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I’m so full and stuffed to the brim, it’s both overwhelming and thrilling.
My nails dig into the edges of the table, my breath condensing on the surface as I take in the entirety of the intense emotions.
“That’s it. You’re taking my cock so well, baby.”
The praise coupled with the way he calls me baby is enough to make me come again.
Stronger this time.
Harder.
And I scream, wishing—no, I actually try to say his name.
But it only comes out as a long sound. No words.
Just eternal silence.
Landon’s pace grows in intensity and he joins me soon after. He pulls out and spreads his cum all over my ass so that my skin is a mess of erotic stickiness.
I can barely breathe, let alone think. My ears ring and my heart seems to be fighting to keep me alive.
However, everything quiets down when Landon leans over, pushes away my hair and ribbons from my face, and whispers, “Fucking mine.”
I am.
But then again, so is he.
33
LANDON
My fingers flow over my sketchbook in a sporadic, chaotic rhythm that I have little to no control over.
And I’m the type who thrives on control and having everything under my fucking thumb.
Yet I can’t put an end to the figures I’ve been sketching for hours. Don’t ask me how many, because I have no clue what I made during the time I’ve spent trapped in this endless loop.
It’s been so long that I’ve lost count, and I’ve also lost the ability to get past this stage.
It’s been long enough that my lips have become dry. Since there’s nothing to keep them company, it’s impossible to tune them out.
What’s more frustrating, however, is this rush of creativity that’s been possessing my head and limbs but refuses to materialize in real form.
Sketches upon sketches of possible masterpieces fill my pad, and yet none of them makes the cut. My brain is a picky twat with higher standards than the Greek gods.
But then again, if greatness were to come easily, everyone could be a genius.
A soft hand touches mine and I lift my head to meet the eyes of my own Greek goddess. The muse I didn’t know I needed until she stood in front of me in the darkness like a perfect imitation of a statue.
My hoodie swallows Mia’s tiny frame and reaches the middle of her thighs. Marks of my fingers form a map over the fair skin of her inner legs in a clear show of my absolute ownership.
My gaze slides to the dark blue mark that’s spread on her throat. A mark of my own making that bears no resemblance to what I did to that fucker Rory, who’s probably fucked off back to his unremarkable hometown in Cambridge as we speak.
After I got that brazen call, I went to the flat he shares with another member of the Elite. I didn’t have to wait for long, because he showed up soon after, wearing a smug grin.
That sense of victory was wiped off his ugly face by yours truly after I taught him some basic rules about who calls the shots. Spoiler alert, it’s not him.
Just before he passed out, he had the audacity to tell me that he left me a memento with Mia.
