Page 30 of My Ex-Military Biker

"Good."

He pulls back enough to look at me. "Good?"

"I want marks. Want to feel where you touched me tomorrow."

Something in his eyes goes darker, hungrier, more intense.

"Fuck." His hand slides down my body in one rough stroke, cups my breast, squeezes hard. "You have no idea what you just said yes to."

I arch into his hand, pressing my breast more firmly into his palm. "Show me then."

He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl. His mouth closes over my nipple and he sucks hard, teeth scraping immediately.

The sensation shoots straight to my clit and I cry out before I can stop myself.

His other hand is already moving down my stomach, over the softness there that I spent years trying to hide.

His palm spreads wide over my belly, fingers splaying like he's trying to touch as much of me as possible all at once.

"So fucking soft," he mutters against my breast before biting my nipple. "Every inch of you. Makes me want to put my hands everywhere."

His hand keeps moving, over my hip, gripping my thigh where it's thick and heavy.

He squeezes hard enough that it borders on painful and the pain somehow feels good.

"Spread your legs for me."

I do it immediately, no hesitation, no second-guessing.

His hand slides between my thighs and his fingers drag through my wetness roughly.

I'm soaked, have been since he walked in covered in blood, since he kissed me in the kitchen, since I watched him stroke himself.

"Jesus Christ." He pushes one finger inside me without warning.

The sudden intrusion makes me gasp sharply. He's thicker than my fingers, rougher in his movements.

"Still tight," he says, working that finger in and out without gentleness, testing how much I can take. "Tighter than you should be after what you did to yourself last night."

The crude reminder of me touching myself while he watched makes me clench involuntarily around his finger.

He feels it immediately and groans. "Yeah, you like thinking about that. Like remembering how you fucked yourself on your fingers while I watched and stroked my cock."

"Yes," I manage.

He adds a second finger and the stretch burns immediately. I make a sound that's half pleasure, half pain.

He doesn't stop or slow down, just keeps pushing in until both fingers are seated as deep as they'll go.

Then he starts moving them, in and out, rough and steady and relentless.

"Does that burn?" he asks, though his tone says he already knows.

"Yes."

"Good. Need you to feel it, need you to remember tomorrow that you chose this, that you wanted it exactly like this."

His thumb finds my clit and presses hard, circles with pressure that borders on too much.