Page 75 of Thunder

A sound comes out of me. Half laugh, half sob. "You sure about that? Because I'm pretty sure I just got disowned."

"Then he's a fool." His grip tightens just enough. "And you're still mine."

Property of Thunder.

The tattoo throbs on my lower back like it knows.

Fresh ink still scabbing under the bandage, a brand I chose, a secret I wore under my clothes until today.

Until my daddy saw it and the whole world split open.

I grab his shirt. Both fists, knuckles white in the worn cotton. "Then prove it."

Something darkens in his eyes. Not anger. Something hungrier.

"You don't know what you're askin'."

"Thunder—"

His mouth comes down on mine.

Hard. No softness.

His teeth catch my bottom lip and I gasp into it.

He takes the gasp like payment, tongue sliding against mine, tasting the salt of my tears and the copper where I bit through my lip in the yard and didn't notice.

He walks me backward. My hips hit the kitchen counter.

His hand drops from my jaw to my throat—not squeezing, just holding.

A collar. A leash.

My pulse hammers against his palm and he feels it, I know he does, because his mouth curves against mine.

"There she is," he murmurs. "There's my girl."

I want to bite back. I want to match him.

But my hands are shaking too hard to unbutton his shirt, and he sees it, and something in his expression shifts. Tender and ruthless at once.

"Let me," he says. Not a request.

He strips me methodically.

Boots first, tugging them off and setting them aside.

Socks.

Then he stands, lifts my shirt over my head, and I'm bare from the waist up except for the sports bra I threw on this morning when the world was still normal.

He unclasps it with one hand.

My breasts spill free and the cabin air prickles against my nipples, already tight.

His gaze drops. Not leering—checking if I'm still in one piece.

"Arms up," he says.