Page 85 of Gravehouse

Yanking him closer, I tighten my grip and ignore his laughing outburst. “I think, if you don’t fuck me, I’m sliding right off this table to go find your broth?—“

He drives into me hard enough to arch my spine off the table, and a scream tears out of my throat.

His fingers bite into my hips as his mouth crashes over mine. “Shut up.” The words are rough against my lips. “It’s the last time you’ll ever use my brother—or any other man—in a sentence with you.”

His teeth catch my bottom lip.

“I mean it.”

“You didn’t answer.” I grind against him, chasing the friction until it sparks through every nerve. “And you’re damn lucky you feel this good, or I’d be pushing you away until you did.”

“Oh?” His tone darkens. “How good?”

God. That shouldn’t sound as hot as it does, with his eyes gone lazy and the hard line of his jaw cutting through the shadows.

“Like you belong there,” I whisper.

Every muscle in him locks.

My breath catches. “Like you were made for me.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. His rhythm turns merciless. Harder, not faster.One more.

“Like you’re mine.”

I barely get the words out before he takes them from me with his mouth. He drives into me again, grinding deep enough tomake my vision blur, and the room narrows to nothing but the ruthless drag of his body against mine.

I’m climbing too high. Too tight. I know the fall is coming, and when it does, it'll take the whole fucking room with it.

A growl vibrates between us.

I shatter.

My body locks around him, every pulse wrenching another broken sound from my throat. He catches each one with his mouth, swallowing them like he’s starving.

Then he pulls away, leaving me trembling and exposed to the cold and lowering me to the concrete. He settles between my thighs again, covering me with his weight.

Time stops.

He looks through me with eyes that feel like home—if home were a battleground, if safety came with blood on its knuckles. The dark rings around his blue irises have nearly swallowed the color, matching the shadows carved beneath his cheekbones.

His tongue sweeps over his lower lip.

“Mine.”

He kisses me again.

“Yours.” I’m too wrapped up in him to pretend otherwise. My body is already shaking, but he takes what I give him and demands more, keeping me open beneath him.

“And I’m fucking yours.”

His hips roll forward in one slow, relentless grind, and the words burn through me worse than the pressure. He holds me there until I feel branded by him—by the weight of him, the heat of him, the certainty in his voice.

I need this.

The ache. The soreness. The reminder of his hands and his mouth and the way he looks at me every time he claims me.

“Don’t ever question that shit again.”