Page 92 of Dirty Game
I lean in, mouth at her ear. “She performed for me. Youexistwith me. There’s a difference.”
She blinks, and for the first time since I met her, the fear is gone from her face.
I pull her upright, turn her to face me, still holding her jaw in my hand. I kiss her once… hard, closed mouth, a brand more than a kiss.
She’s panting.
Sweat beads between her breasts, stains the neckline of her shirt, and I wonder if she even knows how fucking gorgeous she looks like this—pressed against the glass, face half-shattered by city lights, her pussy split open around my cock, and not a trace of performance in her.
Sienna was all show. Rosalynn is pure reaction: every moan, every flinch, every muscle in her thighs screaming genuine.
I want to see her fall apart.
I grind in deeper, bottoming out so the head of my cock slams her cervix, and her shudder almost cracks the window.
Her mouth opens, tongue wet and pink, and she starts to whimper with every thrust. The sound is raw, animalistic. I love it. I eat it up.
I let go of her wrists, watching as she flings her arms to the glass, palms flat, like she’s trying to keep from falling through.
My hands find her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I fuck her like a man without a cause—no mercy, no pause, just relentless pressure.
The slap of our bodies is fucking beautiful. I catch my own reflection, wild-eyed, teeth bared, and for a second I see what she sees: a fucking monster.
But she wants the monster. It’s the only thing that’s ever matched the hunger in her.
She starts to sob a little, and I slow down.
“Look at yourself,” I order, voice guttural.
She tries, eyes rolling up, lashes clumping from tears, but she does her best.
I hold her hips steady, force her eyes open with my hand in her hair, and drill into her with a rhythm that’s all muscle and anger and the need to fucking possess her.
Her pussy clenches, spasming so tight I feel it up my spine.
The pulse of it is desperate… tense, quivering, then bursting… until she breaks with a scream that bounces off glass, off bone, off the hollow in my chest.
It takes every bit of discipline not to come right then, but I want more from her. I need more.
I pull her off the window, drag her to the bed, and push her down face-first. She tries to turn, but I pin her there, hands over her wrists, her cheek smashed into the sheets, and her ass up in the air, the new angle making her sob.
“Please,” she stammers, but I don’t know if she wants mercy or more pain. I give her both.
I fuck her deep and slow, every thrust soaking the sheets, her cunt sucking at me like it never wants to let go.
The smell of her is everywhere—salt and fear and the sharp tang of her tears—but underneath it, something hungry, something alive.
She’s never begged in her life, and I want to see if I can make her.
“Say it,” I growl, teeth at her nape. “Whose are you?”
She shakes, the answer locked behind her teeth. I slap her ass, not gentle, and the crack of it makes her gasp.
“Say it,” I repeat, voice ugly, needy. I want to hear the words fall from her lips.
“Yours… I’m yours, Varrick.”
The words destroy me, my cock pulsing as I empty inside her, triggering another orgasm from her, and together we’re falling.
