Page 22 of Wrecked By Rev

I slide out of the booth. He follows, backing me up until I hit the counter. His hands grip my hips, lifting me onto the surface, and then he’s standing between my thighs and his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is fierce. Possessive. He’s pouring all that rage into it, all that fear, and I take it willingly. My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“He touched you,” Rev growls against my mouth. “Put his hands on what’s mine.”

“I’m here.” I yank at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. “I’m right here.”

He pulls back just long enough to strip off his shirt. Then his hands are at the button of my jeans, and he’s dragging them down my legs along with my underwear, and the cool air of the café hits my bare skin.

“Spread your legs.”

I do. He looks down at me—splayed open on my own counter, desperate and wanting—and I see hunger flash across his face.

“You’re already wet.” His fingers slide through my folds and I gasp. “Soaked for me, even after everything.”

“I need?—”

“I know what you need.” He drops to his knees.

The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out, my hand flying to his hair. He eats me like he’s angry about it—fast and relentless and so fucking good I can barely breathe. I’m gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, his hair with the other, riding his face without shame.

“Right there—fuck—don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t stop. He works me with his tongue until I’m shaking, until I’m right on the edge, and then he pulls back.

“No—”

“Not yet.” He’s on his feet, unbuckling his belt, shoving his jeans down. “When you come, I want to feel it.”

He pulls me to the edge of the counter and thrusts inside me in one hard stroke.

I scream. The stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely—it’s overwhelming. He gives me half a second to adjust before he starts to move, fucking me with hard, deep strokes that shake the whole counter.

“This is mine,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re mine. Nobody else touches you. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”

“Yours,” I gasp. “Only yours.”

“That’s right.” He hitches my leg higher, changing the angle, hitting deeper. “Say my name.”

“Rev—”

“Louder.”

“Rev!” I’m close—so close—my whole body tightening around him. “Please, I need?—”

“Come.” His thumb finds my clit, circling hard. “Come for me, Angel. Let me feel you.”

I shatter.

The orgasm tears through me, wave after wave, and I’m screaming his name into the empty café. He fucks me through it, relentless, chasing his own release, and when he comes he buries himself deep and groans like it’s being ripped out of his soul.

We stay there, connected, both of us panting. His forehead drops to my shoulder.

“I love you,” he says.

The words hit me like a thunderbolt. I pull back to look at him—this man who showed up when I needed him, who held me together when I was falling apart, who just fucked me on my own counter and told me I was his.

“I love you too,” I whisper.