Page 72 of Hunting Gianna
I flip her onto her back and yank the mask off. I want her to see my face. I want her to know who caught her.
Her smile is a red gash, hungry. “Took you long enough, old man.”
I don’t answer. I grab her by the jaw, thumb pressing against her pulse. It’s frantic, racing. I could choke her out if I wanted to. Instead, I let her feel the pressure. Let her remember.
“You want to run again?” I ask, low.
She shakes her head, hair falling across her face.
“Didn’t think so.”
The rope is rough against her skin, making red welts where it rubs. I drag the knots tighter, double loop the ends, then run a palm over her hip, testing the tension. She shudders, biting her lip. She’s so fucking wet, the smell of it is a pulse in the cold air.
I put my mouth on her. She arches, nearly bucks me off. I keep her down with one hand, tongue working her clit in slow, lazy circles. The taste of her is sharp, sweat and salt and the faint copper tang from the scratch on her thigh. She screams when I suck, the sound splitting through the trees.
“Knox, fuck—” She tries to wriggle out, but she’s not going anywhere.
I keep at it, slow, steady, until she’s sobbing, until the sound of her voice is half pain and half plea. Then I shove two fingers in, curling them to hit the spot that always makes her lose it. She spasms, clenching around me, the orgasm hitting so hard it cuts off her scream mid-word.
I pull back, licking her off my lips. She’s crying, but she’s laughing, too, helpless, every inch of her shaking.
“You’re an asshole,” she manages.
“Yeah,” I say. “But you love it.”
I undo my jeans, cock already hard, aching. Flipping her over, I admire my rope work. She’s beautiful, the lines cutting red into her skin, opening her to me like a flower. I line up and push in slow, letting her feel every inch. She’s so fucking tight like this, the rope pulling her knees up, making the angle brutal.
She moans, low and raw, the kind of sound that makes my head go white.
I fuck her hard, not holding back. The ground scrapes her back, dirt smearing her ass, but she doesn’t care. She’s begging for it, every thrust making her scream louder. I feel the wave build, the need to mark her, to fill her up, to own her completely.
She comes again before I do, body seizing, toes curling, fingers clawing at the leaves. I keep pounding, chasing my own high, until the pressure breaks and I’m emptying into her, hot and sharp and perfect.
For a minute, I can’t breathe. My head spins. I collapse onto her, letting her feel the weight, the truth of me.
She kisses my neck, slow, almost gentle.
“You’re never going to let me go, are you?” she whispers.
I shake my head, not even bothering to smile. “Not a chance.”
She grins, then head-butts me in the chin. “Good. I’d be bored as shit without you.”
We lie there after I untie her and check the marks, slowly rubbing sensation back into her. We’re tangled in rope and sweat and each other, the city just a shit blip on the horizon.
I roll over, sit up, then pull her into my lap. She curls up, arms around my neck, face buried in my shoulder.
“You ever get tired of this?” she asks.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
She laughs, softer this time, almost sweet. “Next time, you run. I’ll hunt.”
I consider it, then nod. “Deal, but I doubt you’ll catch me, little bird.”
We sit like that, the two of us, until the sun starts to rise. I don’t think about the city, or the future, or what happens when we have to go back. All I care about is the feel of her against me, the memory of her voice, the way her body fits so perfectly in my arms.
