Page 45 of Desperate Games

“Gonna be a good girl for me, Andy?” he whispers, rocking his hips just enough to make me moan. “Gonna come on this cock like you did before?”

I bite my lip, trying to form words—but all I can do is nod.

Because I will.

And he knows it.

I try to stay in control of my breathing. Of my thoughts. Of my heart.

Because I can’t afford to confuse things.

This isn’t love.

This isn’t forever.

This is a plan.

A hot, ridiculously well-built plan with the voice of sin and hands that worship like prayers—but still. Just a plan.

But when he presses in deeper, his fingers digging into my hips like he can’t get close enough, I forget all of that.

Every last ounce of logic slips through my fingers like silk.

My body arches into him on instinct, like it knows something my brain keeps trying to deny. Like it’s already made a decision I can’t take back.

“You feel that?” he pants behind me, voice wrecked. “How perfect you fit me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Don’t catch feelings, Andy.

Don’t confuse heat with heart.

Don’t mistake chemistry for connection.

But his rhythm is relentless, deep and hungry, the kind of movement that demands surrender.

He kisses down my spine between thrusts, hot lips trailing heat as he murmurs things I can’t even process.

“Good girl,” he groans when I cry out. “Just like that. So damn perfect for me.”

Perfect for him.

I wish.

Wait—do I wish that?

I dig my fingers into the bedspread, trying to hold on. To something.

But it’s all slipping—my control, my caution, my composure—everything is slipping away under the weight of his body, the grind of his hips, the way he moves inside me like he knows every secret I’ve never spoken aloud.

“Remy,” I gasp, and it sounds like a warning—but it isn’t. Not really.

It’s a prayer.

He stills, just for a breath.

His palm slides around to my belly, pulling me back into him like he wants to own every inch of me.