Page 120 of Fighting Mr. Knight

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says through clenched teeth as he thrusts his cock in and out of me.

I groan in response, assuming it’s a rhetorical question. I cling to his biceps, feeling them flex each time he drives into me. We make sex standing up look easy, but he’s doing all the work. My legs are like jelly around him.

My whole body tingles with pleasure from his thick, hard cock pumping inside me, again and again, bringing me closer each time. Hitting me in that spot right in my centre that makes me buck and shudder and scream.

“You belong to me now,” he growls against my throat. “All mine. You’re all fucking mine, Bonnie.”

Maybe heisa werewolf.

“Yes.” It’s a low prolonged moan from the depths of my stomach. “Yes, Jack.”

“Come on me,” he demands, hot against my forehead. “I need to feel your tight little pussy coming all over my cock.”

I do as I’m told.

Our laboured breathing mixes as I ride him towards orgasm, moaning his name over and over again.

When he gives one final out-of-control groan and empties himself hard inside me, my hips buck with uncontrollable contractions. I spasm around him, clenching down on his cock, squeezing every last drop from him.

Holy hell.

I’ve never had that before. Perfectly timed orgasms. I thought it was a myth created by porn movies.

Breathing hard, he runs hot, open-mouthed kisses all over my neck. “I’ll try not to leer at you too much, darlin’, but only if you give me what I need.”

“What do you need?” I croak, almost fearfully.

“You.”

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

He lifts his head from my neck to give me a wicked smirk. “Every fucking night.”

28

Bonnie

Ireallyhope this isn’t the right house.

It’s a massive white Victorian dream home high up on the hill, overlooking Greenwich Park, the home of GMT, Greenwich Mean Time, on one of the most prestigious roads in South East London.

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. The April sun is freakishly strong thanks to global warming, and I’m sweating like a pig after hiking up a hill that could rival San Francisco’s Lombard Street.

There isn’t a hope in hell I’m walking in through those gates.

With shaky hands, I dial Jack’s number. He answers on the first ring.

“I thought you said you lived alone.” I scowl, eyeingthe massive black, boxy dog that could be Damien’s protector dog inThe Omen.

“I do. Why do you think,” he cuts himself off. “Oh.” I can feel him grinning down the phone.

The big white door opens, and out comes Jack, shirtless as usual.

“She’s fine,” he says, eyes on me. His voice comes through the phone and in person. “She just needs to smell you.”

“Yeah, because that’s what you do to food before you take a bite.” The dog comes up to Jack’s thighs and eyes me with a look that screamshe’s mine.

“She looks scary but she’s really sweet. She’s excellently trained.” He grins. “Better house-trained than me.”

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