Page 77 of Thunder

"Christ," he groans. Forehead dropping to my shoulder. "Always so goddamn tight."

I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs. "Move."

He does.

Pulls almost all the way out, then drives back in deep, and the sound I make isn't a word.

It's just need, raw and animalistic.

He sets a rhythm that's not gentle.

Each thrust pushes me back on the counter and I brace my free hand behind me, the other still held captive, and he fucks me like he's trying to exorcise both our demons.

The counter rattles.

A coffee mug slides toward the edge.

Neither of us catches it.

It shatters on the floor and he doesn't stop, doesn't even glance at it.

"That's it," he says, voice gone gravel-rough. "Take it. Take all of it."

I'm close.

The tension coils low in my belly, tightening with every stroke.

He reaches between us. His thumb finds my clit, circles it, and I come apart.

It hits like a thunderclap.

I clench around him and cry out, back bowing, vision going white at the edges.

He fucks me through it, grinding deep, and when I finally stop shaking he pulls out.

"Turn around. Hands on the counter."

I obey on shaking legs.

Bent over, palms flat, and he kicks my feet wider. He enters me from behind and the angle's different—deeper, more punishing—and I feel the tattoo on my lower back stretch as he grips my hips.

"Look at you," he says, thumb tracing the script again. "Mine."

"Thunder—"

"Mine." He thrusts hard. "Even when you tried to stay away." Another thrust, grinding, and I whimper. "Even when you put my name on your skin where anyone could see."

His pace turns ragged.

I feel him losing control—my big, steady, unshakeable man finally fraying at the edges.

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise and I want it.

Want the marks. Want to carry proof of this night on my body tomorrow when I have to face the wreckage.

"Presley—" His voice breaks on my name.

"Come inside me," I whisper. "I want to feel it."