Page 146 of A Wreck, You Make Me

I love it. I love him. And he lovesme.

I love it when he realizes there are thorny twigs at my back, he snatches me around the waist again and tugs me toward him. Then, his chest pressing into mine, his eyes fuming, he growls, “What the fuck are you doing?”

I slid my hands along his biceps and clutch his shoulders. “You caught me.”

He squeezes his arms around me, making me go up on my tiptoes. “Fuck yeah, I caught you. What the fuck were you thinking? You could get lost in here.”

I shake my head. “You would’ve found me.”

His eyes take in my features, still frantic, still angry. “Did Isadora say something to you?”

My heart twitches. “You said her name.”

“What?”

“You never say her name,” I tell him like he doesn’t know.

His nostrils flare, something passing through his features. “Did shesay somethingto you? Is that why you ran out of there like a fucking maniac?”

Just that you love me and I’m perfect for you.

Instead, I say, “I ran because you told me not to.”

He grates his jaw, his features turning violent, his grip turning violent too. It hurts so good I can’t stop the shiver that goes through my body. “So you ran to fuck with me.”

I lick my lips. “No, I ran because I wanna be your good girl.”

He’s surprised by my words. His chest shudders a little bit and his eyes loses some of their ire. And I take advantage of that. I get out of his hold and push him back. Before either of us can take another breath—because I know his are suspended just like mine—I drop down on my knees. Gripping his jean-covered thighs and looking up, I say, “Please, let me be your good girl. I wanna be your good girl, Shepard.”

Please let me be your girl. Because I already am. For now and for always.

He stares down at me for a long time, and I let him. I keep my face upturned, my neck craned. I keep my palms on his taut thighs and let him look at me. I let him study every inch of my face, every inch of my body.

My lips are painted red because I know he thinks it makes my mouth more tempting. My hair’s loose and falling down my back in red waves, like he prefers. My face is makeup free so my freckles get the center stage, again just like he likes it. I’m wearing the dress he picked out for me. Not to mention, I’m on my knees, his favorite pose, submissive and soft.

I’m all dolled up according to his preference and God, I really hope he lets me be his good girl because I’m dying to be. I’m dying to be so good for him, dying to serve him.Bornto serve him. I know now.

He takes me in until his chest goes up and down like the wave. Until something changes in him. It makes him look bigger, larger and stronger. So dominating and so pervasive. It makes him look both threatening and safe. Then, clenching his jaw and putting a hand on my head, he rumbles, “You know what that means, being my good girl?”

I press my hands on his thighs, my heart racing andracingand yet at peace somehow. “It means I’m yours.”

“Fuck yeah, you are,” he agrees, his eyes narrowed.

“All of me.”

“Every single fuckinginchof you.”

I stretch my neck up even more. “It means you own me.”

He flicks his eyes over my form once again. “I own you.”

“It means I let you do whatever you wanna do.”

“To you.”

“To me.”

Another flick of his eyes. Then, he mutters, as if to himself, “Yeah, you and everythingaboutyoubelongto me.”