Page 49 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Forty-Six

LUNA

My palms hit the wooden easel, the impact reverberating through my arms as I brace myself against it. My fingers leave streaks of paint across the polished surface. Every nerve ending in my body still pulses with aftershocks.

My chest heaves. My thighs tremble. But I stay exactly where he positioned me—bent forward, exposed, waiting. Not because I'm afraid to move. Not because I have no choice.

Because I don't want to run. I don't want to hide.

Not from him. Not from this.

"Good girl," Beckett's voice rasps behind me, rough like gravel but smooth as velvet. The command drips with barely restrained hunger. "I'm not done with you."

No. He's not. And God help me, I don't want him to be.

I hear the rustle of fabric as he sheds the rest of his clothes before he steps closer, the heat of his body warming my back before he touches me.

His hand drags deliberately up the outside of my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, his paint- streaked fingers catching on skin he's already claimed.

The cool studio air against my heated flesh makes me shiver as I feel the blunt head of his cock brush between my legs, the heavy length of it sliding through the wetness he left behind with his mouth.

"Look how wet you still are," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "Soaked for me. Needy for me."

I choke on a breath as my eyes flutter shut. When he pushes inside me—one deep, devastating thrust that steals the air from my lungs—I can barely stay on my feet.

"Oh my—fuck—Beckett—" The words break apart in my throat, fragmenting into sounds I barely recognize as my own.

"Yeah," he groans into my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin. His hands grip my hips tighter, anchoring me against him. "You feel that?" Another thrust, harder this time. "That's me. That's every inch of me. Inside you."

He pulls back slowly before driving forward again—deliberate, brutal, dragging every inch through me like he's carving his name into my fucking soul. The controlled power behind each movement makes my knees buckle.

"So tight, baby," he praises, his fingers digging into my flesh. "So goddamn perfect. This pussy was made for me."

My hands scramble for a better grip on the easel. Paint smears under my fingertips, blue and gold mixing into something new. The wooden frame creaks beneath my weight with each thrust, and still he doesn't stop, doesn't slow.

"You hear that?" His voice drops lower, almost reverent. "You hear how wet you are for me?"

His hips crash into mine, the sound of our bodies meeting loud and perfect in the quiet studio. Each thrust steals another gasp from my lips.

"You take me so well," he says, one hand sliding up my spine to tangle in my hair. "So fucking good for me. Letting me fuck you like this—like you need to be ruined."

"I do," I whimper, surprised by my own honesty. "I need—fuck—I need?—"

"You need me." It's not a question. His fingers tighten in my hair. "Say it."

"You," I breathe, the admission tearing something open inside me. "I need you."

He leans forward, his chest pressing against my back as his mouth drags over my shoulder, up my neck, to my ear. His body covers mine completely, possessive and protective all at once.

"God, Luna..." His voice breaks slightly, revealing something raw beneath all that control.

"You don't even know what you do to me." His pace quickens, each thrust more devastating than the last. "I'm obsessed.

You hear me? Obsessed with this pussy, this body, the way you break for me and beg for more. "

I'm trembling now, coming undone beneath him, crying out with each perfect thrust. My world narrows to the points where our bodies connect—his chest against my back, his hands on my skin, his cock stretching me open in ways I never knew I needed.

Without warning, he pulls out completely. Before I can protest the loss, he's lifting me as if I weigh nothing, knocking both the easel and canvas onto the floor with a crash neither of us cares about. He lays me down with surprising gentleness?—

Right on top of the fallen canvas.

"You see this?" he pants, his eyes burning into mine as he positions himself between my thighs again. "This is ours now. This moment. This mess."

The wet paint beneath me smears across my back, my thighs, my shoulders, my hair—a kaleidoscope of colors marking me as surely as his hands do. His fingers drag through it as he grips me, spreading gold and black over my skin like it was always meant to live there.

Paint transfers to his chest, his arms, his hips.

When he thrusts back inside me—harder than before—I scream his name.

I'm so full, so completely consumed by him that there's nowhere to hide from the truth of what's happening.

He's fucking me like he wants to erase every man who ever touched me before.

Like he wants to make me forget they ever existed.

And it's working.

"Scream my name again," he growls, each thrust hitting deeper, darker places inside me. "Let the whole world hear who owns you."

