Page 115 of Problematic

His cock hit a place deep inside me that made my vision spark, and I cried out.

Pleasure slammed through me so hard I clamped both hands over his shoulders and forgot how to breathe. My body moved faster, desperate now, not fully my own. Heat poured through my stomach, down my thighs, up my spine, and for one flashing second, I thought I felt him everywhere. His want. His fear. His possessiveness. His pain. His hunger.

One hand gripped my hair. The other stayed on my hip, guiding me harder, faster, while I rode him with no rhythm except need. His mouth moved against mine, teeth and breath and a curse swallowed between us.

His thumb found my clit, and the world narrowed to him.

The orgasm hit like possession.

I arched over him, mouth open but soundless. Then, the cry tore out of me, raw and loud, my body clenching around him while the fever under my skin broke into something bright and terrifying.

My pussy tightened around his cock so much that he followed me with a gutted groan, his body locking beneath mine, his forehead pressed to my shoulder as he spilled inside me.

Chapter 18

Liv

I was on a high.

Static ran through me, crackling under my skin, like every nerve had been plugged into a power line. My fingers dug into his shoulders, and I swore I could feel my pulse in places I didn’t even know had a pulse.

Assassin guy . . . not so much.

He slumped. Not dramatically, just . . . limp. His weight sagged under me. Then my brain returned from whatever slutty little vacation it had taken and registered the blood. On him. On me. On the couch. On my thrift-store blanket.

“Uh,” I said brilliantly. “You good?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, just as panic started to climb up my throat, I checked the wound on his side, shoulder—all still fine. Well, as fine as they could be. “Hey,” I said, sharper. “Murder boy. Do not die on my couch.”

He came back fast, sucking in air, hands finding me like it was me we should be worried about. One on my spine. One cupping the back of my head.

“Liv,” he said. Something in his tone cut through my haze.

“What?” I tried to pull back, but he held me there, loose enough to let me go if needed, firm enough to tell me he wanted me close.

He paused like he was choosing his words carefully. That wasn’t reassuring. “I know why your powers never manifested,” he said.

My stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?”

He hesitated. His thumb stroked the back of my neck.

“Was I . . . your first?” he asked.

Heat slammed into my face. I tried to pull back, and his hand flexed at my hip, keeping me trapped against him.

“That’s none of your business,” I muttered into his shoulder.

His hand moved once against my hair. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thought so.”

Annoyance cut through the embarrassment. “What does my sex life have to do with any of this?”

“Everything.” His grip tightened then eased as another wave of pain moved through him. “Liv, I think you’re a succubus.”

I pulled back far enough to see the mask. “A what?”

“A succubus.”