Page 68 of The Colour of Revenge

"I think you deserve to come, don't you?"

My head jerks in a frantic nod, anticipation coiling tight in my stomach.

His fingers curl again, pressing against that perfect spot, his thumb teasing my clit. The pressure is precise and overwhelming, and I don't stand a chance—pleasure detonates inside me, white-hot and all-consuming.

I bury my face in the crook of Nate's neck, muffling the soft, desperate moan that escapes my lips. My body shudders, every muscle seizing with the force of my release.

By the time his fingers slip from me, I'm aching, empty, my skin hypersensitive and still craving more.

The waitress returns with the bill, completely oblivious to the way my thighs are still trembling.

Nate pays without even glancing at the total.

Then, before I can recover, he grabs my hand, pulling me from the seat and dragging me toward the car.

The tension between us is electric—a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Every glance we exchange is heated, our bodies already moving ahead of our minds.

By the time we reach my house, Nate's urgency is palpable. He's out of the car before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, slamming my door shut and pulling me out.

He shoves me back against the car, his lips crashing into mine.

The kiss is rough, bruising, and possessive.

I meet him with equal fervour, my hands roaming his body, memorising the hard lines of his shoulders and the tense muscles in his back.

We stumble up the driveway, unable to stop, unwilling to let go.

I fumble with my keys, cursing when they slip through my fingers. My hands are shaking. Nate chuckles, the sound dark and knowing, before I finally shove the key into the lock.

The door swings open.

As soon as it clicks shut behind us, he lifts me off the floor, pressing me against it.

His mouth devours me, his tongue sweeping past my lips as his hands shove my dress up higher, baring my skin to the cool air.

My head tilts back, hitting the door as I writhe against him, my body aching, starving for what's coming.

One of his hands supports me, fingers digging into my thighs, while the other frees himself from his trousers.

Then, his lips trail to my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

"Eventually, I'll fuck you in a bed," he murmurs, voice thick with promise, "and I'll take my time with you. Worship you. But now is not that time."

Before I can even process his words, he drives into me.

A sharp cry escapes me, my body stretching, moulding around his thick length.

The burn is sharp, exquisite.

He stills for a second, breathing heavily, before pushing deeper.

"You were made to take my cock, Princess." His voice is low, rough, edged with pure possession.

Each thrust is deep, brutal, and demanding.

The roughness of the door digs into my back, the contrast between pain and pleasure sending sharp jolts of arousal through me.