Page 79 of The Truths We Seek

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I stroke my thumb through the blood on her face and the animal inside of me takes over.

I bring my finger to her bottom lip and, without taking her eyes from mine, she sucks my thumb into her mouth and licks up every drop of blood that I'd wiped off.

Is it sanitary? Probably not. Do I care? Not even a little bit because the lust coursing through my veins is boiling hot and my dick is hard enough to cause real pain.

As the corners of her lips tick up in a smile that resembles Rory's psychotic one, I realize that she has a piece of us, all three of us, inside of her and it only makes me love her more.

As my finger slides out with an intended pop, my body reacts on instinct.

Our shoes kicked off.

Her pants gone.

My fly unzipped.

Her shirt sliced open and hanging freely.

My dick out.

Her panties ripped off.

When I have her exactly as I want her—all lusty-eyed and panting—I grip her hips and slam her on the metal table that's usually reserved for some fucked up shit. Neither one of us cares at this moment.

We don't care that we're about to fuck with a dead man tied to a chair, head back from the blunt force of the bullet to his forehead.

We don't care that we're covered in his blood.

We don't care that her thigh is resting next to the gun that ended a life.

The only thing we care about is easing this itch that's consuming our bodies, our veins, our very essence and nerve endings.

If I don't fuck Quinn, right here and right now, I may just implode and we both know it.

Thighs spread with her pussy already leaving a wet spot on the shiny metal, I hook my arms under her knees and bring her pussy to mouth. I don't eat her cunt, that would be too gentlemanly. No, I fucking demolish it with my lips and tongue and teeth.

With every suck and lick and bite, she moans louder and louder until her thighs squeeze my face hard enough that I'm fantasizing the possibility of dying by pussy suffocation.

I figure it's the best way to go, so I don't relent. In fact, I devour her even more to test the strength in her legs. I fuck her pussy with my mouth to see who goes first. To see if she comes before she kills me with her lust.

Just as my tongue is coated with the onslaught of her cum, I wrap my lips around her clit and suck her deep, deep, deep until her screams—my name over and over again—bounce around the four walls of this death bunker. Until my ears are ringing with the pleasure I fucking gave her. Until her throat is sore from it all.

I made that possible.

My gift to her. My tongue. My lips. I did this because she's fucking mine now and always will be.

I'm not just claiming her, I'm tattooing her orgasm into the very fabric of my soul and making sure it's locked down tighter than the fucking pearly gates.

"Oh, God! Yes, fuck, yes!"

At her words, my hands pull at her knees, freeing my head from her death lock and looking up at her with narrowed eyes and a snarl on my mouth.

"Not God. Not anyone but me. You fucking say my name when you come on my tongue." Her eyes snap open and, for a second, we stare at each other, understanding dawning on her.

"Make me come, Meyer." I grin and it's closer to something Rory would do than Hunter. More psycho than fun and loving.

"Your wish, Princess."

My face is back to her pussy and my lips are back to sucking on her clit as her head falls back—hair touching the metal table—as she squirms and moans and thrust her hips impossibly harder so I can eat her like a starved animal.

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