Page 13 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twelve

LUNA

My body is feeding him my every thought and emotion, and he reads it like a confession. His hand slides back between my legs, fingers slick with evidence of my surrender. The slow circles against my clit are maddening, deliberate, drawing reactions I can't suppress no matter how hard I try.

A shaky breath escapes me, and his voice drops lower, softer.

"God, look at you," he whispers, reverence replacing cruelty. "Still fighting, even as you melt on my fingers."

"Fuck you," I manage through clenched teeth.

"I plan to."

He pushes his fingers inside me without warning—rough, deep, punishing—and my body surges forward with a gasp. But his hand on my jaw keeps me firmly in place. Pinned. Open. Completely at his mercy.

Still, I refuse to give him everything. The tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I let him take my body, but I don't give him my voice.

I feel a shift in him—his breath hitching, control slipping for the first time since he caught me. The tension in his body tightens like a wire about to snap. He wants to break me completely, but I'm determined to keep something for myself.

A growl rumbles through him—low, possessive, half-feral—like my silence is a personal challenge and he's starving for the sound of me shattering.

His hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me still as he presses deeper inside me—three fingers now, relentless and curling just right to make my vision blur.

My hips jerk involuntarily as I gasp, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow down.

"You're going to come on my fingers," he says, voice thick with heat, his teeth bared behind that bone-white mask. "You're going to scream when you do it. And then I'm going to flip you over and fuck the fight right out of you."

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My body's already giving in, my pussy squeezing his fingers as he ruins me from the inside out.

"I know what you want," he whispers against my skin. "You want to be ruined by someone who won't apologize for it."

His free hand moves to my hip, dragging me back against him as he fucks me harder with his fingers—the rhythm punishing, thumb circling my clit with brutal precision, forcing me to take it even as I resist the wave building inside me.

"You want it rough. You want it messy. You want it mine."

The moan that escapes me is loud, sharp, helpless.

"There she is," he breathes, satisfaction dripping from each word. "There's my filthy little thief. "

"Stop—" I gasp, but I'm not pushing him away. I'm clawing at the ground, back arching, thighs trembling.

"Beg for it," he growls against my ear. "I want to hear you say please while I use your pussy like it was made to be filled by me."

His words hit harder than his fingers—filthy and focused, dragging me toward something I can't come back from.

"I hate you," I whisper.

Without warning, he withdraws completely. The emptiness is agonizing, and I scream—frustrated and raw.

"No. No, don't?—"

He flips me over, fast and rough. My back hits the ground hard, my dress in ruins, skin flushed and filthy and exposed to the cold. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand while kneeling between my legs.

"You want my cock, little thief?" he asks, voice deadly soft. "You're going to ask for it."

The air rushes from my lungs as I stare up at him—not from pain, but from the intensity in his gaze.

I squirm beneath him, desperate and frantic—but not to escape. To get closer.

"Beg," he says again, rougher now. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't—" My voice breaks as he rolls his hips against mine, grinding his hard cock over my soaked pussy, slow and heavy.

He's so fucking hard. I can feel every inch of him pressing against me like a promise I'm not ready for—but already addicted to.

"You've been dripping on my hand for ten minutes," he growls. "Don't you dare pretend you don't want to be fucked."

He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "I'm going to split you open, little thief. Stretch your cunt so wide around my cock you won't remember how to say no. You'll only know how to take it."

A sob breaks out of me—frustrated, wrecked, needy. I'm so far gone, I'll do anything he wants me to.

I buck my hips upward. "Please."

He goes completely still, and God, it makes me ache.

"Say it louder," he demands, his voice dropping an octave.

"Please," I gasp again, louder this time, desperation cracking through my voice. "Please—please fuck me."

That's when I hear it—the sharp, definitive sound of fabric tearing.

The sheer fabric splits at the shoulder, shredding beneath his grip like it was never meant to survive this night.

His other hand joins in pulling at the bodysuit—ripping, yanking, exposing me inch by inch until I'm panting beneath him, skin flushed, breasts exposed to the cold air and his hungry stare.

He tosses the ruined fabric aside with dismissive ease.

"Better," he mutters, dragging his thumb over my nipple, rough and slow. "Now beg again."

"Please—"

"Beg me to own you."

My thighs spread wider as the words spill out like a prayer and a curse all in one.

"Please, I want you to ruin me. I want you inside me—I want it hard. I want it rough. I want it now."

He breathes in sharply, like he's finally losing the control he's clung to all night.

"Good girl."

There's no hesitation. No reverence. Just pure, destructive need.

"You want to be fucked like prey?" he growls .

I nod, beyond words.

"You want me to treat you like you belong to me?"

I moan—wrecked, trembling.

And finally, I surrender the truth. "I do."

I feel the air against my skin like a slap—cold and stark. But he is warm, so fucking warm as he positions himself between my legs, spreading me open with both hands like he's done holding back.

The weight of his stare—hungry, feral, possessive—settles in my chest. Those blue eyes pulling me in deeper. Like he's not just going to take me. He's going to leave something behind that no one else will ever erase.

