Page 74 of Playing With Love

Yeah, fuck yeah, my girl had no inhibitions. Totally unreserved in her pursuit to get what she wanted.

I stroked. She rubbed. I dipped in, feeling her slick wet coat the head of my cock before I pulled back out. Over and over, just the tip, pulling out, teasing her, and torturing myself. Until I heard the hitch in her breath.

Thank fuck.

“Tuck—” Her gasp died, her neck arched, and her eyes went unfocused.

Christ, so damn gorgeous.

Just watching her was enough. My dick so fucking hard, so ready to explode, my orgasm spilled. Ropes of come hit her belly, my body rocked forward and more coated her pussy. The sight of it, of me marking her, sent a shockwave of primal possession through me. I didn’t care what that said about me. Seeing my come claiming her pussy was insanely hot. It was barbaric and raw and a show of ownership I was claiming and keeping.

All mine.

Therefore I didn’t stop myself from sliding my hand down her come-covered stomach, rubbing the evidence of my possession into her skin, gliding my hand lower, gathering more of my come on my fingers, before I pushed inside while cupping her pussy.

I kept the words I’d longed to say locked down.

And instead locked eyes on her tattoo and growled, “Mine.”

All fucking mine.

After that, I dragged her out of bed and shooed her toward the bathroom to clean up before she could protest or I fully lost my mind and demanded she not clean me off of her.

That would come later. When she understood she was mine and I was hers, I’d come in her and on her and have her walking around the rest of the day marked, knowing down to her bones how much I loved her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mine.

I couldn’t stop Tucker’s declaration from replaying. Over and over, those four letters rattled around in my brain. A single growled word that, if I let it, could erase every barrier I’d built to keep rejection and pain at bay.

Love meant nothing to me.

That wasn’t true; my love for Tucker meant something. But hearing it said to me had no meaning. People said ‘love’ all the time. But did they? Did they really love the coffee they were drinking? Did they love the song they were listening to? It was nothing more than a throwaway word. Arnie had said he loved me but he didn’t love me enough not to cheat. Fathers were supposed to love their daughters, yet I’d never, not once, heard my father utter the sentiment to me. My mom claimed to love me, yet not enough to stop making excuses for her husband.

Why did everything always circle back to love?

I was the poster child for Daddy Issues.

Living in my head was exhausting.

And now I had a new issue—why did Tucker claiming me feel so good? It shouldn’t’ve. I wasn’t a possession to keep. I wasn’t an object to own. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to belong to Tucker. And why had it bothered me so much when I washed him off my skin? Like I was losing part of him. That was just plain bizarre.

“Swear to Christ, if you don’t change your playlist to something that doesn’t include Lainey Wilson, I’m going to eject you from the car,” Tucker groused.

I blinked away my thoughts and focused on the song playing.

Sure enough, Lainey was singing about mason jars and watermelon moonshine.

“Payback,” I returned, and reached to turn up the music.

Tucker’s hand came off the steering wheel and caught mine mid-air. He guided my hand to his thigh and held it there.

“Payback for what?”

Was he serious?

“For bringing just the tip into real-life practice.”