Page 26 of Possessive Ink

“We’re not?” she croaks.

“Not even close.” Holding her tight, I flip her onto her belly, then drag her so her legs are dangling over the side of my bed. Since I told the interior designer just how high I needed my bed to be, I’ve been dreaming of how a woman would look spread out like this.

Lemon looks better than I ever dreamed.

Dragging her legs wider apart, I fist my cock and guide it to her slick entrance, swallowing back my groan of bliss as I push the head inside of her. Hot, wet heat sucks at my cock as I thrust myself further into her body while she moans beneath me.

“Oh god. Oh Sir,” Lemon whimpers, as I pull back, then thrust forward, filling her completely and feeling her pussy clench and tighten around me.

“Fuck, yes, Princess. Squeeze my cock,” I growl. Holding her hips tightly, I start to fuck her, alternating between slow and deep and fast, shallow thrusts, learning the way she likes it from the sounds she makes and the way her body tries to grip me.

Not all women can come from penetration alone, but I feel it when Lemon’s body starts to react. Her cunt tightens and ripples around my cock as her moans turn into incoherent sounds and her fingers claw at my sheets as she comes so hard that I almost lose control.

Letting go of one of her hips, I spread her ass cheeks and press the pad of my thumb against her tight asshole, not pushing inside of her, but teasing her with the idea that I might. She stiffens beneath me, and I release her other hip and slip my hand underneath her, finding her clit and working it in fast circles. While she writhes and whimpers, I fuck her in fast thrusts, toying with her ass until she comes on a scream, and I follow her over the edge, filling her cunt with my cum and sealing her fate.

Lemon is mine, seen, claimed, conquered.

SIX

LEMON

When the aftershocks from my orgasm start to fade, I’m shaking and so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. What the hell just happened? I’m a wet noodle, my arms and legs so heavy I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. And honestly, I don’t, because if I move, I’ll have to face reality and the fact that I just had epically great sex with a complete stranger.

I don’t do hook-ups or one-night stands. Hell, I don’t do situationships or friends with benefits. I’m a romantic, and although I might not have been a virgin, I’ve spent the last few years waiting for the right man and love to come knocking.

Meaningless is icky to me. I don’t want to do something as intimate as have sex with someone that I feel nothing for, and yet here I am naked, sprawled over the side of Atticus’s bed, and barely coherent. But instead of regret and embarrassment, I’m not feeling the usual sense of discomfort.

Right now, I don’t care that my tits are squished inelegantly beneath me. I’m naked, and I’m confident that this isn’t a good angle for my body, but seriously, who has the attention span to give a crap when you’ve just been fucked six ways from Sunday?

He told me to call him Sir. I mean, seriously. Sir. But I did it, and it was hot. God, it was so hot, and now even though my body is wrung dry—or more appropriately, sopping wet—from the four insane orgasms he gave me, I’m already wondering if there’s a red room of pain hidden somewhere in this apartment and if I want him to take me there.

I don’t feel him moving, or moving me, but the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, my cheek pressed against his tattooed chest while his heart beats calmly beneath me.

“Are you on birth control?” he asks.

“Yes,” I croak, wondering why he’s asking, then immediately realizing that it’s because we just had sex.

“I’m clean,” he says softly.

“Me too,” I tell him, feeling hazy and disconnected, but in a floaty, just-took-some-really-good-drugs kind of way. Or what I think really good drugs feel like because I’ve never taken anything stronger than a Tylenol.

“Sixty-six days,” he says.

What? Did he say something? I feel like he did, but I don’t think it was a question. “What?” I ask.

“You have sixty-six days left on your lease with your roommate?”

“Oh,” I say, finally comprehending, even though I’m still not sure why he’s asking.

“Princess,” he says, and I hear the amusement in his voice. “I wore you out, didn’t I?”

Inhaling, I sigh and try to nod, but I’m not sure if I actually move my head or if I just think I do.

“Sleep,” he says, chuckling softly, his fingers running gently through my hair as I close my eyes and wonder if when I wake up, this will all have been a dream.

“Princess,” a low, gruff voice calls, dragging me from sleep.

“I bleached the counters, Avery,” I mumble, nuzzling my face back into the pillow.