Page 124 of Blood & Throttle

For me.

And what's worse, is I won’t want to stop him.

He sits up with a sharp breath, pushing through the painlike it’s just background noise. His movements are slower than usual—tight, and calculated, but his grip on me is anything but gentle.

I’m still straddling him, legs on either side of his hips, and his hands are already moving, dragging down the back of my thighs, gripping, anchoring.

Then he shifts.

One arm wraps around my waist as he twists, guiding me off his lap and onto the mattress. He lays me down carefully on my side in front of him, like even now—bleeding, stitched, and wrecked, he’s still the one in control. Still the one deciding how this goes.

My head rests against the pillow, breath shallow, body burning.

Riot leans over me, hand sliding down my hip, hooking into the waistband of my leggings.

His fingers tug the fabric down, slowly and deliberately, peeling it off inch by inch like he wants me to feel every second of it. My pulse trips. I lift one leg, then the other, letting him slide them off completely.

He tosses them to the floor like they never mattered.

Then he moves in behind me, molding his body to mine, chest to back. One arm coils around my waist like a steel trap, holding me there. The other slips between my thighs, his hand moving slow, like he has all the time in the world to ruin me.

I gasp, arching back against him.

“That’s what I thought,” he growls into my ear. “Always dripping for me. Even when you’re mouthing me off.”

His hand moves again, this time slower, more teasing. His thumb brushes over my clit and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. My thighs try to close, but his leg is already wedged between them, keeping me open.

He tightens the arm around my ribs, anchoring me to him, and then slides his hand up, slow as sin, wrapping it gently around my throat.

My pulse flutters beneath his grip.

“You gonna ride my fingers like a good girl,” he murmurs, “or do I need to remind you who owns this pussy?”

Before I can answer, he brings his hand up—those same fingers slick with my arousal and presses them hard against my lips.

“Suck, Little Stray.”

The command is low. Final.

I open my mouth, and he shoves them in. Two fingers, rough and coated in me. I moan around them as he presses deep, making sure I taste myself. Making sure I know exactly what I’m doing to him.

His eyes stay locked on mine, watching every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks like it’s fueling something darker in him.

When he pulls them free, they glisten.

And then he slides them right back between my legs.

Deep, hard, and claiming.

The sound I make isn’t a word—it’s broken, breathy, and edged with frustration.

“You think I can’t fuck you just because I’m bleeding?” he continues, voice pure gravel. “Think that’s going to stop me from making you come?”

His fingers pump deeper, hitting the exact spot that makes my vision blur. His other hand tightens on my throat—not enough to choke, just enough to control.

I grind back against him, chasing every curl of his fingers, every throb of pressure on my clit.

His cock is hard against my ass, still trapped in his pants.