Page 50 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Forty-Seven

BECKETT

The paint hasn't dried on her skin yet.

She's still trembling when I lift her, body pliant in my arms. Paint streaks across her skin. The colors shimmer under the fading light as I carry her from the studio, her thighs still quivering around my waist, her breath warm against my neck.

I don't speak. I don't need to. Her body molds against mine like she knows I'll never let her fall.

Because I won't.

She belongs to me now. Every broken piece. Every rebuilt one. Every shade she's painted between us. In every sense of the word and no longer the Possession she never truly was. She'd always been more. I just never admitted it to myself.

The bathroom is all stone and glass when we enter—cool surfaces that will soon fog with steam and heat. I lower her carefully onto the marble bench beside the shower, my hands lingering on her skin as though letting go might break the spell between us .

She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches me with those wide, hazy eyes that seem to see right through the walls I've spent a lifetime building. She looks at me like I've just cracked her open and she's still deciding if it was salvation or destruction.

I reach past her to turn the water on, letting steam fill the space between us. "Hot enough?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She nods, a small movement, but I catch it. I always catch everything about her.

The paint is still wet on her skin. Gold dust shimmers across her collarbones. Black streaks curl around her inner thighs. The evidence of our claiming marked in colors that belong on canvas but look better on her.

I can't stop looking. She's a masterpiece I never knew I was creating.

She slides off the bench, movements slow and deliberate despite her exhaustion, and steps into the shower. The water cascades over her immediately—droplets catching in her hair, streaming down her curves. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, and for a moment she looks untouchable.

I follow her without thinking, drawn toward her like gravity exists only where she stands. The spray hits us both as steam curls around our bodies, rising between us like smoke from something burning.

Maybe it is. Maybe it's me.

She tilts her face toward the water, letting it sluice through her hair, over her flushed skin. For a moment, she's transformed—no longer the girl I chased through woods, or the woman who defied those who tried to trade her like property. She's just Luna.

Naked. Untouchable. Entirely mine .

I move behind her, careful not to crowd, and press my hand to the curve of her hip—a touch meant to ground, to claim, to simply feel.

She shivers under my palm.

"Cold?" I murmur against her ear.

"No," she whispers, the first word she's spoken since I carried her from the studio. "Memory."

I understand. Her body remembers every touch, just as mine remembers every curve. I reach for the cloth hanging nearby, wet it under the stream, and drag it slowly across her shoulder.

"You marked me with paint," I say, voice low and thick with something I've never allowed myself to feel before. "Now I'm washing you with it."

She doesn't respond verbally, but her breath catches, a small hitch that speaks volumes. When I trail the cloth down her back, following the elegant line of her spine to the curve of her ass, she leans into me—a silent request for more.

The colors run between us now, water turning everything into watercolor between our bodies. Black. Gold. Desire. She's stained from her throat to her ankles, and part of me doesn't want to see it go.

But I clean her anyway, dragging the cloth across her skin with reverent precision. The water isn't about erasing; it's about reminding her what I've left beneath the surface.

I draw the cloth between her thighs, and she whimpers—a sound so soft and vulnerable I nearly drop to my knees right there. My fingers follow the path I've just cleaned, no longer hindered by fabric. Bare. Possessive. Seeking.

When she gasps, I press my mouth to the back of her neck, finding her pulse with my lips.

"I could spend the rest of my life touching you," I confess against her skin, "and still never be done."

Her knees nearly buckle. I catch her immediately, one arm wrapping around her waist while my other hand drops the cloth entirely.

Because I need to feel her. All of her. Without barriers. Without pretense.

Her skin is slick beneath my palms, her body trembling as I explore. I run my hands over the swell of her breasts, the delicate cage of her ribs, the gentle curve of her hips—mapping every inch like I need it committed to memory.

"You're so beautiful," I murmur, honesty breaking through the walls I usually maintain. "Not because of how you look. Because you fucking survived."

She turns in my arms then—slow, deliberate, wrecked in the most beautiful way—and looks up at me like she's seeing something clearly for the first time. Our eyes lock, and something passes between us that I can't name but recognize in every cell of my body.

And then she touches me.

