the room was her. He caught the front of her T-shirt and pulled her to him, taking her up-turned mouth. Hard. Possessive. Like he liked it. He could make love to her, be gentle, explore her body, worship her, upstairs in that bed. Down here, in any room, he took her the way he wanted. He showed her exactly what she did to him.
He kissed her over and over, devouring her. Not letting her up for air. Breathing for her. For both of them. When he lifted his head, he caught the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. “In the dining room.”
The bitch of a dining room that was so enormous he could have the entire club over for dinner and most likely anyone they wanted to bring with them as a guest. He had plans for that table. The moment he saw it, it wasn’t about feeding his brothers and sisters; it was about fucking his woman right there with that extremely expensive chandelier shining down on her body, spotlighting her soft skin for him.
Breezy walked ahead of him, and he watched her ass. God. His woman. She was a work of art. If he had his way, he would have nude pictures of her on every wall in every room. Front. Back. On her back with her legs spread. On her hands and knees, thighs and pussy glistening. Hungry for him. Her face in the moment her orgasm rushed over her. Consumed her. The look of love she reserved for him alone. He’d have those pictures on every wall because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.
He loved every inch of her. He loved everything about her. The way she walked right to the table and stood waiting. He pointed to her shoes and she kicked them off while he went to the heavy black-out drapes and pulled them, covering the windows. He closed doors, not for privacy because who gave a fuck? Anyone seeing him take his woman would know she was his. Any woman wouldn’t miss the point that there was only Breezy in his world and there never would be any other woman. He closed the doors so that the chandelier would shine light over her skin.
“Take off your jeans. Everything. I don’t want a stitch on you.”
She smiled at him. “Another fantasy?”
She was his fantasy. “Like having you any fucking way I want you, woman. I want you spread out on that table, legs over my shoulders. I’m going to take you hard, Breezy. The table was built for that. Fucking you hard.”
“I thought it was built for dinners. Formal occasions.” Even as she teased him, she stripped, shedding the denim and her underwear.
“This is a formal dinner. My cock is starving right now. Get your ass over here and take it out. Want your mouth. Your pussy. Your ass.”
She moved to him immediately, knelt, her hands undoing his belt buckle, the one with Torpedo Ink written across it. She pulled down his zipper slowly and the relief was tremendous. “All three? Right now? While Czar’s waiting?”
Her breath was on his cock. Warm. Tempting. He didn’t wait. He pushed between her lips, enjoying the way his girth stretched them. She was wearing lipstick and it made for a sexy pink circle surrounding his cock. He let her tongue lash at him and her mouth tighten and suckle, but only for a moment, just so she could get him wet with all that hot heat she generated. His hips began a fast rhythm, sliding in deeply and out again, over and over. He watched her eyes. Watched her take him. Swallow him. Give him that because he asked her to.
He’d already asked Ink to tatt him. Right above his cock, on that last ripple of ab muscles so when she was on her knees looking at him, she would see, I love only Breezy. He was scheduled for that next week. He had several places he planned to give that to her. But right now, when his cock was going deep, strangled in that perfect paradise, he wanted the first one right there so she’d wake up to it every morning.
It didn’t matter that he’d taken her that morning, in bed, and again, on the dishwasher, his balls were burning hot, and he had to stop before it was too late. Next time, he vowed, he’d get what he wanted. He’d take his time with her