Page 69 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter sixty-nine

T he chair is too nice. The kind you sink into. Everything smells like leather and ambition.

I should be reviewing the files Grayson handed me, coded for discretion. Quietly rotting departments. But all I can think about is the way he sat me at the edge of his desk not thirty minutes ago. How his mouth left me soaked and trembling and swollen. And aching.

He didn’t fuck me. On purpose. Because Grayson is patient. A tiger in the tall grass. He likes me needy. Raw. Thinking about him long after he’s left the room.

The thought makes me cross my legs. And then hiss. Because it doesn’t help .

There’s a knock. I don’t answer.

The door opens anyway. Brooks.

The look he gives me says he knows exactly what happened. Probably because his father texted him something smug and half-coded. She tastes like ambrosia.

He shuts the door behind him, turns the lock, and takes one slow step forward.

“You’re flushed,” he murmurs.

“I’m busy,” I lie.

“You’re still wet from him.”

I hold his stare.

“I can smell it,” he says, moving in. “And I don’t think you’re done.”

I lean back in the chair, slowly spreading my legs. Just a little. Enough.

“I’m not,” I whisper.

Brooks growls, low and dangerous. His hand goes to his belt, but he doesn’t drop his gaze.

“Show me the garters,” he says.

I lift my skirt without hesitation. Lace. Black. Straps and silk. Still visibly wet.

His control flies out the window overlooking the city. My men snap faster than the garters.

I don’t remember standing. Only that I’m suddenly pressed over the desk, skirt shoved to my waist, heels braced wide.

He runs a palm up the back of my thigh, follows the strap to where it hooks, then yanks my panties down and groans .

“You’re soaked.”

“You gonna fix that or just narrate it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just thrusts into me in one hard, deep stroke that knocks the wind out of me.

“Jesus, Brooks…”

“No. Say it,” he grits out, holding still, balls deep. “Tell me who’s inside you.”

“You are,” I gasp. “Fuck, you are.”

He moves. Brutal and perfect. One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I’ll wear his fingerprints.

All I can think is I’m glad his dad’s size didn’t skip a generation. Because damn.

I will never walk right for the rest of my life. In my old age, I’ll be that sweet (I hope) bowlegged old lady.

I don’t notice him reaching into his pocket for his phone. I hear the snick of the camera shutter.

While still moving inside me, he types with one hand.

To: Grayson

She showed me the garters. I’m home.

[Attaches photo of said garters, as I get pounded into the desk.]

I notice he discreetly makes sure he is buried inside me, as to not send his dad a dick pic.

A beat later, his screen lights up again.

You said it’s yours now.

Funny. You still look ours. Mark her. Send her back to work. And show her this.

Brooks leans over, biting gently at my shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

And then he fucks me even harder.