Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(51)

My eyes rolled back, my sensitive flesh exploding from his touch.

“This is a f*ck of a lot more. It’s enough.” He kissed me, then hovered above me. “For now,” he warned.

I didn’t get the chance to argue the ‘me belonging to him’ statement because he made sure my mouth stayed busy.



I was soaring. Fucking flying.

High.

Not in the way I was used not. No syringe was needed for this high.

Only him, my new addiction.

“You’re not gonna come yet,” he growled, the veins in his neck pulsing as he pounded into me.

My body was screaming for release, but at the same time it wanted to topple over the edge, it itched to prolong the feeling of hovering just before something magnificent. To grasp onto that ledge and last facet of control before it was all lost and the abyss swallowed me.

So I teetered.

My hands were bound by my own f*cking bra. Yes, he’d torn it off and used it to restrain my wrists. They were burning from being held above my head for a prolonged amount of time, but the pain was exquisite. It made everything, the pleasure and the way my body reacted to that pain, so much more intense.

Beautiful and ugly at the same time.

He pressed our foreheads together, bringing me in for a brutal kiss, his lips smashing against mine as he swallowed my screams.

“As much as I hate it,” he growled against my mouth, not stopping his thrusts, “you exposing your beauty to all those f*cks.” His eyes met mine. “And I f*ckin’ hate it… but I love it.” He surged into me harder and deeper than I thought possible, and I saw stars as he bit into my neck. “I love that those f*ckers are goin’ home with only the image of your sweet ass in their minds, burned into their f*ckin’ retinas, and I’m the one who gets to hold it.” He squeezed my ass roughly to make his point. “I’m the only one who gets in here.” He paused his motion, filling me up and stopping me from finally tumbling down.

My breathing came in pants as he refused me the release he’d built up since my eyes met his half an hour before. Since I’d strutted on stage and danced for him. Taken everything off for him.

There was something darkly erotic about stripping for the man you were screwing while a roomful of people watched. I’d been damp with desire by the end of my set.

Fucked-up, I knew, but I didn’t care.

Because Gabriel was equally f*cked-up. The moment I left the stage he was there, dragging me to a barely concealed corner of the dressing room, behind a flimsy door. And with the chattering of the girls and the thump of the bass in our ears, he began ripping my clothes off, what little clothes there were, and surged into me.

He had been frantic, furious, animalistic. Brutal.

And I f*cking loved it.

Without warning he pulled out of me. The emptiness and loss of him and my own release was painful.

I didn’t have time to protest as he roughly turned me, pressing my cheek into the wall, spreading my legs and plunging into me once more.

I panicked.

I couldn’t be taken like that.

Pressed facedown, being assaulted by some unknown attacker.

It hurtled me back to that night. That horrific night when my innocence was stolen while I was pressed facedown on the bed.

I’d learned to reclaim my sexuality since then, mostly by f*cking a plethora of different guys I chose, taken back through sheer promiscuity.

Some therapist would love to unpack that can of worms, I was sure. But it was how I coped. Survived.

And by making sure no one took me like Gabriel was taking me now. Having me fully immobile, helpless.

I panicked because, despite the way dirt sank into my naked body with the memories that hurtled into my mind’s eye, so did arousal. It mingled in a way that had me feeling more turned on than ever before, and filthier too.

“Come,” he growled into my neck, his breath hot on my ear.

And I did. It was glorious and horrible and mind-shattering all at once.

He grunted his own release into my neck and I barely noticed it.

I barely noticed anything until I came down. Then all I saw was disgust in myself.

And I needed him out. I needed it to be gone. The grime that covered every inch of my f*cking body. My insides.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered into my neck, breathing heavily.

“Untie me,” I croaked, pleaded.

He registered the panic in my voice immediately, stiffening before he did exactly as I requested.

He massaged my wrists, turning me around. He came out of me as he did so and the evidence of my depravity leaked out of me.

“Becky?” he asked, his voice dripping with concern, face painted with regret. “Fuck, did I hurt you?”

I regarded him coldly. “Get your hands off me,” I snapped.

I had to hide behind her. The bitch. She was the one protecting the little girl inside, who was sobbing in the soiled sheets.

He did so immediately and I pushed past him, gathering the remains of my clothes. Precious little, but enough to cover me up.

I heard the rustling of his belt but set to my task.

“Becky, talk to me. You’re freakin’ me the f*ck out.” His voice was thick.

I luckily had the coat I’d started my routine with; otherwise, I would’ve been f*cked. Thank God for trench coats. I tightened the tie and made for the door.