Page 50 of Owned In Misty Mountain

My girls wave and hoot as he storms out of the bar with me slungover him like a prize.

“You’re not even letting me walk?” I gasp.

“Nope.”

He smacks my ass.

I moan.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re dripping.”

“Maybe I like being hauled around.”

He growls. “You’ll like what comes next more.”

Twenty One

Mike

She’s too quiet.

That’s how I know she’s wet as fuck.

She’s sitting next to me in the truck, legs pressed together, breathing uneven, trying to act like I didn’t just throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of a bar full of people who now know exactly what’s about to happen.

My fingers flex on the wheel.

“You good?” I ask, voice low.

She hums. “You’re gonna wreck the truck if you keep gripping it like that.”

I cut her a look.

She grins. “Or maybe you’ll just wreck me instead.”

I nearly swerve off the road.

—-

By the time we hit the driveway, I’m hard enough to punch through drywall. She starts to unbuckle.

“Don’t move,” I growl.

She freezes.

I kill the engine. Climb out. Stalk around. Open her door.

Then I lift her again.

She gasps as I haul her against my chest, bridal-style this time, and stomp up the porch like a man with one purpose.

Claim. Breed. Own.

—-

The second the door shuts, I drop her on the couch.

She bounces once, eyes wide.

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