Page 126 of Victorious: Part 3

But I do.

I wait until the slow count of thirty, long enough to seem innocent, short enough to make him wait, then slide away fromthe table, drink in hand, smile plastered on like I’m not about to commit sin behind a locked door.

The moment I step into the bathroom, the door slams shut behind me, and I’m pinned against the wall so hard my spine rattles.

“Jesus, Alpha—”

He crashes into me, mouth seizing mine, lips brutal, tongue claiming, hands already under my wedding dress like he’s trying to fistfight the fabric off my body.

“Don’t‘Jesus’me now,” he growls. “Not after you spent the entire goddamn reception giving me those eyes.”

I shove his chest hard. “You’re the one who’s been edging me with your stupid speeches and soft looks all day, like you didn’t plan on wrecking me the first chance you got.”

His grin is all teeth. “Baby, I’ve been hard since the fucking vows.” He grabs my hips, lifting me effortlessly, shoving me back against the tiles, and I slap him across the face with force. His head snaps to the side as the crack echoes.

His eyes flare wide as a slow grin crosses his face. “Do that again.”

So I do.

My palm stings with the force of the blow.

This time, he snarls. With one hand holding my ass, the other wraps around my throat, not tight, just enough to hold me still as he presses his forehead to mine. “You’re a menace.”

“You married it, baby.”

He groans like I’m pain and pleasure wrapped into one unholy package, then bites my lower lip so hard I taste blood.

I arch against him, clawing at his jacket, my hands wild and greedy. “My dress is too tight,” I pant.

“Don’t need the dress,” he snaps. “I just need you.” He shoves the skirt up, bunching the satin at my waist, and sliding the zipper on my back halfway down before he gives up entirely likea man deranged. My dress is half hanging off. His hand finds my panties, white lace, barely there, and he yanks them down. They don’t even hit the floor before he’s stuffing them in his jacket pocket like a trophy. “I’m keeping these.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always do,” he replies as he moves to his slacks, pulling out his cock.

I bite my bottom lip, staring at his thick and hard length as he moves back in, his hands grabbing at my ass to hoist me back up.

“Not waiting till tonight. I just need to feel you.” Then he thrusts in hard, and I nearly scream. My head hits the wall, my breath stolen when he fills me completely.

“Oh my God—”

“Say my fucking name,” he growls.

“Alpha! Fuck, Alpha, you—”

“That’s right. Say it louder, Little Lamb.” He starts pounding into me, every thrust sending me higher, my back scraping the cold tile, my nails clawing at his shoulders. His grip on my thighs tightens until I’m sure there’ll be bruises, but I want them.

I need them.

He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in like I’m oxygen after a war.

“You feel like fucking home,” he rasps. “You drive me fucking insane.”

I laugh, breathless, hysterical, because the feeling is mutual.

“You love it.”

“I love you.”