“You do.” My thumb circles her clit through the fabric until she jerks, unable to stop herself. “You want me so fucking bad you can’t breathe. The difference between us is that you’re ashamed of it, ashamed of what it means to give in to that want. But I’m not, and your body’s already mine. It’s begging me toclaim it.” Her thighs squeeze around my wrist in a last act of defiance. I shove harder, prying her open, making her yield.
“You’re a virgin, no doubt,” I growl, not asking. “Kept yourself pure, saved for your future husband—a good, gentle man who’d touch you softly, whisper sweet words, and never mark you.” My fingers drag lower, slicking over her clit until she gasps. “Unfortunately, that’s not the type of man I am. I’ll mark you, claim you, ruin you.”
“We can’t,” she sobs, trembling. “It’s a sin…”
I lean in, lips grazing her ear, voice rough and merciless. “Then let me be your sin.”
Before she can protest again, I slip beneath the elastic and find her slick heat. Her body jolts, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat.
“Fuck,” I groan, my fingers sliding through her soaked folds. “You’re dripping for me. All this while you were crying about how much you hate me—your pussy’s telling me the truth. Doesn’t feel like hate, Saint. Feels like you’re desperate for me.”
“You’re wrong. I hate you,” she gasps, but her hips roll helplessly, grinding against my hand for more.
I laugh low, dark. “Hate me all you want. You can fight me with your mouth, but not with your body. Right now it’s mine—wet, aching, begging for me to touch it.” My thumb circles her clit, rough and steady, while two fingers press lower, stroking her entrance. “You’re gonna come on my hand whether you admit you want it or not.”
Her whimper breaks, caught between denial and need.
“That’s it,” I murmur, working her harder now, forcing the sounds from her throat. “Every gasp, every shiver—you hear that? That’s you giving yourself away. Don’t fight it, Saint. Don’t fight me. Just let go.”
“I can’t—” she sobs, trembling.
“You can, you will.” My voice is a rough command in her ear as my thumb grinds mercilessly over her clit. My teeth catch her bottom lip, biting down until she cries out, the sound muffled against my mouth. I don’t kiss her—I claim her, sharp and cruel. “Give it to me. Come for me. Scream my name when you break.”
“It’s wrong—it’s—oh God.”
“No.” My words are a growl, sharp and final. I bite her lip again, harder this time, dragging another cry from her throat. “Not God. Calder. Say my name when you come.”
“I can’t—I won’t?—”
“You will,” I snarl, grinding into her, my fingers merciless. “You’ll come when I tell you to. For me, Saint. Only for me.”
Like a bomb, she explodes. Her body arches, breaking against my hand as her orgasm rips through her. My name bursts from her lips, raw and desperate, while her pussy clenches tight around my fingers, soaking me.
I don’t let up—I keep working her, grinding her clit, forcing her through every spasm until she’s sobbing and gasping in my grip, undone and trembling. Whatever fight was left in her is gone now. Only when she’s shaking so hard she can’t breathe do I finally ease back, my fingers slick and glistening with her release.
Her beautiful face is streaked with tears, shame etched into every line.
I hold my fingers up, slick with her release, gleaming in the dim light. “You can try to hide. You can try to lie. But the truth is right here, Saint.” I rub my fingers together, my mouth watering with the need to taste her release. “No matter how much you deny me, no matter how hard you try to escape it—I’ll prove it to you again and again. Prove who you belong to. Until there’s no doubt left in that pretty head of yours.”
This might be a terrible situation, but I’m not letting either of us lie about the way we feel for each other. Not anymore. We’re in this together, even if it means we both die.
Calder
The driveinto Black Hollow Creek takes twenty minutes from the cabin, following a route that exists on no map. I navigate by memory through the dense pine forest, over creek beds that will flood come spring, and past the old mining road that hasn’t seen use since my grandfather’s time.
My mind is elsewhere—on the woman back at my cabin, on the problem I’ve created, on the impossibility of any clean solution. Her face haunts me. Not just the terror from when I first took her, but the defiance. The way she looked at me last night when I touched her, when her body betrayed what her mouth denied.
Except with her, something in me fractures.
The forest thins as I approach the main road, mountains rising on either side like ancient guardians. Morning light spills through the canyon, setting the granite faces ablaze.
This land owns me as much as my family owns it.
Black Hollow Creek sprawls below me as I crest the final ridge. The town clings to the valley floor, with a population of 2,847, according to the sign that hasn’t been updated since I was a kid. Main Street cuts through the center—two lanes ofcracked asphalt lined with false-front buildings unchanged since the 1950s.
I park outside Garrison’s Feed Store. The truck’s black paint is dust-covered from the drive. The morning sun shines on Blackfeet Peak in shades of amber and rust. I need supplies that won’t raise questions and need to be seen conducting normal business.
The feed store’s bell announces my entrance. Tom Garrison emerges from behind the counter, his weathered face carefully neutral.
