Page 74 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
Moving away from him, I grab my nightgown and head for the back door.
I don’t even make it inside before he’s on me again, fingers curling around my wrist and yanking me back. Beast pushes me against the wall, cups the side of my face, and kisses me in a way that brooks no argument. My knees go weak from the feel of his tongue sliding against my own, and Beast scoops me up in his arms, laying me out on the pavement on my back.
And then he covers me with his body, sliding his naked cock into my throbbing heat and fucking so hard that it almost hurts. Almost. My hands curl around his shoulders as he rides above me with rough, brutal movements, his strokes deep and long, hitting the end of me.
Another climax hits me, and I squirm, crying out and clawing at Beast’s chest, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks me into the pavement, and then lifts me up, slamming my back into the rough stucco wall and pounding me so hard that I’m sure I’ll have bruises on my ass.
We go at it like animals; there’s nothing gentle or romantic about it. Beast takes me in every possible way, adjusting our position several times until we end up on the ground again. His big body is soaked in sweat, and I can hear his breathing turning ragged and uneven. When he tenses up and tries to pull away from me, I wrap my legs around his midsection and squeeze hard, pulling him deeper inside of me. In the back of my mind, I know what he’s trying to do, that he’s wanting to pull out before he comes.
My mind is too clouded with passion to care.
Instead, I writhe against him, lifting my hips to meet his. My vision is blurry with pleasure, but as I’m raking my nails down Beast’s back and whispering for him to finish, I see something.
There’s a person standing in the doorway, cloaked in shadows, watching us.
As Beast finishes with a growl, my legs keeping him trapped inside of me, I can see the figure tense up with raw anger. Before he turns and storms off, I know exactly who it is: it’s Crown.
I don’t move to follow him though, and I don’t say anything to Beast. We just lay there for a while before Beast gets up and looks down at me, face unreadable. When I start to stand up, he rises to his feet and helps me the rest of the way. There’s the strangest sensation of liquid running down my thighs, but I ignore it, waiting for him to say something, anything at all. He reaches out to touch my chin again, lifting my head.
“If Cat ever gives his blessing, it’s gonna be a battle royale,” he drawls in that thick Southern accent of his. It reminds me of hot summer days and iced tea and the buzzing of cicadas. I swallow hard as he moves over to his clothes, puts them back on, and then pulls out his gun. “I wouldn’t allow myself to lose.” My mouth pops open, but I have no idea what, exactly, he’s getting at, so I say nothing. “I’ll be back,” he tells me, heading for the gate in the brick wall that surrounds the pool. I watch him go, but then head inside to clean up.
This time, I put on proper clothes. Well, what I consider to be proper clothes: white miniskirt with a black stripe on the bottom, tank top with corset lacing, and boots. That’s my usual attire, basically my version of business casual. Then I go looking for Crown.
He’s nowhere to be found inside the house although Grainger’s sitting in the living room now, smoking a cigarette and staring at his phone. He doesn’t even acknowledge me when I walk in, the jerk. So I search the other rooms, ending with the garage, and the side door that leads out to a patio we never use.
Crown is there, sitting on his bike and watching as the very first blushes of morning light taint the horizon a soft pink. He looks over at me, but his face is as hard as iron.
“Nothing I say to you sticks, does it?” he asks me as I dig my hands into my pockets, resisting the urge to twirl my skirt in a circle and loudly proclaim, but it has pockets! I’m feeling good, actually, the best I’ve felt in months. I think my psyche is on overload, memories of Grainger and Sin and Beast overshadowing all the rest. Once the drugs and the booze wear off, and I wake up tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll regret some of this night. Maybe all of it.
“You’re too bossy,” I tell him, and he just makes this sound under his breath, this scoff that irks me the wrong way. “And you’re so self-righteous, even though you’ve got no moral high ground to stand on. Why should I bother listening to you?”
