Disclaim (Deliver 3)

He woke with her sitting on his lap, leaning over him with her thighs straddling his hips, and a look of intent sparking in her eyes. The timer on the bedroom lights had clicked on, illuminating her white dress in an ethereal glow.

Pulses of heat charged sharp and low in his pelvis. He never would’ve imagined she’d want him so soon after the news he’d shared with her today. But this was Camila, his fighter, his backbone, a woman of carnal flesh—a yearning, determined, courageous woman. And she loved him.

She bent forward and propped an elbow on his chest, balancing her chin on her knuckles. “What if I asked you to just lie there and let me ride you for a while? Think you could handle that?”

Her husky voice curled around his cock, instantly turning him into iron.

“Yeah, I can—” Hunger strangled his words and shot through his veins, hot and restless.

Straightening, she pulled the dress over her head and dropped it. Her tits lifted with her inhale, peaked with hard rosy nipples, and her body gloriously nude except for the silver choker at her throat.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.” He breathed her in and smelled the sweetness of her arousal.

His pulse hammered, and his blood simmered, begging him to take her, to bury himself inside her. His hands flew to the button on his jeans, fumbling in his urgency.

She helped him, her fingers moving over the zipper, her breaths growing louder as they tackled his clothes, stripping off his shirt and pants. When she straddled him again, her hand closed around the swollen heat of his erection.

A groan pushed past his lips, his hips rocking, thrusting his cock into the vise of her fingers as he stared with wonder into her eyes. She stretched over his chest, fusing her mouth to his, and he was lost. Floating, reaching between her legs, stroking her wet pussy. He battled her tongue, moaning with garbled demands that she keep stroking him, kissing him.

“Ride me, Camila.” He bit her lips and smacked her ass. “Sit on my cock and fuck me.”

And she did, sinking down and shuddering around him. He grunted as she eased up and down, slowly, tenderly, hips circling and hands planted on either side of his head. He stroked her tits, leaned up to suck on her nipples, his balls tightening with blissful pressure.

His eyes never left hers as she moved over him, her cunt clamping down and stealing his thoughts, his breaths, and every tormented ache inside him. In that exquisite moment, there was only her and him, the tight warm clench of her body, and the glorious sight of her riding his dick.

He reached for her hands and held them against his chest, held onto her gaze. “You want to be owned.”

“By you? Forever. Promise me.”

His heart swelled. “Sí prometo.”

When she came, she took him with her in a detonation of electricity that left him with no doubt who owned him, body and soul.

Four months later.

THE REEK OF CIGARETTE SMOKE and the clinking sounds of china swirled around Camila, mingling with the gentle breeze that drifted across the veranda. Her insides vibrated with the murmuring voices of forty men—dangerous men—but none as powerful as the one stroking her thigh.

Matias Restrepo owned every person in the room, but she was the only one who owned his heart.

She reclined in the chair between him and Nico, her belly full after an exorbitant five-course dinner, and pulled a long draw from her beer. She looked forward to these gatherings now that she didn’t have to spend them on her knees. In fact, no one knelt on the floor anymore.

At her request, Matias had banished all of the imprisoned slave traders to the west wing. There, Frizz could sew up their orifices and Matias could sell them off at will. She supported whatever punishments were inflicted as long as she didn’t have to look at it while she was eating.

That wasn’t the only change that had happened since Matias had announced her as his equal.

As it turned out, Yessica hadn’t been able to keep her hands to herself. Two weeks after the conversation by the pool, she propositioned Matias in the hall with her hand on his cock. He told Camila about it after he transferred Yessica—along with every resident prostitute he’d ever fucked—to his compound in Mexico. Sadly, that left only a couple women at the estate.

Camila was working on rectifying that. She’d recruited her old roommates in Texas to join her here. Now that she’d taken over Matias’ anti-slavery operation, she needed more people she could trust. Her friends were hesitant, but considering the offer.

Tate sat across the table from her, listening to Chispa enthusiastically explain how to make a woman squirt. With a chuckle, Tate slid his eyes to her and winked. She shook her head, smiling.

