Page 129 of For the Plot

“Yes. Fuck. Yes, Reece?—”

“I should’ve claimed you here five years ago. Should’ve made you walk out of this alley with my cum running down your thighs.”

She shudders.

“I still can,” I whisper, biting her earlobe. “Still can make you come until you beg me to stop. Until you forget your name. Until you remember you’reonlymine.”

Her head falls back, exposing her throat. I lean in, licking the sweat from her skin. She tightens around me, her moans getting higher, needier.

“You close, baby?”

“God, yes?—”

I pull out. She whimpers. Actuallywhimpers. Then I flip her, press her chest to the brick, and bend her over. She plants her hands against the wall. Her legs shake. I grab her hips and slam back in. She screams.

“Fuck, Reece. Oh my God?—”

I pound into her, filthy and rough, watching my cock disappear into her over and over. Her back arches. Her thighs quake.

“You feel that?” I groan. “That’s what being fucked by someone whoownsyou feels like.”

“I’m yours,” she gasps. “I’m fucking yours.”

I reach around and rub her clit, fast and hard. She shatters. Her body jerks, her knees nearly giving out, her orgasm loud and raw and messy. I grab a fistful of her hair and keep going, slower now. Deeper. Crueler.

“I want you dripping all night. Every time you shift in your seat, I want you to feel how full I left you.”

“Yes, please. Oh God, please?—”

I pull her back against my chest, hand around her throat, and fuck her slow, possessive, like I’ve got all night.

“I love you.”

And I come. Hard. Growling her name like a fucking war cry as I spill inside her. We collapse together, breathing hard, her head on my chest, our skin slick with sweat and sex and everything we’ve survived to get here.

I kiss her temple. Her cheeks. Her mouth. She blinks up at me, dazed and glowing.

“I think you fucked me to death.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I plan to.”

She laughs, weak and breathless. She’s still catching her breath when I ease her down. Her legs are unsteady. Her skin flushed. Her eyes so glazed over with bliss it makes my chest ache.

“Shoes,” she mumbles, glancing toward the back door.

I nod. “I’ve got you.”

She smooths her dress with shaking hands, then walks back inside barefoot, her steps a little wobbly. I follow her like a man still high off his addiction. She bends to scoop up her strappy nude heels and sits on the edge of the booth to slip them on. I watch as she crosses one leg over the other and fastens the tiny buckle at her ankle, her fingers delicate and practiced.

She glances up, catching me staring.

“What?”

“I married the most dangerous woman in Chicago.”

She smirks. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

I grab her hand and pull her to her feet.