Fuck, is it weird to say safe?
That’s exactly it, though. I’ve been taken down, trapped, held. I sink into this loss of control.
My mouth works at the sudden idea that I could use the safe word again. Would he stop if I did?
Yes. I’m sure of it. This man, who’s holding me prisoner without inflicting an ounce of pain, would stop. It’s the last thing I want.
“Quit fighting,” he grates out, his voice no more than a whisper.
I kick out. I can’t help it. I’m stubborn like that.
He tightens his hold. I’m ensnared, my head dragged back against his neck.
Oh, oh God, I smell him here. Musk. Sweat. I suck in a desperate breath. He’s basic, mineral, earthy. The smell of him punches me low in the belly, mixing fear and guilt and lust into a cocktail I could drown in.
I want to drown.
His smell’s good. It feels right, unlike my ex Dean and my boyfriend before him. Every gasp is full of him and me and the raw earth smell.
A hot tear slides down my face.
My nipples are hard, my breasts aching. “Let me go,” I force out, as close to a whisper as I can manage.
“Shhhhh.” He leans into me and, sweet Jesus, his cock’s a hard, huge brand against my back. He’s rough and he’s mean and he’s going to fuck me and then walk away. That’sexactlywhat I want. “Stay very still and it won’t hurt.”
The desire’s so strong that it does hurt. My body’s too swollen, too aching, too tense.
He’s already let go of my hair to work at the front of my jeans, using his weight to pin me to the tree. I don’t even feel the desire to move, but more than that, I want him to pin me in place.
And then I buck, because I can. I shriek at the feel of his other hand at my neckline. He fists the fabric, stretches it down over my breast, dragging the top of my bra cup with it. Shock tingles in my fingers, my toes, the painful point of my nipple. Those rough fingers pinch me there, sending sparks to every cell in my body.
I’m so wet I want to sob. Aching and empty and squirming with want that only gets worse when his fingers wind through my pubic hair and give my curls a good, hard tug.
“Oh, fuck.” I don’t even try to whisper. Disguising my voice worked when I had brain cells. That’s a thing of the past.
He shushes me, ramping up my humiliation, and tugs my jeans over my hips.
This is actually happening. I mean, it’s obvious. I know. The penetration, though.
The orgasm.
Moaning, I push back, my ass wriggling in invitation.
This guy’s an asshole, though, whoever he is. He knows that I want it. That I’m close to begging for that big cock I felt against my back.
It only slows him down, makes him draw things out. He’s a tiger toying with me when he pulls my other cup down and slaps my bare breast.
And I’m cornered, just like I wanted. No agency. No choice but to take it.
I lean my forehead on the trunk and try to see something. His hands, if not his face. “Please.” I don’t know why I say it. “Please.”
All I can make out are dim shapes: my breasts, hanging crudely down, his hand switching painfully from one to the other, forcing ugly, soul-deep grunts into the air.
He shifts back, grabs both nipples and twists. I swear I go feral, howling or baying or, hell, I don’t know, communing with the moon.
Something changes. I whimper, try to turn. He holds me down with a hand to the back of my head. “Don’t move.”
Ican’tmove like this. “Please.” Pleasure zaps from my core to my limbs. God, please.
