on her hip as I slam back into her—raw, relentless, mine. The way her pussy wraps around me, soaked and tight, like it’s begging me to stay buried in her forever nearly undoes me.
“Look at you,” I growl, fucking her deeper. “Gorgeous like this. Ruined for me. Dripping all over my cock. You love it, don’t you, Little Stray?”
She moans, high and broken, and tries to twist her wrists free, but I hold them firm, slamming harder just to feel her cryout again.
I lean down, slapping her tits just rough enough to watch them bounce, then pinch her nipples until she arches and gasps. My mouth latches onto one and I bite hard enough to mark, but not enough to hurt. She shudders under me, back arching, cunt clenching.
“You’re gonna come with me,” I pant against her skin. “You hear me? Gonna let me fuck you through it, fill you up, mark every inch until you never forget who the fuck owns this body.”
Her hips jerk, legs locking around me. “Riot, fuck, yes, please—”
I keep going, fucking her like I’m trying to carve my name into her bones. My cock throbs inside her, balls tight, body strung out and seconds from snapping.
“Take it,” I snarl. “Take all of it. My cum, my cock, every filthy inch. You fucking earned it.”
She screams my name as she breaks again, soaking me, body clenching down so tight I nearly roar.
And I let go.
I spill inside her with a grunt ripped straight from my chest, grinding as deep as I can go, burying every last drop of myself in her while my vision goes white. My jaw locks, muscles flex, and all I can do is hold her down and fuck her through every second of it.
She trembles beneath me. Shaking. Spent. Covered in sweat and bruises and spit and me. I don’t move. I stay right there, still inside her, still holding her wrists, still growling against her throat.
Sienna Vega is mine.
Every fucking inch.
She’s gasping beneath me, wrecked and warm, her pulse still pounding against my lips. Her body trembles, slick withsweat, thighs twitching from aftershocks as her cunt flutters around my cock like it doesn't want to let go.
Fuck, neither do I.
Eventually, I ease out of her with a low hiss. She whimpers at the loss, legs buckling slightly as I help her upright. She’s fucked-out, dazed, glowing and completely fucking mine.
“Wait here,” I mutter, brushing her damp hair from her cheek. “I’ll find you some pants or something.”
She doesn’t answer. Just drops onto the booth seat behind her, thighs still parted, lips still kiss-swollen, watching me with that smug little smirk like she knows exactly what she just did to me.
I shake my head, biting back a grin, then head for the locker room.
The place is trashed—same as everything else in this club—but I manage to dig up a pair of old black leggings from a forgotten duffel bag and a hoodie someone left behind, soft and worn with a cartoon sea turtle stitched across the front. Ridiculous. But warm.
When I make it back, she’s not where I left her. Then I spot her. Bare-legged, glowing, strutting across the room like she still owns it, even ruined.
She’s standing near the cracked mirror wall beside the DJ booth, holding a half-empty can of neon pink spray paint she clearly found while I was gone. And there, under the buzz of flickering lights, she’s already halfway through tagging a crooked heart on the concrete.
Inside, in jagged messy letters:
R + S
I freeze in the doorway. My chest goes fucking still. I walk toward her slow, heavy boots echoing on broken tile, and stop just behind her.
“You taggin’ us now?” I murmur, voice low.
She doesn’t turn around. Just lifts the can and sprays the final stroke like it’s law now. Permanent.
“Was bored while you were gone,” she says, cockily. “Figured it was my turn to leave a mark.”
I hand her the clothes. She tugs the leggings on, slow and sore, then the hoodie, drowning in it. I curl a hand around her waist, tugging her against me.
