Page 18 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

He drives into me with the force of a battering ram. The position—lying on my side, my back pinned to his chest, my leg hooked over his thigh—allows him incredibly deep, angled penetration. Every single thrust hits the right spot, grinding the thick shaft of his cock against my G-spot, sending lightning strikes of pleasure to my clit.

The sound of our bodies colliding echoes in the small room. The smack of his hips hitting my ass. The wet, slick squelch of my pussy taking his length. The low grunts tearing from his throat. It all mixes with the crackling bassline of the B-side record, creating a filthy, driving rhythm that blocks out the rest of the dying town outside these walls.

I surrender. I let go of the steering wheel. I stop fighting the current.

Tyler's arm slides back around my stomach, locking me tight against his body. His large hand moves down, his rough fingers finding my swollen clit. He presses his thumb down, grinding the sensitive nub in a tight, wet circle perfectly timed with his brutal thrusts.

The combination is devastating.

My vision blurs. The yellowed light of the lamp fractures into stars. The friction of his thick cock sliding in and out of my tight, wet walls, combined with the relentless assault of his thumb on my clit, launches me into the stratosphere.

"Tyler!" I scream his name, my voice completely untethered. "Please! Tyler, please!"

"Give it to me," he snarls against my ear, his thrusts accelerating into a violent, rapid-fire pounding. "Cum for me. Break for me."

My body bows backward against his solid chest. My internal walls violently contract, clamping down hard around the thick steel of his erection. The orgasm hits me like a freight train, a shattering wave of white-hot pleasure that rips through my nervous system. I sob his name, my hips bucking wildly against his driving pelvis, my pussy milking his cock with violent, involuntary spasms.

The aftershocks roll through me in long, ragged jerks. His thumb stays pressed against my clit through every one of them, dragging more pleasure out of my body than I knew it could hold. His cock twitches inside me with each contraction of my walls. The slick floods over the base of him, soaks the thin mattress under my hip, smears the inside of my thighs.

Tyler lets out a deafening roar.

He grips my hips with bruising force, pulling me flush against his grinding pelvis. He drives himself impossibly deeper, burying his cock to the hilt. His frame goes rigid behind me. I feel the violent pulse of his climax deep inside my core.

He pumps his hot, thick seed into my womb. The jets of his cum scald my internal walls, filling me to overflowing. He empties himself inside me like he’s signing his real name somewhere no one else will ever read it.

We stay locked together on the narrow mattress. My chest heaves, gasping for the dusty, oak-scented air of the back room. My legs are trembling uncontrollably, my muscles liquid. The protective weight of his body pressing me into the mattress is the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.

He doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep inside my wet, slick core, his thick cock remaining semi-aroused.

His face is buried in the curve of my neck, his hot breath fanning across my sweat-dampened skin. His arm is still wrapped around my stomach, holding me flush against him. The scent of our sex, rich and dark, mixes with the black coffee radiating from his pores.

His mouth drops to the bite mark on my shoulder. He licks it slowly. Soothing the raised skin where his teeth claimed me earlier.

On the milk crate, the needle hits the runout groove of the vinyl. The B-side is over. A rhythmic, hypnotic scratch, scratch, scratch fills the silent room.

I’m exhausted. I’m ruined. I’m his.

I reach down and place my trembling hand over the thick fingers wrapping around my stomach. I interlock my fingers with his. He immediately tightens his grip, squeezing my hand, solidifying the lock.

No covers. No lies. The trap is sprung, the Syndicate is closing in, and I’m lying naked in the back room of my mother's record shop with a broken man buried deep inside me.

And for the first time in four years, I’m safe.

6

Tyler

The needle drags against the paper label in the center of the spinning record. A rhythmic, scratching hiss fills the back room of the Vinyl Vault. Dust motes dance in the amber light from the thrifted lamp. Sweat cools on my bare back. My chest presses spent against Wendy’s spine. The scent of old paper, warm vinyl dust, and my own musk saturates the cramped space. The single mattress is small. The low wooden frame creaks every time I inhale. It’s a palace. It’s the only real place left on the bleeding earth.

She belongs to me. The Ignition isn’t a myth. It isn’t a club bedtime story passed around the compound fire by the patched brothers. It’s a violent, irreversible fact. A tectonic shift in the blood. My brothers tried to explain it. Sentinel. Drifter. Phoenix. Redeemer. Warden. They all hit the wall. I thought I understood. I knew nothing. The lock turning in the iron engine. The terrifying clarity flooding the brain. She’s mine. That’s the only truth I possess anymore.

I trace the curve of her shoulder. My thumb drags over her warm skin. The physical contact grounds the manic energy vibrating in my bones. Eight months. Eight months buried in Crimson Hollow. Eight months smiling at monsters, paying cash for burnt coffee, making small talk with mechanics and bartenders. Eight months answering to Tom. I built a ghost. I stepped inside it. The ghost started eating the man. The lines blurred until the edges of my own sanity frayed. I would wake up in my shitty rented room above the chop shop and forget my own goddamn name for three terrifying seconds. The deep-cover assignment demanded everything. It hollowed me out. I became a mirror. Reflecting whatever the Syndicate needed to see. A harmless civilian. A nobody. A coward who hands over protection money without a fight.

But in this room, behind the beaded curtain, there are no covers. She demanded the real man. I gave him to her. I drove him into her until she screamed my actual name.

My arm tightens around her waist. Pulling her flush against my front. Her pulse jumps against my forearm. The rhythm matches my own. A violent synchronicity. The phantom identities burn down to ash on this mattress. Every phantom employee history Daniel Gunnar forged for me. Every fake hometown. Every fabricated tragedy. Meaningless. I’m Tyler. I’m the operative. I’m the weapon Logan Gunnar aimed at Crimson Hollow, and the weapon just found its sheath.

Morning bleeds through the cracks around the boarded back window. Pale, dirty Crimson Hollow sunlight cutting through the gloom. We rise. No words are necessary. The air between us is thick with the gravity of the claim. The shift in our dynamic is profound. She doesn’t push me away. She doesn’t reach for her armor. She accepts the looming presence of a Broken Halos prospect occupying her space.