Page 33 of The Reaper
“You like that?” I growled at her ear. “Being fucked in your kitchen?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”
I didn’t.
Fingers stroked her pussy up and down. Other hand rolled her nipple. She came hard, milking me. That pulled me over. Balls tightened. Pressure built. I came with a groan, spilling into her, emptying everything.
We slumped against the counter. Breathing hard. I pulled out, turned her, kissed soft. Tasted salt.
She nipped my bottom lip. “Again. On the floor.”
I chuckled. Cock already twitching. “Greedy.”
“You complaining?”
“Hell, no.”
We sank to the tile. Cool against my back. She straddled me, grinding slow.
“Ride me,” I said, hands guiding her.
She did. Sinking down, taking me deep. Rolling her hips. I groaned, watching her. Breasts bouncing. Eyes locked on mine.
She leaned in, kissing fierce. Claimed my mouth. Hands pinned mine over my head.
Power shift. Her on top. Dominating.
She rode faster. Clit grinding. I thrust up, tile hard beneath me but I didn’t care.
“Come for me,” I rasped. I freed one hand. Slapped her ass.
She moaned. Louder.
“Again,” she said.
I did. Sharper. The sound cracked the air. She rose and fell again and again. Again and again, like my own personal carousel of sex.
She came hard. Pulled me with her.
We collapsed, tangled. Her head on my chest. I stroked her hair. Mind quiet.
No ghosts. Just her.
And as she dozed, soft against me, I knew—I was fucked.
Charleston? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad choice after all.
That blank check from Ryker, this thing with Meghan—it felt like fate.
Twisted and hot.
But fate nonetheless.
9
MEGHAN
Ilay sprawled across his chest, heart finally slowing, hair damp at the nape of my neck. The tile floor was cool against my legs, the air tinged with salt, sweat, and steel. My restaurant—my domain—had become something else entirely. And so had I.
