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I can feel it in the way she tenses—she’s close, again. I am, too, but I’m not ready to end this lesson she’s learning. So I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her down onto me, grinding into her deep. Working my cock inside her, every single solid inch.
Daphne flies apart, more intense than before. She can’t move—she can only wriggle and writhe in my arms while her pussy spasms on my dick. She’s gushing, and screaming, and it’s like the best music to my ears.
“That’s it, baby. Let it out. Be my good girl and let it out. Let the whole city hear you scream for me.”
She’s fucking herself on my cock, but like a good girl, she stays clinging to the strap overhead.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You!” she sobs with pleasure.
“Who protects you?”
“You!”
I caress her body from head to toe, making sure she looks me in the eyes. “Who takes care of you?”
Daphne hesitates.
There it is—the telltale giveaway. The hidden scar, the festering wound on her heart.
No one has ever taken care of her before.
“I do,” I supply. I slide my hand up to caress her neck, cup her face in my hand, hold her. “I do, Daphne. And I am always going to take care of you.”
“But…” Her eyes search my face, confusion clouding the pleasure. “Why?”
It’s a great question. I don’t answer. I can’t.
Instead, I kiss her and drink down her screams as I push both of us closer and closer to that edge of sweet oblivion.
And when we both topple over it, our sounds fill the car. Her screams. My roar.
Together.
42
PASHA
There are two rules to crashing a political party you haven’t been invited to:
Bring your own soldiers.
Make sure everyone else can see your guys have zero fucks to give.
The security team on hand at La Vinessa isn’t even armed. They’re only there as a facade of safety for the men meeting inside.
If it ever comforted those poor bastards at all, that comfort vanishes the second we walk through the ornate doors of the clubhouse.
Sofi, striding alongside me, is radiating stress. But to be honest, the only one tense about this is her.
