Page 44 of The Vengeance You Crave

"Don't come."

"What?" she cries as if I just said the most bizarre thing she's ever heard.

"You do not come." Reaching forward, I slide my fingers into her hair and pull her head back. "You got that?" She attempts to nod. "Good, because you won't like what happens if you defy me."

"It gets worse?" she sasses.

"Don't test me, baby. I'm no longer an innocent fifteen-year-old boy. You have no idea what I'm capable of or all of the things I told myself I'd do to you if I ever saw you again."

My body moves without instruction from my brain as I thrust into her, chasing the release I so desperately need. It might have only been minutes ago that I blew a load in her mouth, but fuck, I need more.

I fear I need more than I'm ever going to be able to get when it comes to Peyton.

"Luca," she cries, her body surging forward, her feet leaving the floor with my forceful movements.

"I said." Thrust. "Don't." Thrust. "Come."

"Oh God," she cries, her fingers curling around the edge of the table, her grip so tight her knuckles turn white.

"Yesss," I hiss as my balls start to draw up. "For a slut, you've got a tight little cunt, baby."

"Argh," she grunts, her muscles tightening around me as if she's about to fall.

Not wanting to risk her getting what she wants, I pull out of her, flip her around and jack my cock until hot jets of cum coat her tits.

"Filthy fucking slut," I mutter as I rub the sticky mess into her skin.

She watches my movement, not saying a word as I mark her with my seed.

When I finally pull back, her eyes lift to mine. Her mask has dropped momentarily and it's the first time I see how she's really feeling.

Tears fill her eyes as she looks up at me. Her makeup is smeared everywhere, her hair a matted mess, and her skin red and patchy from her almost orgasm.

"I hate you," she hisses. "I thought—"

"That I'd forget all about it? I thought you knew me better than that, baby." Reaching behind me, I pull my jersey over my head, but if she thinks I'm going to pass it over to her so she can clean up, she's going to be bitterly disappointed. Instead, I throw it toward the bedroom and swipe up my bottle of vodka.

I take a swig while her eyes track my every movement. I hate the way she studies me, as if she knows me, as if she can see past the act, the bravado and see the broken, hurt little boy who's still hiding beneath it all.

"Can I?" she asks, holding her hand out.

I stare at it for a beat, considering if I'm willing to share. But one glance at her spunk-covered tits and I pass it over.

We're so far from done right now, something tells me that she's going to need it.

"Thank you," she whispers, lifting it to her once red lips, swallowing down shot after shot.

Reaching up, I run my fingers through my hair, tracking my eyes down the smooth column of her neck, over the swell of her breasts and the indent of her waist.

Fuck, she's beautiful.

"What?" she barks, her eyes narrowing in frustration.

"Just taking in the changes."

"The biggest ones are on the inside," she confesses.

"Fucking tell me about it."