Page 163 of Joker

His pace starts to slow and i try to move again him, wanting more. “My old lady is greedy,” he laughs. “Play with that beautiful pussy while I fuck you baby.”

My hands lower almost immediately. I'm pretty sure I'd do just about anything he says right now. I touch myself immediately ready to fall over the cliff and into one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had.

He pumps into me wildly and then his teeth sink into the crook of my neck and I scream his name. His hands grip my hips as he finds his release and then we collapse onto the bed together.

For a long time, I just lie there trying to catch my breath, boneless and warm and still half convinced I’m floating somewhere outside my own body.

His sheets are twisted around my legs. My hair is a mess over his pillow. My skin still feels too sensitive everywhere he touched me, and his arm is heavy and possessive around my waist like he doesn’t trust distance even now.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

I’m not sure I trust it either.

Not after this. Not after him. Not after the way he took every jagged, frightened, uncertain part of me and made me feel wanted instead of broken.

Joker, Travis in here, only in here, shifts beneath me just enough to pull me closer, his hand sliding slow and lazy up my back like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.

The room is quiet now.

Just the sound of our breathing. Just the hum of the old air vent in the corner. Just the low, steady beat of his heart under my cheek where I’m curled half over his chest like I belong there. Like I’ve always belonged there.

The thought hits me so hard and so suddenly it nearly steals what little air I’ve managed to get back.

Because that’s the most dangerous part of all of this. Not what we just did. Not how much I wanted it. Not even how much I still do.

It’s this.

This quiet after. This softness. This impossible, terrifying feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.

My fingers drift over the hard lines of his chest without thinking, tracing over warm skin and old scars and ink I’m still learning by touch. He watches me do it in silence, dark eyes half-lidded and heavy where they stay fixed on my face like he’s waiting to see what I do next.

I don’t think. I just feel.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, with the room wrapped around us and the whole rest of the world shut outside that locked door, his real name slips free before I can stop it.

“Travis.”

He goes completely still beneath me. Not in a bad way. Not tense. Not closed off. Just still in that immediate, unmistakable way that tells me I touched something deep enough to matter.

My heart stutters.

His hand slides up the length of my spine and settles at the back of my neck, fingers threading gently into my hair as his gaze holds mine with a kind of raw intensity that makes my chest ache.

“Say it again,” he says quietly.

The words are rough. Low. Like they had to scrape their way out of him.

My pulse trips hard enough I feel it everywhere. “Travis,” I whisper again, softer this time, like it belongs in the dark between us and nowhere else.

Something changes in his face. It’s small. Barely there. But I feel it all the way down to my bones.

His forehead tips to mine, and when he speaks again, his voice is so low it almost sounds like confession. “No one else gets that.”

I don’t know why that makes my throat tighten so fast, but it does.

Maybe because I know exactly what he means. The world gets Joker. The club gets Joker. The brothers get the man withthe dark mouth and violent hands and the reputation sharp enough to make people think twice before they breathe wrong around him.

But me?