Page 66 of Torched Spades

Then I want to send both up in flames and do it all over again.

Before she can choke out anything else, I pull out and flip her over. Grabbing the back of her thighs, I push her knees toward her chest, presenting myself with my prize. It’s all I can do not to groan at the sight of her—completely bare and dripping wet.

Wet forme.

Johnny Malone.

The thought drives a surge of madness through me. It balances on the edge of blind lust and dark possession, ricocheting between two versions of me.

And the one that wins is the one she should fear the most.

I smile, not a pleasant, comforting smile, but one borne of darkness and bathed in sin. As if sensing the shift, Becca tenses and tries to squirm out of my hold, but my grip is strong and my intent even stronger. I spread her thighs even wider. Lowering my head, I plunge my tongue inside her, circling her hole and tasting her from the inside out.

Becca inhales a sharp breath, gagging on her own panties. Without stopping, I reach up and tug them from her mouth before tossing them across the room.

“Oh, God!” A gush of pussy juice fills my mouth as she grinds against my face, desperately trying to fuck my tongue. Any other day, I might have let her just to watch her unravel. But today, I want more than submission.

I want her fucking wings.

Sliding my tongue up her pussy, I lash at her clit before capturing it between my teeth. Her back arches off the desk with a tortured scream, and my smile darkens even more. Surrounded by her sweet scent, I suck harder. Every time she teeters on the edge, the Devil inside me draws fire, pulling back and denying her release only to start over again.

Bite. Suck. Lick.

Over and over until Becca is clawing the desk, her nails scratching the wood as she cries.

Her fingers twist in my hair, pulling hard in frustration. “You son of a bitch!”

“Beg me.”

“Fuck you!”

I blow on her clit. “Beg me.”

She cries out, her chin tipping back in surrender. “Christ, fine! Please!”

I raise an eyebrow.

After a few seconds of silence, Becca glances up at me, hatred flashing in those baby blues. “Please make me come,Johnny,” she hisses.

Fuck, I'll never tire of hearing her beg my name.

“Be careful what you ask for,cara mia.”

This time I show no mercy. I don't just drive her over the edge; I send her careening, toes curled, into oncoming traffic without a goddamn seatbelt. She’s still drowning in wave after wave of aftershocks when I drag her to the edge of the desk and thrust into her.

“Oh, God, Johnny!”

My rhythm is punishing, its brutality exorcizing every ghost that haunts me. I piston into her tight pussy, my mind finally calm. No flames. No screams. No lies. Just raw fucking and moans that are music to my ears.

As my orgasm builds, so do her cries, and she comes again. The sharp sound in my ear, along with her grip on my dick, sends me over the edge, and I come with a roar.

“Scusami se sono così.”Digging my fingers into her hips, I pump every last drop of cum into her until the storm calms. Spent, I brace one hand on the desk and slump forward, only then realizing I’ve done something completely out of character.

I lost control and fucked her bare.

I try to find the words to apologize, but I can’t. Because I’m not sorry. I didn’t bother with a condom because I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel her. I wanted to mark her. It was reckless and stupid, but I’m not a man used to playing by rules. It’s not an excuse, but then again, I rarely offer one.

As if hearing my thoughts, Becca opens her eyes and looks at me with a connection so familiar my heart stutters. For a moment, I see myself in those glazed eyes. Not Johnny Malone, the disgraced-fireman-turned-dockworker, but the man I used to be.