Her hand lifts, hesitates for just a moment, before pressing flat against my chest—right over my heart.

Paint still smears her palm, wet and vibrant.

It stains me instantly, marking my skin with her colors.

And I let it.

"Don't wash it off," she whispers, eyes never leaving mine.

My knees nearly give at the request. At the meaning behind it. At the way her voice breaks on the words.

"You want me marked?" I ask, voice rough with desire and something deeper. "Or ruined?"

She doesn't answer directly. Instead, her hands begin to move—dragging across my chest, over my shoulders, down my arms. Paint mixing with water. Need mixing with worship. Every touch telling me what words can't.

I grow hard between us, my cock thick and aching, because fuck, I'll never not want her. When her gaze drops to it—when she feels it press against her stomach—she doesn't pull away.

She steps closer, her chest brushing mine, droplets caught between our bodies.

"Touch me again," she says, and it sounds like a challenge. Like a prayer.

I capture her chin with my hand. "I never stopped."

The look she gives me is somewhere between defiance and surrender. Like she doesn't realize I've been unraveling for her since the moment she stepped into my world. Like she can't see that I've never wanted anything the way I want her.

I kiss her—hard, deep, possessive. My tongue slides against hers, tasting, claiming, branding her with sensations I want her to remember long after the paint washes away.

Her arms wrap around my neck, paint-stained fingers threading through my hair, and I press her back against the cool tile as water continues to pour over us.

"Tell me what you need," I murmur against her jaw, teeth grazing the delicate skin there. "Tell me how to worship you."

"You already do," she whispers.

The words break something open inside me. Something I didn't know could shatter. Because she's never said that to anyone. Because no one has ever deserved it.

I drop to my knees before her. Again. Because I now realize I'd spend every moment of every day kneeling before her if she'd let me.

My hands slide up her thighs, slow and reverent. I press kisses to the inside of each one—gentle at first, then rougher, more demanding, nipping just enough to tease.

She tangles her hands in my hair, fingers clutching tight. Desperate. Needy. And I groan against her skin, the vibration making her shiver.

"I love when you pull," I rasp, looking up through the spray. "Keep holding me there, little thief. Don't let me go."

I press my mouth between her legs—my tongue searching for her pussy like I'm starving. And maybe I am. Because nothing has ever tasted like this. Like her. Like us.

She gasps, back arching, trying to both escape and get closer. But I grip her hips tighter, anchoring her against the tile as water streams over both of us.

"Stay still," I command against her clit. "Let me feast."

And I do. I devour her with single-minded focus, sucking her clit with slow precision before swirling my tongue in patterns that make her legs shake and her voice fracture into broken pleas.

"Beckett—fuck—I can't—" Her voice cracks, water and pleasure making it nearly impossible to form words.

"Yes, you can," I assure her, the words vibrating against her sensitive flesh. "You're going to come on my mouth." I punctuate each phrase with a long, deliberate lick. "Again. And again."

I slide two fingers inside her, curving them to find that spot that makes her eyes roll back and her body convulse.

The water pounds against my back. Her nails scrape my scalp. My name falls from her lips in a desperate litany like it's the only word she knows.

And I don't stop. I worship her with my mouth, my fingers, my entire being—like her pleasure is my salvation.

"Louder," I growl against her, the vibration making her jerk. "Come for me, little thief. I want to hear how much you need me. "

She comes with a cry that could shatter glass, her thighs clamping around my head as her body convulses. But I don't stop, don't pull back, don't give her a chance to recover.

When the tremors subside, I finally rise—a controlled ascent that brings me eye-to-eye with her flushed, stunned expression. My cock stands hard and ready between us, and her gaze drops to it immediately.

She reaches for me with trembling fingers. When she wraps her hand around my length, I nearly lose all the control I've been clinging to.

Her hand moves with surprising confidence—soft but sure, still shaking slightly from her own release. For a moment, I almost let her continue, but I catch her wrist gently.

"Not to stop you," I reassure her. "Just need to breathe."

Because she's looking at me like she understands exactly what's happening. Like she feels it too. This isn't just desire. It's consumption. A storm neither of us expected to weather.

"Beckett..." she whispers, my name a question and answer all at once.