Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jig’s fingers bit into the flesh of her hips. She tried to rock her pelvis, but he prevented any movement. “Get that shirt off and give me those tits.”

Izzy crossed her arms at her waist and drew the shirt over her head, arching her back a little for dramatic effect. The feeling she got when his eyes flared at the sight of her bare breasts was the ultimate power trip for a woman. She was queen of the world at that moment. At least the little world they’d created in her bedroom.

She cupped one of her breasts then leaned forward, bracing herself on the headboard with her free hand. When she was dangling just an inch from his mouth, she said. “This what you had in mind?”

“Fuck yes,” he breathed. His hands left her hips and landed on her tits, pushing them together. With his very talented tongue, he licked back and forth between both nipples before alternating with sucks and bites all over.

Izzy gripped the headboard so hard she worried she’d crack the twenty-year-old wood. It was then that it dawned on her—he wasn’t holding her still any longer. She rolled her hips in a circular motion, eliciting a deep moan around her nipple. His head tilted back, and he released her, groaning a second time when she did it again. And again.

She took that as her cue and straightened, leaving her hands on the top of the headboard as she increased the speed of her hips. Jig’s hands coasted up and down her sides, occasionally running over her tits and pinching her nipples. With every forward motion, her clit ground into his pelvis, bringing her one second closer to coming.

Fuck, it felt so good.

Jig moved his hips as well, fucking up into her and making her crazy. Even as she had him, the need for more grew and grew until she was riding him so hard she worried her knees would leave bruises on his sides. He didn’t notice if the grunts and moans were any indication. Besides, he was back to a punishing grip on her hips, aiding in moving her like a madwoman.

“I need to watch you come,” he said as he stroked a thumb over her clit. Izzy jerked at the lightning bolt of sensation. She removed her claws from his chest and rested her hands on his thighs behind her. The change in position altered his angle inside her, and they both cried out. Izzy completely lost herself in the onslaught of pleasure, letting her head drop back between her shoulders as she fucked him with everything she had while he continued to torture her clit.

It didn’t take much, three swipes of that callused thumb, and he threw her into an intense orgasm. Her back bowed with the force of her contractions. She screamed out his name and ground hard against him, riding it out for as long as she could. As her body began to calm, she tried to pick the rhythm back up for him, but she was so boneless it didn’t quite work.

Jig wrapped his arms around her and flipped them again before hiking her legs over his shoulders. Then he went to town, fucking her so hard her body moved up the bed, and she had to brace herself against the headboard. Within seconds, a second orgasm slammed into her, making her cry out in pleasure. Now, limp and sated, she absorbed his brutal pounding.

Jig’s body tensed and his thrusts grew frantic, almost frenzied. Izzy watched him as his dick drilled in and out of her. “God, that’s hot,” she said. And then all of a sudden, she needed something she’d never wanted. In fact, she’d have throat-punched any man who suggested it.

“Come on me,” she said.

Jig froze, buried so deep she squirmed around him. “What?”

She swallowed. Why on earth had she said that? But she wouldn’t take it back. She wanted it, wanted to be marked by him, wanted to be his. She’d never actually tell him she wanted to be owned by him. She couldn’t put a voice to those thoughts and make them real. It’d leave her too exposed, too vulnerable, and too open to damage. But she could ask for this physical act as a representation of the emotions she couldn’t handle. She could own this.

“Come on me,” she said, more forceful this time.

His nostrils flared, and his breathing grew more erratic. He withdrew from her and pulled the condom off with a snap, sending it flying to the ground. Two fingers dove between her legs, gathering her cream before he fisted himself and furiously stroked. One arm braced on the headboard, his muscles bulged and bunched. With each passing second, he became more rigid, his grunts lower, more desperate. His neck corded with the strain and his face looked almost in pain.