Page 84 of Doomed
“I want everyone to see,” he says, voice strained with effort. “How perfectly we fit. How beautiful you look, taking everything I have to give you. Keep your eyes on where we join,” Knox commands, his voice a harsh growl above me. “Watch me breed this perfect cunt.”
I can’t look away from our reflection—the obscene beauty of his cock disappearing inside me with each powerful thrust. The mirror shows everything: the flush spreading across my chest, the way my breasts sway with each impact, and most hypnotically, the place where our bodies connect.
“See how perfectly you take me?” His fingers dig into my hips, angling me slightly higher. “You were clearly designed to be filled with my cum.”
My inner walls clench around him involuntarily.
“That’s it,” he hisses, feeling my reaction. “Watch yourself come on my cock while everyone sees what a perfect little slut you are for me.”
His thumb finds my clit, circling with devastating precision. The sensation—his thick length stretching me from behind while I watch it happen—shatters my control. My orgasm crashes through me without warning, my pussy strangling his cock as waves of pleasure radiate outward.
“Fuck,” Knox groans, his rhythm faltering. “Take my cum deep. All of it. Every. Fucking. Drop.”
He slams into me one final time, holding himself flush against me as he comes inside me. I feel each throb as he fills me, marking me from within.
When he finally pulls out, I whimper at the emptiness. In the mirror, I can see the evidence of his claim beginning to leak from me. Knox slides two fingers through the mess, gathering the creamy mixture of his release and my arousal.
“Open,” he demands, bringing his coated fingers to my lips.
I part my lips without hesitation.
“Suck them clean,” he orders. “Taste us together.”
I close my lips around his fingers and suck, the flavor coating my tongue. Knox watches me with feral intensity, his eyes never leaving mine as I clean every trace from his skin.
Knox pulls me up from the platform, my legs trembling from our encounter. He turns me to face him, his blue mask now down around his neck to reveal his face as he stares down at me, those blue eyes threatening to drown me in their depths, and every time it takes my breath away.
“Bianca Hayes is mine,” he announces, his voice carrying across the entire chamber. “Mine for the next year and beyond.”
The room falls silent, all eyes on us. I should object. I should remind him and everyone watching that this is a game, that I’m not a possession to be claimed. That’s what Bianca three monthsago, before I met this man, would have done—the one who slapped him, who insisted she wasn’t interested, who repeatedly turned him away.
But I can’t form the words. Not when the evidence of my surrender is leaking down my thighs, and I’m humming from his touch.
God, how I tried to convince myself I didn’t like him. I created every possible excuse—he was arrogant, dangerous, a criminal, a player who would discard me the moment he got what he wanted. I told Michelle, I even told myself over and over, that Knox Blackwood was everything I should avoid.
“Say it,” Knox commands softly, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Tell them who you belong to.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. How many times had I insisted to him that I wasn’t interested? How many times had I walked away, rolled my eyes, rejected his advances?
“I’m yours,” I finally whisper, the admission both terrifying and liberating. “I’m yours, Knox.”
His answering smile is triumphant, possessive, but beneath it lies one thing I never would have expected to find—a glimpse of warmth that borders dangerously on tenderness.
28
KNOX
Idrum my fingers against the leather couch, jaw tight as I sip my whiskey in Purgatory’s VIP section. Twenty-four fucking hours. The Hunt’s “cooling off period” might be tradition, but right now, every minute feels like torture.
A blonde in silver sways toward me, eyes promising relief from the ache that’s been building since Bianca left. I wave her off with a sharp gesture. The thought of anyone else touching me makes my skin crawl.
“Not tonight.”
The dancer shrugs and moves to the next table. I throw back the rest of my drink, the burn doing nothing to distract me from the memories flooding my mind.
Bianca on her knees. Bianca suspended against an easel. Bianca watching herself in the mirror as I claimed her. The way she begged—fuck, how she begged. That cultured voice broke apart when I pushed her past her limits. The taste of her when she squirted, flooding my mouth with her release.
My cock throbs painfully against my zipper. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist.
