Page 99 of Roulette Rodeo
His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure, and that's all it takes. The tension snaps, pleasure crashing over me in waves that seem to go on forever. I'm dimly aware of crying out, of my nails digging into his shoulders, of my body clenching rhythmically around him.
Shiloh's hips stutter, pace degenerating from a soldier's cadence to ragged, wild chaos as he slams into me, his restraint shredded by my orgasm. The guttural noises that wrench out of his throat are nothing like the careful, almost clinical grunts of sex I remember from the casino's thin walls—it's animal, possessive, starved. His arms are shaking so hard I worry they'llgive out, but he grits his teeth and rides the aftershocks of my climax with a desperation that makes my insides clench all over again.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, breath mingling with my own. "So perfect, squeezing me so tight, gonna?—"
In the haze, I realize he's seconds from the edge. His hands flex and dig into my hips, holding me down, grounding himself. Then, with a last, frantic thrust, he pulls out, and the heat of his release hits my stomach and chest in thick, hot ropes. The shock of emptiness is immediate and sharp, like a desperate vacuum where moments ago I was full, stretched, unbreakable.
A strangled moan cracks out of him as he collapses to his elbows, just barely keeping himself from crushing me under his weight. There’s a sticky, messy heat between us, and I’m aware of it not as a thing to be embarrassed by, but as a badge of honor—proof, a tangible mark, that I belonged to no one until this moment, and now I belong to him. I watch him, wild-eyed, as the final spasms of pleasure render his careful exterior to rubble. His lips are trembling, eyes squeezed shut with something like pain, but sweeter.
I don’t get a chance to mourn the sudden emptiness, because what happens next is so honest, so intimate, it shreds every last defense I had left.
Shiloh’s hand flies to his cock, gripping the base with the kind of desperation usually reserved for people clinging to a lifeline. For a stunned second, his knuckles go white. A vein pops on his forearm, visible even beneath the intricate tattoos, pulsing with the heartbeat that still belongs to me. I see it happening—the knot, that animal swell I used to joke about with Briar, now visible and real and totally undignified. It balloons at the base, angry and refusing to be ignored, as if his body istelling mine what it wants, regardless of the last six million years of human evolution.
He’s panting, lips drawn back, sweat and tears and maybe even blood mingling on his face. The knot throbs, visible as a plum-sized bulge, and it takes him massaging it almost ruthlessly to begin to tame its size.
It starts as a gradual swelling, but quickly goes from an unnoticeable thickening to a full-blown, furious distention, as if his cock is staging a last stand against the inevitability of physics and dignity. The base balloons, darkening, and Shiloh’s hand flies to it, wrapping the shaft like a tourniquet while his thumb and forefinger press the knot tight. I’ve read about it, heard the locker-room banter, even watched a few educational videos (read: questionable porn), but nothing compares to seeing it up close and personal—this raw, animalistic truth of an alpha’s anatomy now visibly attached to the man who just took my virginity.
Shiloh doesn’t look at me. He’s locked in some private struggle, gritting his teeth as he squeezes and kneads the bulge, sweat pouring off his brow. It’s not arousal, not exactly. It’s more like pain, but a pain threaded with primal satisfaction and a helpless sort of pride. For a second I’m sure he’s going to lose the battle, and that lump is going to cement us together, like a cartoon where someone’s finger gets stuck in a bowling ball and has to be amputated. I nearly giggle, actually—some hysterical cackle threatening to burst out at the sight of this six-foot-four killing machine reduced to wrangling his own junk like a first-time teenager.
He glances up, catches the beginning of my smile, and—for a split second—mirrors it, even through the haze of release and exertion. “Sorry,” he pants. “Usually easier to hide, if there’s a condom. Or, y’know, pants.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, because this is, genuinely, the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. “I’m just impressed it still wants to fight. You’d think it would be tired by now.”
He snorts, then groans as he gives the knot another squeeze. “Old habits. Sometimes takes a while to settle.”
“Should I, like… help?” I wiggle my fingers, half-joking, but also one hundred percent sincere. I want to be useful. I want to be part of this weird, heroic struggle.
Shiloh’s eyes go wide. “No—uh—just… give me a sec. Don’t want you thinking you signed up for some kind of freak show.”
I lean up on my elbows—wince, actually, as the aftermath of my first time makes itself known in a dull, not-unpleasant throb—and peer down the length of our bodies. We’re an absolute mess: sweat, fluids, me painted with evidence of his orgasm, him still rock-fucking-hard and panting like a marathon runner. The knot looks angry. I want to poke it, but resist. Barely.
Instead, I raise my eyes to his face, and what I see there makes the laughter dry up, replaced by awe. He’s so… open. All those layers of stoicism and military discipline have been torched by the moment—his mouth slack, the line of his jaw trembling, his eyes swimming with a dozen emotions at once. Relief, pride, shame, and something vulnerable and infinitely precious. I want to cradle it, even if I have no clue how.
“You okay?” I ask, softer this time.
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. “Just… intense.” He swallows hard. “Never had it like this before.”
I’m about to ask what he means—never had sex, never knotted this hard, or never with someone who didn’t immediately want to run screaming from the room—but then I realize it doesn’t matter. We’re the only ones here, in this moment, in this milk-and-blood-splattered aftermath.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The scent of sex is thick and primal. When I reach up, fingers trembling, to touch the lineof his jaw, Shiloh almost flinches, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he opens his eyes and finds me gone.
But I don’t vanish.
I drag my nails down his neck, just enough pressure to remind him I’m still here, still alive, still his. With a desperate groan, his mouth finds mine, kissing me like I’m water and he’s days from dying. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that promises this isn’t the last time we’ll find ourselves tangled up and marked by each other.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy from more than exertion. His come is cooling on my skin, sticky and new, and I can’t help but stare down at it, mesmerized by the mess and what it means. I want to laugh, or maybe cry, or maybe lick it off and make a show of it just to see him blush again. Instead, my fingers skim through it, the sensation decadent and obscene, and I meet his eyes with a wicked, satisfied grin.
He huffs out something that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so strangled.
“Hell,” he mutters, and the way he looks at me—the awe, the disbelief, the pride—makes me feel radiant, glowing from the inside out.
The loss of his cock inside me aches, a hollow longing that’s somehow worse than any pain I’d braced for. My body is greedy; it wants him back, wants to keep him buried in me forever. But he moves gently now, gathering me into the shelter of his arms as if I’m a precious artifact instead of a girl with casino grit and a poker face. He’s awkward in the afterglow, unsure if he’s allowed to touch or comfort or even breathe on me too hard, and it’s so heartbreakingly earnest I want to choke.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel cheap.
I don’t feel spent.
I feel claimed, and I want the world to see.
