Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(59)

“Fuck no,” I groan.

Rookie laughs and slides me a shot. “Just offering.”

Moments later, I notice that the noise has died down significantly. Rookie elbows me and I turn to see six men wearing suits standing just inside the door.

“Can I do anything for y’all?” Monica purrs in her fake southern accent.

“Yeah. Put a f*cking shirt on.” Diem emerges from the crowd of men and scans the room until she finds me. Her eyes narrow and I notice that another one of the topless girls is standing across from me with her natural DDs propped up on the counter. “Do you bitches not have clothes?”

Damn, I love when she’s pissed. She looks so f*cking sexy in that little red dress that I just want to rip to shreds. Then I want to throw her on this bar and f*ck her in front of everybody and let them know that this one is mine. I’m sexually frustrated, hanging by a thin rope, and she’s doing nothing but being the infuriating, delicious goddess she always is.

I want her more than ever. The look she’s giving me tells me she wants me too. The electricity crackles between us. Everyone around us is forgotten. If they’re looking, I don’t notice. All I see is her. Fire blazes in her eyes. She exudes power. She’s a walking, talking, bitching, underboss Mafia f*cking queen. And until she tells me different, she’s mine.

I hold her gaze as I stand, telling her I want to kiss her. Lick her. Fuck her until nothing else matters. Then I walk away from the crowd and toward the bedrooms at the back of the clubhouse—knowing damn well that she’ll follow.

Over the noise, I can hear the click of her heels. She wants me. She wants this. She needs me and I f*cking need her too. Standing just inside the door, I wait for her to appear. When she does, I jerk her in before slamming it shut and pushing her against the wall.

She grips the back of my neck, pulling my mouth down to hers. I groan at the feel of her warm tongue brushing over mine. My hands move up her hips, pulling her dress around her waist and ripping her panties from her body.

There are no words. No pleas, demands, games, deals, challenges . . . No Mafia, clubs, daddies, brothers, goons, or whores. It’s just me and her and the desire to f*ck like crazy animals—just like we first did, and exactly how we want it.

The closest thing to us is a dresser. I lift her on it before pulling my dick from my jeans. She whimpers at the sight of it. I drag my fingers down my tongue, wetting them before rubbing them across her * that is already drenched.

“Fuck,” I growl, lifting her from the dresser and sinking my cock inside her. Her breath catches in her throat as I fill her completely. Her eyes widen with shock and pleasure and before she can adapt, I’m pulling out and driving in again.

“Is this how you want me to f*ck you?” I growl, knowing she won’t be able to answer. Her moans are guttural. Her eyes roll back in her head. Those sexy heels are scarring my ass. And I f*cking love it.

I f*ck her against the wall, on the dresser, then throw her on the bed, roll her to her knees, slap her ass, and f*ck her from behind. My hands grip her ass, opening her up completely so I can see every inch of her. I want to kiss her everywhere. I want to put my tongue on every inch of her body, starting with her *. I want to devour her until she is moaning and coming from every place I touch her with my mouth, my hands, and my cock.

Flipping her back, I lift her again in my arms, wanting to feel the weight of her on me. Slamming her back against the wall, I dig my fingers into her thighs—leaving my mark. Scarring her and reminding her I’ve been here. I f*ck her like I hate her. Like I’m punishing her for lying to me. For not being who she said she was. And she gives it back to me tenfold.

She’s pulling my hair, biting my neck, moving her hips with mine. Her nails claw at my skin—she’s trying to hurt me. She wants me to f*ck her like I hate her, because right now, she just wants to hate me too. She hates me for lying. Hates me for living. Hates me for giving her exactly what she needs. And hates herself for wanting it.

“I’m coming inside you,” I growl. I have to do this. I want her * to smell like me. To taste like me. And every time she moves, I want her to feel me inside her, even when my cock is not.

“You’re f*cking right you are,” she growls back.

Driving into her harder, I tilt my hips until I’m hitting that spot that has her eyes rolling back in her head. Her legs are locked around me. Her back is against the wall. And without breaking stride, I move my hand up her stomach and across her chest until my fingers are wrapped around her throat.

With a small squeeze, her voice catches as she comes all over my cock. I can feel the walls of her * throbbing with every beat of her heart. Then I’m filling her—burying my face in her neck to soften my roar. My cock pulsates as I release all my doubt, frustration, and tension inside her.

Relaxing my grip on her throat, she lets out a loud breath, panting in my ear, and her fingers knot in my hair. I lean into her, letting the wall support both our weight. When her ankles unlock at my back, I have to catch her to keep from falling. Slowly, I pull my face from her neck and meet her eyes. They’re watery, red, heavy, and full of satisfaction.

She’s panting in my face. I’m panting in hers. We’d just said everything we needed to without saying anything at all. This is our connection. This is our relationship. It’s crazy, unpredictable, and totally f*cked up. But it works for us.