I do.

I fucking do.

I scream his name like it's the only word I've ever known—like it's a prayer. Like it's the answer to every broken piece of me that's ever needed putting back together.

The paint stains everything—my skin, his, the canvas beneath us, the very air we breathe. And neither of us cares. Not about the mess. Not about the rules. Just this—his body on mine, his voice in my ear, and the masterpiece we're becoming together.

The air grows thick with the scent of sex and paint—sweet and raw and entirely ours.

"I can't stop," he rasps, his voice breaking against my skin, his rhythm growing more erratic.

"Don't ask me to. I can't let you go. I wouldn't know how.

" His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling.

"You're mine. You've always been mine. From the second I saw you, wild and unclaimed in that ballroom—I knew I'd burn the world to have you. "

I reach up, fingers digging into his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he moves inside me. My nails leave crescent-shaped marks—my own signature on his canvas.

His muscles flex harder under my touch. His thrusts grow rougher, deeper. And still, the praise doesn't stop, flowing from him like he can't hold it back anymore.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. "Fucked and perfect, legs open for me, dripping down your thighs like a good girl who knows who she belongs to."

"Beckett—" His name leaves my lips like a plea, though I don't know what I'm begging for anymore.

"You're gonna come for me again," he promises, reaching between us to circle my clit with his thumb. "You're gonna come with my cock so deep you'll taste it."

I sob—because it's too much and not enough all at once. Because he's right. Because I'm already teetering on the edge again, already falling apart beneath him in ways I never thought possible.

He growls in satisfaction.

"That's it, little thief. Show me," he urges, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Let them all hear who makes you come like this."

His hand fists in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp, tilting my face up to his. "Eyes on me," he growls. "Eyes on me while you come on my cock."

And I do. I can't look away. Not when he's looking at me like that—like I'm the only fucking thing that's ever mattered in this world.

As he pushes me right to the edge and holds me there, my body locks around him. My back arches like I've been struck by lightning. Heat floods through me—blinding, wild, endless.

I moan his name as I writhe beneath him, losing myself completely in the way my body shatters under the weight of everything he gives me. My legs tighten around his waist. My nails scrape down his back. And I come so hard I forget where I am—forget who I am.

He's rewired me. Rewritten me. There's no before Beckett now—only after.

All I know is him—inside me, claiming me, ruining me—and the sound he makes when I fall apart beneath him? A groan so deep and raw it sounds like it's being torn from his very soul. Like I just gave him his next fucking breath.

And Beckett keeps fucking me through it like a man possessed, like he can't stop even if he wanted to. His teeth find the side of my throat as he marks me. He doesn't bite hard—just enough to feel like a promise.

Mine.

Because that's what this is. Pure, unadulterated possession.

And now? I'm his.

"No one else," he whispers against my skin, the words searing into me like a brand. "No one touches what's mine."

His name is still on my lips when he thrusts again—deeper, harder, like he's chasing something he can't outrun anymore. His breathing changes—becomes sharp and uneven. His hands clutch my hips like he'll never let go.

"Fuck, Luna—you're squeezing me so tight, like you want it," he groans, his control slipping with every word. "You want me to come inside you? Mark you up where no one else gets to see?"

He drives deeper—harder—until I'm choking on moans and heat and him, unable to form coherent thoughts, much less words.

"I'll paint you from the inside out," he promises darkly. " Ruin you with it." His gaze burns into mine, demanding. "And you'll take it—won't you?"

His hand fists in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp.

"You'll take every fucking drop like the good girl you are."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

His body locks against mine. His hips jerk once, twice. And then he loses it completely.

He comes with a growl that seems torn straight from his throat, every muscle in his body drawn tight as his release hits. I feel it all—inside me, deep, claiming—like he's emptying every last piece of himself into me.

And even then—he doesn't stop.

He keeps moving. Slower now. Rougher. Like he's painting the last strokes of something sacred.

"You're mine," he breathes against my mouth, the words a vow more binding than any contract.

"Down to your fucking bones. You'll leave this canvas soaked in me—and there'll be no part of you I haven't claimed."

And in that moment, covered in paint and sweat and him, I don't want there to be.

"And you're mine."