Page 98 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“I’ve wanted you here,” he murmurs against my throat, his breath hot against my pulse point. “In my bed, in my space. Mine completely.”

“I’ve been yours,” I whisper back, my fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him close.

“Not like this.” He pulls back to look at me, eyes intense in the golden afternoon light. “Not chosen. Not free.”

My blouse falls away, followed by my pants, until I’m standing before him in nothing but black lace that was chosen specifically with this moment in mind. He takes his time looking at me, drinking in every curve and hollow like he’s memorizing me.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Dove.”

I reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion, my palms immediately going to map the familiar territory of his chest. The muscles flex under my touch, and I can feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Show me,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “Show me what it means to be yours when I choose it.”

He lifts me onto the bed with reverent hands, following me down until his body covers mine. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I arch beneath him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything.

“Always so ready for me,” he growls against my skin. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready for him.

“Only for you,” I breathe, the words catching in my throat as his fingers slide deeper, finding that perfect spot that makes my back arch involuntarily. His thumb finds my clit, and the first touch sends electricity shooting through my nerve endings. He moves in slow, deliberate circles, each pass building the tension coiling tight in my belly. My thighs start to tremble against his hand, and I can feel myself getting wetter with each stroke, my body opening for him like it was designed for his touch alone.

When he positions his dick at my entrance, I can feel the heat of him, thick and hard and perfect. He pushes in slowly—so slowly I can feel every ridge, every vein as he stretches me open. My breath hitches as he fills me inch by devastating inch, my body accommodating his size with a sweet burn that borders on too much.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sinks deeper. The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, like he’s reshaping me from the inside out to fit him perfectly.

“I love you,” he says when he’s buried completely inside me, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between our lips. His voice is rough, almost broken with emotion. “I love you.”

The words send warmth flooding through my chest to mix with the heat building between my thighs. “I love you too,” I breathe, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper. “I’m all yours.”

He starts to move then, withdrawing almost completely before pushing back in with agonizing slowness. Each thrust is deliberate, measured, like he’s savoring every second of being inside me. My inner walls clench around him, trying to hold him, keep him, never let him go.

“So tight,” he groans against my mouth, his rhythm gradually building. “So perfect. Made for me.”

The friction is incredible, each drag of his length against my sensitive walls sending sparks of pleasure racing through my nervous system. I can feel myself getting wetter with each stroke, making it easier for him to slide deeper, hit that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

“Thatcher,” I gasp, my back arching as he hits that perfect angle. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me as pleasure builds like a storm in my belly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He captures my mouth in a kiss that’s all tongue and desperation, swallowing my moans as his pace increases incrementally. Each thrust drives me higher, closer to that edge I’m desperate to fall over.

When my orgasm finally crashes over me, it’s with his name tearing from my throat and his eyes locked on mine, intense and full of something that looks like worship. My whole body convulses around him, inner muscles clenching rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me.

The sight of me coming undone beneath him is his undoing. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chases his own release. When he comes, it’s with a broken sound against my skin, his body shuddering as he empties himself deep inside me, marking me as his in the most primal way possible.

We’re tangled together, skin slick with sweat and satisfaction, when my phone buzzes with a news alert. The sound is jarring in the peaceful aftermath, but I reach for it anyway.

“Blackridge University’s Student’s Death Ruled Accidental,” I read aloud, scanning the brief article. “Investigation concluded that Jack’s death was the result of accidental blunt force trauma sustained during a fall. No charges will be filed.”

I look up at Thatcher, something clicking into place in my mind like the final piece of a puzzle. “Thatcher… I can’t believe you did everything you did. From the beginning, you––”

Thatcher goes very still beneath me, his expression carefully neutral. “Rhea—”

I lean in to kiss him. I want to wipe away that worried expression on his face. I can’t blame him now that I know him. He doesn’t do anything small. He has no idea how to.

“You’re quite the stalker, and you are very persuasive,” I whisper against his lips.

Thatcher is quiet for a long moment, his eyes studying my face like he’s trying to find the right words to speak.

“Rhea… do you remember meeting me at that party with your––”

“We didn’t meet at the Halloween party. You were stalking me and freaking me out.”

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