Page 153 of Picture Perfect

"Mine," I breathe against her flushed skin. My mouth claims hers again, a heathen's kiss filled with all the darkness and light that churn within me. She's beautiful, she's broken, she's everything. And in this moment, she's unequivocally mine.

I pull out and quickly turn her over, disregarding her muffled protests. With Snowflake on her hands and knees, I spread her thighs wider, reveling in the sight of her exposed pussy. I run my hands over her back, tracing the curves and dips, feeling her muscles tense and relax under my touch. With a sharp slap to her ass, I thrust back into her, causing her to arch her back and cry out in pleasure.

The sound of skin slapping echoes in the room as our bodies move together in a passionate frenzy. This need for her—this raw carnal urge—is more than just a physical yearning. She's sopping wet, quivering around my length.

I can't deny that I'm absolutely lost in this moment, in her, in us. Her scent, her taste, her touch—it all feels so intoxicating, overwhelming. I need to claim her, to mark her, and the thought only fuels my desire. I spank her harder, my hand leaving a stinging imprint on her pale skin. She whimpers, a sound that's both frightened and filled with the same rawness I feel coursing through me.

Again. Again. Again.

My hips move in a relentless rhythm, each thrust harder than the last. I'm not gentle, I can't be. She's so fucking wet, her pussy is gripping me like a vice. I'm not done with her yet; she's only just begun to feel the brunt of what I feel for her.

Her moans fill the air as she succumbs to the pleasure, her body shaking beneath mine. My thrusts become more erratic, her cries prompting me to lose control. Driven by the need to taste her submission, I pull out and flip her onto her back.

I’m sliding back home before she even has a chance to cry out. I plaster my body over hers, releasing her hands from Saint’s hold and burying them in my hair.

“Dre…”

“You’re such a good girl, Snowflake. So good. Are you gonna cream my cock like the pretty little slut you are?”

“Yes!”

“You hold it. You don’t come until I say. Do you understand?”

She whimpers, but I feel her nodding against my cheek. The crescendo builds within her, a melody of whimpers and gasps that rises above the symphony of our bodies. Snowflake's insides flutter around me, a vice-like grip that pulls at my restraint.

"Let go, Snowflake," I command, my voice a ragged whisper. "Now."

Her release crashes over her, a torrent of ecstasy that shatters the silence with her cry. The sound is pure, unadulterated bliss, and it's the final note that shreds my control. I surrender to the pulsing pleasure, my climax ripping through me as I spill myself into her.

"Fuck, Dre..." Chess pants from beside us, his voice laced with awe and exhaustion.

I barely hear him, my senses consumed by the aftershocks that quake through my frame. My breaths come in heavy heaves, mingling with Snowflake's soft sobs of pleasure. Saint's hands run through her hair as we all succumb to the gravity pulling us down.

We collapse together in a tangle of limbs, a heap of spent desires and quivering flesh. The room is thick with the heat of our lust, the air a tangible weight against our cooling skin. I press my forehead to Snowflake's, my blue eyes locking onto her green ones, seeing the wild storm they've weathered.

"Are you... okay?" It's a whisper meant only for her, a drop of tenderness in the ocean of our debauchery.

She nods, a lazy smile curving her lips. "Never better," she murmurs, and the sincerity in her voice wraps around my heart like a vow.

"Good." The word is a rasp, filled with the raw edge of emotion I rarely let show. I draw her close, sealing the space between us with a kiss, a gentle brush that speaks of protectiveness and possession.

Saint shifts beside us, his dark curls matted to his forehead as he catches his breath. Chess leans back against the headboard, hazel eyes half-lidded but shining with a mischievous light that never quite fades.

"Next time," Chess starts, his grin infectious even as he fights off the fatigue, "we pace ourselves."

"Speak for yourself," Saint counters, his voice still carrying that commanding timbre that so often defines him.

I’m never letting her go.

Chapter sixty-seven

Addy

The air clings to my skin, heavy with the scent of us. We're a mess of limbs and exhaustion, enmeshed in a tangle of sweat-slicked bodies on my bed. My chest heaves, my heart thunders—a wild thing caged within my ribs. The words hang between us, vibrant and terrifying in their truth. "I love you," I whispered to Chess, and with each second that ticks by, it feels more real, more frightening.

But he said it back.

I can feel his gaze on me, those hazel eyes that seem to see right through the walls I've built. Chess doesn't say anything, but his fingers trail along my arm in silent acknowledgment, a promise or perhaps a question—his touch speaks volumes more than words ever could.

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