Page 37 of The Highwaymen

“Fuck, Stu, give me a minute,” I panted. The room was still spinning from my concussion and the endorphin rush. “I can barely fucking stand.”

“I'll hold you up.”

Stu grabbed a small bottle of hand lotion from the sink, squirted a generous amount into his palm. He shoved his jeans down just enough to free his thick, angry-looking erection. Stroking the lotion over his shaft, he notched the blunt head against my loosened hole.

Stu's cock speared into me in one hard, deep thrust that punched the air from my lungs. I cried out, scrabbling at the sink for purchase as he hilted himself inside me. He was so thick, splitting me wide open, the burn of the stretch making my eyes water.

Stu grunted and rolled his hips, grinding his cock deeper.

I whimpered, my over-sensitive hole clenching around him. It was too much, too soon after coming, but I endured it because I needed to feel something besides the awful helpless fear I’d felt in that junkyard. I needed to feelhim.

Stu set a punishing pace, slamming into me hard enough to rattle my teeth. Each brutal thrust nailed my prostate dead-on, sending white-hot sparks of pleasure zinging up my spine. My spent cock twitched against my stomach, valiantly trying to rise again.

“Who do you belong to?” Stu's hand closed around my throat, squeezing just hard enough to make me light-headed.

I managed a ragged gasp. “You. I belong to you, Stu.”

His grip tightened, cutting off my air. “Damn right you do. Don't you ever fucking forget it.”

Black spots swam in my vision as Stu pounded into me, his cock driving so deep I swore I could feel it in my throat. My head throbbed in time with his brutal thrusts, the pain blurring into dark, twisted pleasure.

Distantly, I heard myself making desperate, broken sounds, wordless animalistic noises punched out of me with each slam of Stu's hips. I scrabbled weakly at his wrist, not trying to break his grip, just holding on as he used me.

“Take it,” Stu growled, loosening his hand just enough to let me suck in a thin, wheezing breath. “Fuckin' take what I give you.”

I did. I took every punishing inch, every brutal thrust, my body going lax and pliant in complete submission. Stu could do anything he wanted to me in that moment and I would let him. I craved it, ached for it, needed him to take me apart and put me back together again.

Stu's hand closed around my throat again as his hips snapped forward, burying his cock to the hilt inside me. I felt his hot breath on my neck, his stubble scraping my skin as he mouthed at my racing pulse.

“Gonna fill this tight ass up,” he grunted. “Mark you up inside, make you mine.”

I whined high in my throat, clenching desperately around his pistoning cock. Stu groaned like a wounded animal, his grip tightening until starbursts exploded behind my eyes.

With one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep and stilled. I felt the hot rush of his release painting my insides, marking me as his. Stu shuddered and cursed, his hand falling away from my abused throat as he slumped against my back, breathing hard.

I gulped in huge lungfuls of air, my head swimming from oxygen deprivation and the lingering effects of the concussion. My whole body felt wrung out and used, like an old dishrag. But beneath the soreness was a bone-deep satisfaction, a sense of rightness.

I belonged to Stu. He'd claimed me, body and soul. Bound us together with violence and depravity and something that might be love, if either of us were capable of such a thing.

We stayed like that for a long moment, Stu draped over my back as we both struggled to catch our breath. Finally, he pulled out. I whimpered at the sudden emptiness, clenching uselessly around nothing. The slick slide of his cum dribbled down the backs of my thighs.

Stu tucked himself away and did up his jeans, then roughly yanked mine back into place, ignoring my hiss of discomfort.

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered gruffly. “We need to get moving.”

I pushed myself up on trembling arms and turned on the tap, splashing water on my face.

Stu watched me in the mirror as I tried to clean myself up, his expression inscrutable. I met his gaze, noting the fresh bruises darkening on my throat in the shape of his fingers. My ass and jaw ached, along with the rest of me, but it was a satisfying sort of pain. It meant I was his.

The sun was highin the sky by the time we hit the highway heading north on I-15, the endless stretch of blacktop shimmering with mirages in the desert heat. Jamie dozed fitfully in the passenger seat beside me, his long legs sprawled and his head lolling against the window. Dried blood still crusted his hair, the stitched gash at his temple red and angry looking.

I glanced over at him. Like the rest of us, he’d left his bloody clothes at the vet’s to be tossed in the incinerator, trading them out for a set of bland scrubs. My gut twisted with an unfamiliar emotion. Guilt, maybe. Or somethingsofter, more dangerous. Something I couldn't afford to examine too closely.

I never should have let things go this far with the kid. Never should have let myself get attached. It was a fucking liability in my line of work. The kind of weakness that got you dead or locked up for life.

I was a killer. Had been for a long damn time now. Spilling blood came as naturally to me as breathing. But I'd always had rules. Lines I didn't cross. Killing was business, nothing more. I didn't mix it with pleasure.

Until Jamie. The crazy little fucker blurred all my lines, smashed right through every wall I'd ever put up. Made me want things I had no right wanting. Made me feel things I didn't know I was still capable of feeling.

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