He unzips his black jeans and pulls his hard cock out before stroking once, deliberate and slow, thick and heavy in his grip, before lining up against my entrance.

And then he waits.

One breath. Two.

I don't understand what he's waiting for until I look up—and realize he's watching me. He wants me to know exactly what's happening. He wants me to feel everything.

I arch toward him, desperate and trembling.

That's all it takes.

He thrusts inside me in one brutal, overwhelming motion. The sound that tears from my throat isn't a moan—it's a sob.

He's huge. Hard. Stretching me wider than I thought possible, deeper than I can take—and he doesn't stop. Doesn't let me adjust to the intrusion. He fucks me through the shock of it, through the pain, through the heat, through the way my body clings to him like it was built for this.

I scratch at his arms, his chest, anything I can reach, but he doesn't slow. He grips my hips, slamming into me again and again, his rhythm unrelenting and perfect .

"You wanted this," he growls.

"No—"

"You ran from everyone but me."

He slams deeper, and I scream.

"Say it."

"I—"

"Say. You. Fucking. Wanted. This."

His hand wraps around my throat—not tight, just enough to hold me there, to make me stay still while he ruins me.

And I can't take it anymore. Not the heat. Not the rhythm. Not the way he fucks me like I've always been his.

"Say it," he breathes, his voice a cracked command.

"I wanted it," I choke out. "I fucking wanted it."

His hips slam into mine, and I shatter. My back arches, my body tensing as heat spreads through me as the pleasure becomes too much to bear.

His hand grabs my jaw, forcing my face up, his just inches from mine.

"Eyes on me."

I try to look away—reflex, shame, whatever's left of my pride—but he growls, low and dangerous.

"I said, look at me. I want to see your fucking face while you take my cock."

I open my eyes, and I'm completely gone.

The thrust that follows nearly lifts me off the ground. My fingers curl into the dirt, legs shaking, mouth falling open.

"That's it," he growls. "Just like that. You look so fucking pretty when you break for me."

He pulls almost all the way out—then slams back in.

I cry out.

And he laughs—filthy and wrecked—like I've just proven something he knew all along.

"You were made for this," he murmurs, fucking me slower now, cruelly deliberate. "This perfect little cunt, this body, this fight in you. All of it—mine."

"You—" I try to speak, but he grips my throat again—firm, grounding, possessive.

"I want to hear you thank me," he says, hips snapping into mine. "Say thank you for fucking me like I deserve."

"No."

He smirks. "Then I'll fuck it out of you."

And he does—again and again, until I cry out so loudly that he groans, deep and raw, his hips stuttering momentarily before finding their rhythm again.

"Fuck," he growls. "Take it. Take it like my desperate little thief."

I shudder involuntarily, and he notices.

"Such a mess," he whispers, dragging his hand between us, rubbing hard circles over my clit while he pounds into me. "Dripping down my cock, begging me with your body even when your mouth lies."

I gasp as he slams deeper.

"You're going to come again," he says with absolute certainty.

"No—"

"Yes. You are. And you're going to look me in the eye while you do it."

His hand tightens around my jaw, forcing me to look up at him as he drives into me—deep, relentless, each thrust stealing my breath and thoughts and everything I thought I had left.

I'm shaking. Wrecked. So far gone I don't even recognize the sounds coming from my mouth—whimpers, gasps, broken little cries that only he has ever pulled from me.

My eyes try to roll back, but he growls, "Don't you dare fucking look away. You're going to watch me when you come again. You're going to let me see it when you fall apart on my cock."

I try to resist. I really do. But when his thumb presses harder against my clit, when he buries himself completely and grinds against me like he wants to fuck me straight through the forest floor—I break completely.

"Oh my God?—"

"That's it. Look at me while I ruin you."

And I do. I look up at him, jaw clenched, his heavy gaze burning, that mouth slightly open as he watches me fall apart. I see the man who hunted me through the dark and is now fucking me like I was made to be taken.

I come harder than I ever have before—violent, shaking, loud. My cry splits through the trees as my body spasms around him, clenching so tight I feel him groan deep in his chest.

And he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking me through it, faster now, rougher, chasing his own release like he's waited his whole life to finish inside me.

"You feel that?" he grits out, voice raw, thrusts turning erratic. "This pussy belongs to me."

I sob—because I know it's true. I gave myself to him the second I stopped running.

"Say it," he snarls. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasp, wrecked and shaking. "I'm—fuck—I'm yours, please?—"

And then he loses control completely.

He slams into me one last time and growls—low and guttural and broken—as he spills inside me, his cock pulsing.

He stays like that—still, pressed against me, inside me—like he can't bear to pull away.

Like he has no intention to .

My breathing gradually slows, but my heart refuses to settle. With trembling fingers, I reach up toward his mask.

He flinches slightly, but doesn't move away.

"Please," I whisper, the word hanging between us, fragile and hopeful.

For a moment, he's completely still. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

I trace the edge of the mask with my fingertips, feeling the smooth material against his skin. Slowly, I peel it away, holding my breath.

And then I see him—truly see him.

Beckett Sinclair.