Page 38
His chest is impressive–broad, muscular, the silver bars through his own nipples glinting under the harsh lights. He yanks my pants and panties down in one aggressive tug, then lifts me effortlessly onto the cold stainless steel table. The metal bites against my bare skin as he steps between my spread thighs.
“This pussy belongs to me,” he growls, eyes locked on mine with burning intensity, “to Hunt, and to Timothy. No one else.” He doesn’t wait. He frees himself and slams inside me in one brutal thrust, his ladder piercings dragging as he buries himself to the hilt. When my eyes flutter shut, he adds, “Eyes on me, right here, don’t look away.”
Locked in on him, I can’t stifle the cry that rips through me, back arching sharply at the sudden stretch and burn. Damon fucks me hard–deep, punishing strokes that rock the heavy table beneath me. Mateo’s corpse sits slumped just a few feet away, blood still dripping onto the floor, but the sight only makes me feel more alive.
For once, I won.
Damon’s grip on my hips is bruising as he drives into me faster, harder, the wet sound of our bodies echoing off the concrete walls. The adrenaline, the blood, the violence–it all blends together into something intoxicating.
He leans down and bites my neck, then soothes it with his tongue. “That’s it, Doll Baby. Take it from your King.”
The command unleashes something fast and vicious, my nerves unfurling in a delicious wave. Digging my nails into his shoulders, I hold on as my orgasm crashes over me–sharp and blinding. My pussy clamps down around him, crying out as waves of pleasure rip through my body.
Damon follows right behind me. With a guttural groan, he slams into me one final time, burying himself deep as he comes hard, thick and hot. His forehead drops to my shoulder, breathing heavily against my skin.
He makes no effort to part, even though we’re sticky with sweat and blood, chests heaving, the scent of death still thick in the air. The adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving behind a strange, hazy satisfaction.
“We’re going to survive this,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “All of us, and set our house back into order.” His head tilts toward Mateo’s body. “That was just one more piece of trash that’s taken itself out.”
Damon lifts his face so that his eyes are holding mine, and the hardness that was there before is gone, filled with something intense and indescribable. The look makes me bold, and I don’t feel fragile or fearful.
I’m not sure what it is, but my heart pounds, a drumbeat that’s less of a warning and more of a message. This man, along with Hunter, has proven they’ll do anything to protect me–to avenge me–and that knowledge cascades through me like the light of a thousand burning fires.
I’m not sure what the appropriate reaction to watching a man die and then having sex in front of his lifeless corpse should be, but mine is crystal clear.
“Can we stop for something to eat?” I ask from the middle seat of the truck, my stomach growling loudly. “I’m starving.”
Damon lets out a low chuckle, pushing a lock of damp hair off his forehead. “I could eat. What are you thinking?”
“Pancakes maybe?” I suggest, perking up at the thought. “Or a hamburger? Something with all the carbs and a ton of grease.”
“The diner has both,” Hunter adds, already taking the turn that leads toward the 24-hour spot on the edge of town.
“Sounds good.” Damon taps his fingers restlessly on the window. “Are you cool going in and ordering takeout? I don’t want to go in looking like this.”
Hunter and I glance at each other and grin.
The Princes have a strict protocol about washing off after a session in the Dungeon. We both cleaned up and changed into the clothes left for us. Mine was a soft pair of sweats and a hoodie that must belong to Verity. Damon, however…
“What’s wrong with how you look?” Hunter asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Fuck you.” Damon scowls, looking down at the pastel pink golf shirt with the tiny embroidered logo stitched over his heart and the perfectly ironed khaki pants. They even gave him shoes–tan boat shoes. “Those assholes did this on purpose.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that they did. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help laughing. He looks so miserably out of place–this dangerous, powerful man dressed like he’s about to go play eighteen holes with a bunch of accountants. It’s kind of cute.
“It’s weird,” Hunter says, “the way it suits him, don’t you think?”
“He is from East End after all. It must be in his genes.”
We both burst out laughing, probably too much for everything we’ve been through tonight–but maybe that’s why. Something has to cut the heaviness and Damon looking like a preppy frat boy is just the thing.
Hunter pulls into the parking lot of the diner. After we give him our orders, he heads inside. Damon keeps one eye on the parking lot as he reaches over and pulls me firmly into his side.
“You feeling okay about tonight?” he asks quietly.
About torturing a former ally and watching him get murdered? Weirdly, yes. That’s not what’s nagging at me.
“Why did you do it?” I ask, tilting my head to look up at him.