He’d visited her a couple times in the last few months, but this time, he was just stopping by on his way to Peru, where he intended to follow up on Matias’ investigation into Lucia’s death. Her heart punched full-speed toward hope, but Matias tried to keep that reined in. He didn’t want Tate’s confirmation to bring her more grief.

She glanced at the man who protected her soul as much as her body. His muscled arm lay across her lap, his thumb stroking the denim on her inner thigh. In his reclined position, his brawny chest stretched the cotton of his black t-shirt. A foot rested on the knee of his opposite leg, drawing her gaze to the delicious way his jeans cupped the bulge of his cock.

When she looked up, his eyes were on her, invading, pressing deep inside her, into places only he could reach. Places that feared him as much as loved him. But she no longer had to carry those vulnerabilities alone. He wanted all of her, cherished every one of her weaknesses and strengths. And whenever she offered herself to him, put herself fully into his hands, he silenced her doubts and insecurities.

The expression he wore now looked as if he wanted to invade her in a different way. His gaze heated with golden flames, his arms and torso flexing, seemingly restless. Wide shoulders, trim waist, hard abs—it was all there, one layer of clothes away from stealing her breath.

Without warning, he stood and threw back the last gulp of his aguardiente. “Buenas noches, guys.”

Then his hand was around hers, dragging her away from the veranda. She jogged to keep up, her pulse sprinting with excitement. Damn his dangerously flirty fuck me eyes, but she couldn’t get back to their suite fast enough.

He didn’t release her until they reached the bedroom. She made a beeline to the bed, stripping her clothes as frenzied need stretched inside her, heating under her skin and throbbing between her legs.

She dropped her blouse, jeans, and removed her undergarments, her back burning from the heat of his gaze. But he hadn’t followed her?

She turned. The sexy bastard leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed over his nude chest and a bare foot hooked around his ankle. He’d removed his shirt and boots, but the jeans remained, the zipper partially lowered to reveal the dark patch of hair around the root of his erection—which was bent downward and tucked beneath the denim.

Her pussy contracted, and her nipples hardened. “Are you going to—?”

“Stand with your chest against the post. Hands above your head.”

It was never a request with him. He commanded, and she obeyed. In the bedroom, with that aggressive look firing in his eyes, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She lingered for a moment, unable to avert her gaze. Inky black hair lay in haphazard spikes and fell across his brow. His expression was dark and severe, but his dimples were there, reminding her of the boy who’d stolen her heart.

The muscles in his torso were flawlessly defined, layered in ridges that were honed in combat. Whether he was training for a raid or running into a gunfight, he was built for this life. His job still scared the bejesus out of her, but she was confident in his ability to stay alive.

She resisted the urge to cross the room and put her hands all over him, because seriously, no man should look that good. With a sigh, she faced the post and reached her arms toward the ceiling.

His footsteps approached, and her breaths picked up. His masculine scent attacked her senses as he stopped behind her, crowding into her space in the possessive, overbearing way she loved.

“I’m going to hurt you,” he breathed in the space beside her ear.

She shivered.

“Then I’m going to replace the hurt with something else.” His chest slid against her back, his hand closing over the chain around her neck.

“With your cock?”

“Yes.” A smile teased through his rumbling voice. “With my cock.”

“I accept.”

“I’m not asking.” His hand lowered to her pussy, cupping and squeezing. “This is mine.”

“Oh, you arrogant ass. You want me willing—”

He slammed a palm against her backside, shooting fire across her skin. Her breath left her so quickly and thoroughly she was still struggling to catch it when he disappeared in the closet and returned again.

With leather cuffs and a string of chain, he locked her wrists to the eye bolt in the post above her head. Stepping back, he simply stared at her. Patient. Watchful. He just…stared. After a long, unnerving moment, he grabbed the cane from the floor.

Then he hurt her. Holy fuck, he hurt every inch of her ass and thighs.

She screamed and writhed and cursed him to hell, tucking her hips against the post and trying to keep her lower muscles loose beneath his strikes. She begged him to stop, but those tattooed forearms persisted, welting her skin with hard, erratic blows. Beneath the searing pain, however, something else bloomed, something stronger, deeper.

Trust.