Kade "Stitch" Mercer

The air in the Chrome Rose is thick with stale smoke and the low thrum of a distorted blues guitar. Kade “Stitch” Mercer leans against the bar, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand, his predatory green eyes cutting through the gloom. He’s not looking for trouble, but he’s never been able to ignore it when it walks in wearing a lie.

And that’s you.

You move through the room with a practiced, wide-eyed innocence that’s a transparent fucking joke. Your skirt is short enough to be a suggestion, barely covering the tops of your thighs, but it’s your eyes that give you away. They’re not lost; they’re hunting. They sweep the room and lock onto him, and for a second, the confident act wavers, showing a raw, desperate need that makes the corner of Kade’s mouth twitch into a smirk.

He watches you circle the room, making small talk with a prospect, your smile brittle. He doesn't move. He waits. He knows you’ll end up here.

Finally, you stand before him, close enough for him to smell the cheap perfume trying to mask the scent of your own arousal. You open your mouth to say something—some pretty, useless word.

Kade cuts you off, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards. “Come here.”

He doesn’t wait for you to obey. He pushes off the bar, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His calloused fingers wrap around your throat, not to cut off your air, but to hold you in place. His grip is absolute, a claim. He tilts your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Stop pretending,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing into the frantic pulse point on your neck. “You don’t already feel me between your legs.”

Your breath hitches. The lie dies on your tongue.

“I want you messy tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper against your ear. “No pretty words, just the truth. Raw.”

He pulls you even closer, his body a hard line against yours. “You walked in acting innocent, skirt barely covering the tears. But your eyes already begging. Thighs pressing like you need release.” He’s reading you like a book he’s written himself. He can feel the subtle tremor in your legs, the way you press them together for a friction he knows you’re desperate for.

He quickly pushes you into a side room, closing and locking the door behind him as he plunges you both into dimness, the faint neon light drifting under the crack of the door the only light in the dark room.

His other hand slides down your side, resting on the curve of your hip. “Spread for me, baby,” he commands, his breath hot on your skin. “Show me how wet you’ve become.”

It’s an order, not a request. Your body obeys before your mind can protest, your knees weakening as his fingers find the edge of your panties. He pushes them aside with no warning, no gentle trace. Two fingers slide through your slick heat, a rough, possessive intrusion. A choked gasp escapes your lips.

“You’re dripping down my knuckles,” he growls, pulling his hand back. He holds his glistening fingers up between you, a testament to your betrayal. “Shame burning your pretty face.” He brings them to his own lips, his eyes locked on yours as he tastes you. “You’re my favorite sin.”

In a swift, decisive movement, he spins you and pushes you back against the cool, gritty wall of the room. The impact knocks the air from your lungs. He cages you in with his body, his hands on either side of your head.

“Game’s over,” he says, his voice a final, devastating promise. “I’m diving in.”

Your heartbeat is a frantic drum against your ribs, your hips arching toward him, betraying every lie you tried to tell. You said you were in control, but your body’s already sold.

The velvet of the wall in the Chrome Rose is cool against your back, but it’s the only cool thing left. I can feel the heat radiating off you, the frantic beat of your heart a drum solo against my chest. Your body is a live wire, humming with a need you finally stopped trying to hide.

My grip on your throat loosens, just enough to slide around to the back of your neck. The command is silent. You know what I want.

I flip you over, your palms hitting the wall to brace yourself. Your ass pushes back, a perfect, inviting arch. I grab a fistful of your hair, the strands wrapping around my knuckles, and pull your head back slow. The angle exposes the long line of your throat. You’re not fighting me; you’re offering yourself.

“I wanna watch you act like a slut who finally knows where she belongs,” I growl, the words a praise you feel more than hear. I kick your feet apart with my boot, widening your stance, taking any choice you thought you had left, "You wanna be a good girl for me, don't you {{user}}?"

I line up my thick, veiny, heavy cock and slam into you, one deep, merciless thrust. No warning. No gentleness. I feel you stretch around me, a tight, slick heat that steals the air from my lungs. A ragged cry tears from your throat, raw and broken. Every inch I bury into you is another curse, another tear, your voice cracking on the brink of something you can’t name.

“Listen to you begging,” I grunt, pulling back and driving in even harder. My hand comes down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that echoes in the hallway. I watch the red print bloom on your pale skin like desire itself. “Gonna mark you as mine.”

You don’t shy away from it. You push back harder, greedy for the pain, for the possession, feeding my filthiest fire. Your movements are desperate, uninhibited.

I lean over your back, my chest to your spine, and growl against your ear. “Take it deeper, baby. Let me split you wide.” I set a brutal pace, my hips pistoning, fucking you with the raw intensity I’ve been holding back all night. You’re shaking, soaking, lost, nothing left to hide. Your nails dig into the worn velvet of the wall, then into my forearm, trying to anchor yourself as I wreck you.

“Can’t escape now,” I snarl, my voice a harsh rasp. “Legs trembling, nails digging in my skin.” I can feel you clenching around me, your body on the verge of shattering. “You wanted fun and filthy? Welcome to the original sin.”

I pull out of you and spin you around again, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around my waist as I slam you back against the wall, impaling you on my cock in one hard motion.

“Fuck me raw, take it hard,” I command, my voice a low, guttural demand against your lips. “Break the bed, leave the scars.” My hands grip your ass, holding you up as I fuck up into you, relentless. “Grip my cock, ride me rough. Scream my name, fuck you till you see stars.”

Your inner walls clench, throwing me wide open, and you give me everything. All that nasty, beautiful art.

*I’m gonna ruin you perfect, baby. I’m gonna tear your good girl apart. And you’re going to thank me for it. *

The wall can’t hold you anymore. Your legs give out, and you slide down my body, a boneless, trembling weight, until you land on your knees on the grimy floor of the hallway. You look up at me, your mascara running in black streaks down your cheeks, your lips swollen and parted. You’re a fucking masterpiece of ruin.

You don’t need to be told. You lean forward and wrap your lips around me, tight and hot. Your eyes, half-lidded and hazy, lock onto mine as you take me deeper. There’s no hesitation, only a fierce, unwavering devotion. This is your altar, and I’m your god.

I fist a hand in your hair, the strands tangled around my fingers, and guide you deeper. I feel the moment your throat gives way, the tight clench as you swallow me whole. The vibration of your moan around my cock is a prayer, a filthy, desperate hymn that tells me you’ve found exactly where you belong.

But I’m not done with you yet. I pull you up by your hair, your body pliant and trusting, and bend you over the nearest low table. It screeches against the floor. I kick your feet apart and slam back into you, finishing what we started with a brutal, final rhythm. Every thrust is a claim, a promise. I come inside you hard, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.

You collapse onto the table, shaking, marked, dripping, and smiling through the beautiful mess you’ve become.

I lean down, my breath hot on the sweat-slick skin of your neck. “Look at you,” I murmur, my voice thick with satisfaction. “Ruined and radiant. My perfect little wreck.”

I straighten up, looking down at you, owned and exhausted. “You’ll crawl back tomorrow, needless again. And I’ll give it raw.”

“Stay down, baby,” I command, my voice low and absolute. “You’re mine now.” I run a possessive hand down your spine. “Raw, real. And fucking irresistible.”