Page 166 of Blood & Throttle

He pounds into me, the rhythm punishing, and every thrust hits deep, angled perfectly to keep me writhing, eyes rolling back. The slap of skin, his harsh breathing, my broken moans, they echo off the motel walls like a war cry.

“That what you want, Little Stray?” he grits out, one hand sliding up to wrap around my throat, hauling my chest back against him. “Want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

“You already did,” I choke out, voice ragged, thighs trembling. “Fuck, Riot, I’m so close—”

“Don’t hold back,” he says, lips at my ear. “I want to feel you cum on my cock. Milk every fucking drop from me.”

His fingers find my clit again, rough and fast, and I break. My hands scramble to grip the headboard, just as the bed creaks.

Then it cracks.

The frame gives out beneath us with a violent crunch, dropping us half a foot to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and broken slats.

We both freeze.

Then we laugh.

But it doesn’t stop him.

He stays inside me, grabs my hips, and fucks me harder, the rhythm brutal, perfect. I reach behind me, grab his face, and kiss him—deep, messy, desperate.

I scream his name, body convulsing as my climax rips through me like a detonation. My back bows, mouth open in a silent gasp.

He holds me right there, buried deep, hips rocking through my orgasm as he loses it too, groaning low and primal as he spills inside me. The heat of it makes me shudder again.

We stay like that—connected, panting, slick with sweat and satisfaction—until the last tremor fades and I collapse forwardonto the mattress. Riot follows, one arm wrapping tight around my waist as he kisses my spine, lips dragging slowly across my shoulder blade.

Then, through the paper-thin walls, Luca yells, “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Can we sleep now?”

Riot laughs into my skin. I grin into the pillow.

“Think we broke the bed,” I mumble.

“Worth it,” Riot replies, pulling me tighter. “You’re mine tonight, Vega.”

“And every night after,” I whisper.

Thirty-Two

Riot

Take Me To Church - Hozier

Deadmoor reeks of ash,ruin, and the rot of a city that should’ve stayed dead.

What’s left of Chicago isn’t a city anymore. It’s a Syndicate warzone with a name scrawled in blood. High walls stretch skyward like ribcages around the carcass of downtown, barbed wire curling along the tops like the Syndicate’s crown. Watchtowers blink red through the smoke, their gun turrets tracking every movement with mechanical patience.

We roll in first, me and Sin. The bike eats the broken asphalt, kicking up dust laced with soot and bone. Behind us, the bus rumbles through the checkpoint gates, our crew riding inside. Armed guards line both sides of the entry lane, faces blank, fingers twitching on triggers. One move out of line and they’ll drop you just for breathing too loud.

The skyline’s a graveyard—rusted steel bones jutting from burned-out high rises, glass teeth shattered, blackened windows like hollow sockets. The Sears Tower’s nothing but a crippledsilhouette now, its peak caved in like the city folded in on itself from the inside out.

The air tastes like cordite and smog. Metallic and sharp, like biting down on a bullet. Every breath feels borrowed.

Deadmoor doesn’t pretend to be part of the world anymore. It’s been claimed, gutted, and renamed by the Syndicate. Now it’s theirs.

I cut the engine and flick the kickstand down, the sound echoing off the bunker walls ahead. Sin slides off behind me, silent as ever, boots hitting the cracked concrete. Her hair’s a mess from the ride, dust streaked across her neck, but she looks like a fucking weapon—tight, coiled, lethal.

I light a cigarette and lean back against the seat, watching her walk. Smoke fills the hollow in my chest, but it doesn’t touch the heat curling low in my gut.