The mother Of Pitbull

“Kitten,” he growled roughly.
I kissed him softly, sliding my hands into his silky locks, letting the pieces slide through my fingers. I tasted in him my own rising desire, my own need and heartache. Thrilling. Frightening. I pulled back.
“Kitten,” he said again, voice strained. “You don’t get to do that and then stop. That’s not how it works.”
I stared at him, my breath stalling in my lungs.
“Not when you’re mine.” Daemon backed us up and slid down the wall, pulling me on his lap so I was straddling him. “And you’re mine.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, Onyx