Page 129 of Game Misconduct
Then I obey.
I sway my hips as the leggings slide down my thighs until they pool at my feet, and I kick them away.
His stare lands on my pussy, and he growls. “Fuck me, Sloane. All night with no underwear? You really are trying to kill me.”
I’m so turned on all I can do is exhale, every inch of exposed skin feeling like a promise he’s about to collect on.
He lifts me onto the table in one fluid motion, and I wrap my legs around his waist, arms clinging tight to his shoulders.
The sound he makes as he unbuttons his pants—half groan, half growl—burns through me like fire.
“Mine,” he rasps, grinding against me. “Say it.”
The word is a flame in my chest. “Yours.”
That single syllable destroys what little composure we have left.
He thrusts into me in one rough, hungry stroke.
My cry rips out of me, echoing off the suite walls.
“Jesus, Sloane.” His forehead drops to mine, breath ragged. “So fucking tight. You were made for this. For me.”
I clutch at him like a lifeline. “Don’t stop.”
“I have no plans to ever stop.”
His thrusts are brutal. Deliberate.
Every inch of him drives into me like he’s trying to brand me from the inside out.
His mouth is everywhere—my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. His words fall hot and filthy in my ear, every one of them a sin I want to commit again and again.
“You like being fucked in your private little tower, don’t you princess?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes.”
“Bet you’ve never let anyone up here. Never let anyone see you like this. But me?” His teeth graze my throat. “I get everything.”
“Yes, yes. Only you. Only ever you.”
He’s seeing the version of me I hide from the world. The one who wants to be held, claimed.
Wanted without conditions.
My orgasm crashes into me like a tidal wave. My legs tremble, my hands clawing down his back as I ride it out.
He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head with onehand, the other gripping my thigh as he keeps thrusting, harder now, more erratic.
The table creaks beneath us, but I don’t care. I want more. I want all of him—this heat, this power, this desperate claiming.
Without warning, he pulls out. I cry out at the loss, but he spins me fast and rough, bending me over the back of the couch before I can breathe.
“Hands flat,” he growls, voice a snarl at my ear. “Back arched. Ass up. You wanna be mine? Then show me.”
My palms brace on the couch cushion, heart slamming in my chest. I feel his hand whisper down the curve of my spine, fingers splaying across my hips like he owns them.
And he does.
