Sweet Retribution (Ruthless Games 2)

He growls again. It’s a warning, a promise that we’re going to do this his way.

His fingers dip inside me, just teasing me with the feeling of fullness I need so badly before he drags them up again, circling my clit with hard, fast motions.

I gasp into our kiss, sliding my hand down his stomach and tugging his shirt from the waistband of his pants before going for his belt buckle. It’s hard as fuck to get it undone one-handed, and I curse against his lips, whining in frustration.

The sound seems to penetrate his single-minded focus, and he reaches down to help me, the fingers of his other hand slowing a little on my clit. The change of tempo makes me moan. His fingers slide over my sensitive bundle of nerves, slippery with my own arousal, and it’s suddenly too much for me to take.

Pleasure blooms outward in a scorching wave, making my whole body shudder and jerk beneath his touch. He pulls away a little, his pants hanging half open as he watches the orgasm tear through my body, and the look on his face is one of almost tortured awe.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long,” he mutters, his pupils expanding as desire darkens his eyes. “That night, at the safe house. God, I wanted you.”

He had me.

Even then, he had me.

“All you had to do was take me,” I whisper, my words shaking slightly as the orgasm ripples through my system.

“I was too fucking scared I’d break you.”

A low laugh falls from my lips. I pull back a little, glancing down at myself—at the three bullet holes that mar my chest, the scabs on my knuckles, the faint scar that runs down the line of my left forearm. My eyes find Ryland’s again as I look up.

“Do I look like I break easily?”

His nostrils flare, a new kind of heat burning in his eyes. “No.”

Then his hands move to his pants again, shoving them down around his hips before retrieving his cock. He fists it at the base, gripping it tightly as his other hand hooks my panties.

I shift my weight, allowing him to pull them off and toss them aside. My shoes clatter to the floor, and Ryland slides his hand up my thigh again, teasing my entrance and smearing my arousal over my skin.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he rasps.

My heart slams against my ribs as I hold his gaze. “I don’t care.”

With a noise that doesn’t even sound human, he guides the thick head of his cock to my entrance and slams his hips forward.

My mouth falls open as my head drops back, my back arching as every nerve-ending in my b

ody screams. Ryland slides one arm around me, his broad palm coming to rest between my shoulder blades, holding me up as he pulls out and drives in again.

He didn’t lie.

Nothing about this is gentle.

But I didn’t lie either.

I don’t fucking care.

For most of the past week, I’ve felt anxious and on edge, disassociated from my body and untethered. But the hard thrusts of Ryland’s cock send me hurtling back to earth, grounding me firmly in the present moment.

There’s nothing else to think about. There’s nothing else to feel.

Just the connection between our bodies, the way he hits my clit every time he pounds into me, the way his lips slam down on mine with the same ferocity of his thrusts.

I loop my arm around his neck, holding on for dear life as he fucks me hard and fast.

My ass keeps sliding backward on the countertop, farther away from him, and he lets out a frustrated growl as he grabs my hips with both hands, hauling me back toward him. Now that he’s got me pinned, he drives into me even harder, and the punishing stretch of his cock filling me borders on pain.

But that doesn’t stop pleasure from spiraling through me too, building slow and steady inside me as a counterpoint to our frantic, desperate movements.