Page 85 of Theirs to Hunt
“You are,” I gasp.
“Fuck, you are.”
He moves.
Brutal and perfect.
One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I’ll wear his fingerprints.
All I can think is I’m glad his dad’s size didn’t skip a generation.
Because damn.
I will never walk right for the rest of my life.
In my old age, I’ll be that sweet (I hope) bowlegged old lady.
I don’t notice him reaching into his pocket for his phone.
I hear the snick of the camera shutter.
While still moving inside me, he types with one hand.
To: Grayson
She showed me the garters.
I’m home.
[Attaches photo of said garters, as I get pounded into the desk.]
I notice he discreetly makes sure he is buried inside me, as to not send his dad a dick pic.
A beat later, his screen lights up again.
You said it’s yours now.
Funny.
You still look ours.
Mark her. Send her back to work. And show her this.
Brooks leans over, biting gently at my shoulder.
“Yes, sir.”
And then he fucks me even harder.
Chapter seventy
Reagan, Monday 12:00 p.m.
Ipull my skirt back down and my control back on.
One quick trip to the private bathroom, a splash of cold water, a swipe of lip gloss, and I look like a woman who hasn’t just been railed into her desk.
But I feel it. The soreness. The residual heat. The weight of their expectations balanced against their approval.
