Page 50 of Under Fyre

Forcing her leg up, stretching her open, I thrust into her hot core. She gasps, scratches my leg.

“Who?”

“Every last one of them.”

“Who?” Louder now. She bucks back, speeding up my pace, forcing me to fuck her even harder.

“All those sick fucks who think they’re above the law. The ones who take what isn’t theirs. Who shatter the lives of all the young souls they hurt. Men like Peter Monroe, and Red Hutchins. Them, Charlotte.Them.”

I start massaging her clit, and she turns her head to kiss me. I lose myself in her lips, both hot and wet and so fucking demanding. Her tongue wrestles mine, but I claim her mouth as surely as I claim her pussy.

I’m ready to come again. I lean back, staring wordlessly at her as I slow my thrusts, as I take my time.

She groans, reaches between us, grabs my balls.

I shudder when she starts massaging me, when her fingers tease their way up to my hole.

She presses against me, ending me.

I come violently inside her, ramming deep and hard, filling her with my seed.

Her eyes flutter, but she never breaks eye contact. I buck into her again, the pressure from her fingertip shattering me. Ducking my head forward, I grab her mouth in a rough kiss, tasting blood a second later. When I can’t fuck her anymore, when my muscles are too tight, she starts rocking into me.

I strum her clit furiously, and she tries to stop me, tries to pull me away. But a second later she breaks away from our kiss, letting out a hollow cry as her body convulses.

I pull out, covering her clit with the last drops of my come, and massage that into her engorged nub.

Her back arches off the bed, her mouth open, her cheeks hollow. She keeps trying to drag my hand away, to get me to stop

But I told her once before—I won’t.

I slam my fingers into her clenching pussy, fucking her relentlessly as she orgasms.

She’s drawing runnels through the flesh of my wrist. Blood taints the air with its metallic scent. But I keep pounding my fingers into her.

Her thighs snap closed, trapping my fingers deep inside her as a second orgasm tears through her body. Hot, slick wetness coats my fingers, drips down my hand. She gushes against me, mewling and whimpering like a wounded animal, her hands white-knuckled, not an inch of her spine touching the mattress.

When she finally collapses, her face is sheened with sweat. Her head rolls on a limp neck, her eyes wide, unfocused, pupils filling her irises.

I stroke her pussy, slip my fingertips inside her, teasing her. She shudders, whispers, “Please.”

So I kiss her again.

I fuck her again.

And when she’s wrecked and ruined, bleeding sweat, I tell her I love her.

When she doesn’t acknowledge me, when she says nothing in return, I think she must not have heard me. It’s okay. I’ll tell her every day for the rest of our lives.

But then she kisses me, long and deep, and nuzzles her head into my neck, and murmurs, “I love you too.”

My swelling heart bursts.

I swallow that blighted pain and kiss her again, softly, gently. I kiss her until I’m too exhausted to kiss her anymore, then I drag the blanket off the floor, wrap us in it, and rock her to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Charlotte

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