Page 65 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

“Maybe.” He says the word like he’s tasting it, rolling it over his tongue. “You wanted me angry.”

“No.”

“No?” His grip tightens, just a fraction. “You wanted me chasing you. Hunting you. Reminding you who you belong to.”

My breath catches. “Maybe.”

“There it is.” His mouth curves, and this time it’s a real smile, dark and wicked. “You’re such a bad girl, cosita. Three months on the road, and you still need to be reminded.”

“Remind me then.”

His eyes flash, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The desert wind whips between us, carrying dust and the distant sound of traffic. Then he moves. He pushes me to my knees.

Not gently. Not harshly. Just inevitably, the way gravity pulls you down, the way the road pulls you forward. His hand on my shoulder, firm and certain, and my knees hit the gritty rooftop before I can think to resist. I don’t want to resist.

“Hands behind your back,” he says.

I clasp my fingers together at the base of my spine, and something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction. Hunger. A predator surveying prey that’s willingly entered his den.

“You know why you’re here?” His voice drops, low and rough.

“Because I sneaked out.”

“Because you’re mine, and you forgot.” He unbuckles his belt, the sound loud in the quiet night. The leather slides through the loops with a whisper that makes my skin prickle. “And I’m going to remind you.”

He wraps the belt around my wrists, binding them together. Not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough to hold. The leather is warm from his body, and I feel it against my skin like a brand.

“Judge...”

“Don’t.” He tilts my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You don’t get to talk right now. You get to listen. And you get to show me how sorry you are.”

He unzips his jeans, and my mouth waters. The piercings catch the moonlight, silver gleaming, and I remember the first time I saw them, the first time I felt them, and my body clenches with wanting.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he says, fisting his cock and stroking slowly. “Dancing. Laughing. Letting other men look at what’s mine.”

“I wasn’t letting...”

“I said don’t talk.” His thumb traces my lower lip, pressing down until my mouth opens. “You owe me, Poppy. You took something from me tonight. My peace. My control. And you’re going to give it back.”

He guides himself to my mouth, the head of his cock brushing my lips, and I open willingly, eagerly, because this is what I wanted. Not the drinks or the dancing or the escape. This. Him. His hands in my hair and his taste on my tongue and the way he takes what he needs without asking because he doesn’t have to.

I’ve been his since that alley. Since that first brutal kiss. Since he looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve and decided to take me apart piece by piece instead.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, and the words send a shiver through me that pools between my thighs. “Show me. Show me how much you missed this.”

I take him deep, hollowing my cheeks, letting the piercings drag along my tongue. He groans, low and guttural, and his hips flex forward. I relax my throat and take more, feeling him stretch me, feeling the heavy heat of him fill my mouth until I can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, cosita. Your mouth was made for me. Made to take my cock like a good little slut.”

I moan around him, and the vibration makes his hand tighten in my hair. He holds me there, buried deep, and I look up at him through my lashes. His head is tipped back, throat exposed, chest heaving beneath his cut.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Mine.

He starts to move, slow and deliberate, fucking my mouth with the same controlled intensity he brings to everything. Each thrust pushes him deeper, and I take it all, drool sliding down my chin, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. The piercings drag and catch, sending sparks of sensation through my jaw.