Page 82 of Westin

She cries out as our bodies meet. Rough, hard. Almost violent.

“You left the first time we met,” she cries out.

I slam into her again, pulling her head back to look down into her eyes. “I should have stayed. I should have taken you upstairs and let them all hear me fuck you.”

My fingers work her clit, and she comes again. It’s so easy together, pleasure tumbling out without even trying. This time, her orgasm is short and quick, pumping around my cock.

I fuck her through it, holding her down by the hair. My own orgasm draws closer and closer until I can’t hold it back anymore.

I thrust to the hilt and come hard as my brain explodes in full color. There’s nothing in the world that feels as good as coming inside her. Once she’s mine, I’m going to keep her up all night.

We collapse, my body over hers. It takes a second for me to realize what I did.

“No,” I rasp. “When is your period due?”

“Three days,” she says, forehead creased. “It’s fine, I think. I shouldn’t get pregnant.”

We’re playing with fire. She’s married, but she’s not sleeping with her husband, so if she gets pregnant, he’ll know it was by another man. I highly doubt their agreement to not be monogamous will keep him from losing his shit.

She wriggles under me, turning over. Her fingertips graze my face.

“It’s okay, Westin,” she whispers.

What does it matter anyway? If she gets pregnant, I’ll take her away before she shows. Tonight, drunk off whiskey and Diane, that seems like a real plan.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Good. Really relaxed,” she murmurs, eyes hazy. “I could sleep for days.”

“I’m not done, darling. Get on your knees,” I say, rising to my feet. “We’re just getting started.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DIANE

I’m tender from his cock. He feels big and hard and hungry inside me. It scratches an itch I’ve had since we first slept together. He can do whatever he wants with me; I just want to ache tomorrow.

“Go on, get on your knees,” he says. “I thought you were a good girl.”

Those words in that deep voice make me scramble to my knees on the bed. The corner of his mouth jerks up.

“I can’t put my name on you,” he says, cocking his head. “If I could, I’d make good on my threat to brand your ass. But that doesn’t mean I can’t put my name in you.”

I do a double take, wide eyes following him as he goes to the closet. When he returns, he carries a box that he places on the dresser. He takes something out and tosses it onto the quilt.

A little bottle of lube. A glass bulb with a silver flared top.

My stomach swoops. I know what that is, and I know where it goes. My mouth is dry as I lick my lips, watching him closely. He uncaps the bottle, spills the lube into his palm, and rubs it over the plug.

“On your knees, darling,” he says. “Face in the bed, ass up.”

“Is your…name on that?” I whisper, hesitating.

He flips it over, revealing the top. It’s silver and adorned with what looks like a brand. The letters are in black: WRQ.

“You made that for me.” I look up at him.

“All of it was made for you,” he says, kneeling one leg on the bed. “There seems to be some dispute over who you belong to, and I intend to put that to rest.”

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