Page 84 of Theirs to Hunt
“You’re flushed,” he murmurs.
“I’m busy,” I lie.
“You’re still wet from him.”
I hold his stare.
“I can smell it,” he says, moving in.
“And I don’t think you’re done.”
I lean back in the chair, slowly spreading my legs.
Just a little.
Enough.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
Brooks growls, low and dangerous.
His hand goes to his belt, but he doesn’t drop his gaze.
“Show me the garters,” he says.
I lift my skirt without hesitation.
Lace.
Black.
Straps and silk.
Still visibly wet.
His control flies out the window overlooking the city.
My men snap faster than the garters.
I don’t remember standing.
Only that I’m suddenly pressed over the desk, skirt shoved to my waist, heels braced wide.
He runs a palm up the back of my thigh, follows the strap to where it hooks, then yanks my panties down and groans.
“You’re soaked.”
“You gonna fix that or just narrate it?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just thrusts into me in one hard, deep stroke that knocks the wind out of me.
“Jesus, Brooks…”
“No. Say it,” he grits out, holding still, balls deep.
“Tell me who’s inside you.”
