Page 31 of Knot So Lucky

It’s a stalemate.

But the clock won’t let us idle forever.

He moves first—rocking his hips back, almost all the way out, then slow-rolling forward, each stroke smooth as champagne poured down cold glass. I can feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of his cock inside me. My pussy clamps down without mercy, milking him for more than he’s willing to give yet.

He groans. The sound is so raw it scrapes my skin, pushes me closer to the edge just from the force of it. I give it right back—a gasp, a shudder, my body arching up to meet him, slip falling away so my breasts crush to his chest.

Skin to skin, sweat and scent, and the wild undercurrent of competition.

Our scents tangle in the air—his burnt cedar, coffee, and raw amber now thick with the sweet-spiked musk of my own need. The perfume is animal, dizzying, a chemical bomb that makes my suppressants feel like a bad joke. There’s nothing muted about what we are right now, no hiding designation or pretending this doesn’t matter.

His grip on my hip turns punishing.

I arch up, meeting every thrust, greedy for the friction, the pressure, the way he manages to hit the perfect spot every time like he’s got a roadmap tattooed behind his eyes.

I drag my nails down his back—over tattoos, scars, every inch I know by heart—leaving red trails in my wake. He hisses, a savage little noise, but instead of flinching he doubles down, rutting into me harder. The bedframe shudders, headboard knocking against the wall. I brace for the neighbors to complain, then remember—nobody in this building would dare report me.

They’re too busy choking on our victory.

We’re still staring each other down. Not once does he look away; not during the slow grind, not during the abrupt jackhammering that starts when our nerves finally short-circuit and logic goes out the fucking window. Our gazes lock—challenge, plea, threat, promise. Everything at once, nothing denied.

He leans in, lips scraping my ear, voice a gunshot.

“Tell me whose pussy this is.”

I clench, half in rage, half in want.

“You wish. It’s just on loan, asshole.”

He laughs—dark, delirious, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.

“Fuck, you’re stubborn. You know I’m going to win, right? Every time, princess.”

It gets to me, it always does.

The petnames, the taunts, the reminder that he’d rather die than let me walk away as anything but his equal—or his rival.

“You’re not even close. The minute I come, your brain’s going to short-circuit and you’re gonna beg for mercy.”

He bares his teeth—animal, unhinged.

“Then do it. Show me.”

He shifts, angle changing, and now every thrust is direct, targeted, designed to crush me to the headboard. My legs squeeze tighter, hips grinding back, chasing every sensation because the second I give up control, he’ll own me for the rest of the night.

The pressure builds, heat winding up in my core, shuddering through my legs, chest, fingertips until I can’t even remember the words for “enough.” He pounds into me, not cruel but unrepentant, determined to wear me out until there’s nothing left but the afterimage of his cock and the wreck of my pulse.

We tangle—limbs, tongues, muffled curses and muffled moans. I rake his back bloody, dig my heels into his ass, bite his shoulder until he leaves another necklace of bruises down my throat in payback.

The world narrows to the rhythm—slam, grind, catch, release. The air hums with friction, sweat, and the kind of wantthat exists only between addicts and their poison. I ride it, ride him, muscles burning, lungs crushed, vision going weird at the edges. The slap of skin, the crash of bodies—it’s a symphony, fuck the neighbors, fuck the world outside.

He whispers then, right when he can tell I’m at the brink:

“You’re mine, Aurora. Say it. Fucking say it?—”

I choke, body clenching down, every muscle ratcheted tight, and then the orgasm detonates—violent, total, the kind of orgasm that splits atoms and leaves me wrecked for days.

“Y-Y-Yours.”