Page 44 of The Colour of Revenge

The sound of his zip slices through the air. The rustle of denim follows, his jeans shoved down his thighs. Then his body is back—hot, hard, unrelenting—his presence wrapping around me like a noose and a lifeline all at once.

"I want to watch my cum drip from your sweet little pussy." His voice is a rasp against my ear, his breath a sinful caress. "Tell me I can do that."

"Yes," I moan, rolling my hips back, desperate for more for him.

His lips ghost over the shell of my ear. "Once I have you, Princess, you're mine. Iownyou."

A violent shiver races down my spine, and I hate how much I love it. Ishouldn'twant to be owned by another man—not after everything I've been through. But this is Nate.With him, it's different.

I already know thatbeing hiswould be better than anything I've ever dared to dream.

"Have me," I breathe, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

A guttural sound rumbles from his chest. He grips his cock, dragging the head through my slickness, circling my entrance—taunting, teasing, controlling.

Then he slams into me in one powerful thrust.

A choked cry rips from my throat as my body stretches to take him, every inch of him forcing me open, commanding my submission.

"Oh,fuck," he groans, pulling out almost all the way before spearing back inside me. His thighs press tight against mine, his grip bruising on my hips like he needs toownevery inch of me.

"Nate!" His name rips from my lips, half plea, half prayer.

One of his hand’s snakes around my throat, fingers tightening—not too much, just enough to steal my breath, to make me lightheaded with pleasure. He pulls me back, peeling me away from the wall until I'm upright, my back flush against his chest.

He pistons inside me, each brutal thrust striking some deep, devastating place. His grip on my throat tightens slightly, and white-hot pleasure crashes over me, stars blooming behind my closed eyelids.

"You're fuckingmine," he growls, his voice a razor's edge of possession and lust.

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes."

"Come for me, Carina."

The command unravels me. His free hand snakes between my thighs, his fingers finding my clit—one sharp pinch, one perfect stroke, and I shatter.

My orgasm detonates a tidal wave of pleasure consuming me.

Before the aftershocks subside, Nate yanks out, his movements swift and decisive. In a blur, he spins me to face him, my back colliding with the cool wall. His grip is ironclad as he lifts me effortlessly, wrapping my legs around his waist.

And then he thrusts into me again—deeper this time, brutal in his need, inourneed.

"Oh, God," I sob, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"Not God, but I appreciate the compliment," he smirks, breaking through the intoxicating intensity with a flash of arrogance.

He pulls out just to slam back in, fucking me into the wall, using it for leverage. One of his hands slides under my shirt, finding my breast and squeezing roughly. I arch into him, my body his to mould, break apart, and worship.

And fuck—I want all of it.

“Nate!”

His hips continue a punishing pace, his hands gripping my thighs with enough force to leave bruises. Each deep thrust sends pleasure surging higher, pushing me closer to the edge. My body trembles as a third orgasm rips through me, raw and all-consuming. I cry out; my voice is hoarse from the pleasure wracking my body.

Nate isn't far behind. A deep growl rumbles from his chest as he buries himself inside me, his release hot and possessive, spilling deep into my core. His breathing is ragged against my neck, his hands still holding me tight like he can't bear to let go.

"You're a fucking goddess," he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

The haze of pleasure lingers, but reality slams into me like a cold slap. The body. The blood. The inevitable arrival of the cops.