Page 109 of Game Over

“You can take it,” he says, voice thick with desire. “You can take everything I give you.”

Ryker’s rhythm becomes relentless, each thrust driving deeper than the last. The vibrator against my clit buzzes with merciless intensity. At the same time, his cock fills me completely, the metal piercing creating friction against spots inside me. The fullness in my ass from the prop gun shifts with each of his movements.

“I’m so close,” I gasp, my voice breaking as the pressure builds. Every muscle in my body tightens, preparing for release.

“That’s it, Mischief,” he growls behind the mask, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. “Come for me. Come around my cock while I fill both your holes.”

The vibrator increases in intensity against my swollen clit, and I cry out, teetering on the edge. His thrusts become harder, more desperate, the piercing dragging across my g-spot with each withdrawal.

Just as the first waves of orgasm begin to crash through me, Ryker leans close to my ear, his breath hot against my skin even through the mask.

“It’s real, Kira,” he admits. “The gun. It’s real. Safety’s on, but one wrong move...”

My mind explodes with the revelation, terror, and forbidden excitement colliding in my brain. The knowledge that a real weapon is inside me—that Ryker has placed something so dangerous in such an intimate place—sends me careening over the edge. My orgasm hits with violent intensity, my inner walls clamping down on his cock as my entire body trembles.

“Oh god, Ryker!” I scream, not caring if anyone could hear us in this vast jungle. My climax rips through me with devastating force, each pulse more powerful than the last. The danger, the taboo, the complete surrender—it all converges into the most intense pleasure I’ve ever experienced.

I collapse against the tree root, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of my orgasm. As the waves of pleasure gradually subside, Ryker carefully removes the gun. This movement sends one final shudder through my oversensitized body. With equal gentleness, he pulls his cock out of me, and I feel suddenly empty, vulnerable in the aftermath of what we’ve just done.

“Shh,” he purrs, his arms encircling me as I whimper from the loss. “I’ve got you.”

Without the Ghost mask obscuring his face, I can see the raw emotion in his eyes—that rare vulnerability he shows only to me. He lifts me effortlessly into his arms, cradling me against his chest like I’m something precious. My head falls naturally into the crook of his neck, and I breathe in his scent—sweat, arousal, and that distinctive cologne he wears.

“Where are we going?” I murmur, my voice hoarse from screaming.

“You’ll see,” he says, that familiar hint of mystery returning to his tone.

He carries me deeper into the jungle, following a path I hadn’t noticed before. The forest opens into a small clearing, and I gasp at what I see. Nestled between flowering bushes and sheltered by a natural canopy of vines, Ryker has created a sanctuary. Dozens of candles flicker in the approaching dusk, casting golden light across a plush blanket spread on the ground. Beside it sits a wicker basket, an ice bucket with champagne, and scattered rose petals.

“What is this?” I ask as he gently lowers me onto the blanket.

Ryker’s eyes soften as he kneels beside me, reaching for the champagne. “Happy anniversary, Mischief.”

Anniversary. The word hits me with unexpected force. It has been one year since he took me from that convention. One year since my old life ended and this strange new existence began.

“You remembered,” I say, my voice catching.

“Of course I did.” He pops the cork and pours two glasses. “One year since I saved you from a life too small for you.”

I accept the flute he offers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The cool glass against my heated skin grounds me in this moment. One year. Three hundred sixty-five days of being Ryker’s obsession, lover, everything.

“Most people celebrate meeting their partner for the first time,” I say, sipping the bubbling champagne. “Not kidnapping them.”

Ryker’s laugh is dark and genuine. “We’re not most people, Kira.”

That’s certainly true. Nothing about us has ever been normal. From the first moment he tracked me through that convention hall to now—naked in a jungle clearing after he just fucked me with a gun inside me. Normal people don’t do these things. Normal people don’t feel what I feel.

“No, we’re not,” I agree, leaning into his touch as he follows the curve of my shoulder. “Normal people would call this Stockholm Syndrome.”

“And what do you call it?” he asks.

I look at the effort he’s made—the candles, the champagne, the flowers—all to commemorate the day he stole me away. It became one of the most traumatic days of my life. It eventually led to Ryker finding his humanity and to us falling in love.

I stare into my champagne glass as the bubbles rise and burst. How do I define what we’ve become? What started as a nightmare has transformed into something I never imagined.

“I call it ours,” I finally say, meeting his gaze. “Just ours.”

Ryker’s eyes soften in that way that still surprises me—a tenderness that exists alongside all his darkness. He reaches out, tracing his thumb along my jawline.

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