Those slender fingers turn the pages every few minutes, like she isn’t truly focused on reading…I want them on me.
Want to hold her.
To bite and mark her flesh. Her soul. I’ll taste her too.
The urge to rip my mask off, climb inside, and own her vibrates throughout my body. My lungs burn with it. My teeth grind.
I’m a hunter, devouring every detail. Each messy strand of blonde hair, no longer twisted into a bun, drapes over her breasts. The crease between her brows, I can’t wait to lick it smooth.
Her foot taps nervously against the quilt, and it drives me wild. Those knees, my hands would force them apart before I split her open, burying myself in her heat.
This woman isn’t just beautiful. She’s something else—nothing like these whiny assholes my family kills. Nothing at all.
At the first sign of danger, the living-hides gasp, cry. They bargain.
They try to run.
Skylar took the charm a stranger threw at her and stuffed it into her shirt.
She’s in a town she doesn’t know. Their car has mysteriously broken down.
Yet here she is, a little nervous but otherwise calm.
I’m anything but. Filthy thoughts slice through me, sharper than any knife I own.
My dick jumps just by thinking about her pussy. It’s a word I’ve heard from Jett. I know what it means, even if I’ve never had it.
I smelled her earlier, and I’m going to chase that scent again and again.
Right before I slam into her.
I’ll pound her so hard I’ll leave bruises. I’ll come listening to her cries of pleasure. Of pain.
A pain like mine.
Wanting her hurts. Being unable to touch her is misery.
Looking at her, picturing her tears and her sex squeezing mine sends a pang of electricity up my spine.
Even when she’s out of reach, she makes me feel so good.
My blood, every drop of it, has rushed down my body. Centered in my groin.
There’s been no one before Skylar. There’ll be no one after.
The intense desire to possess her takes over. I undo my jeans button and fly, freeing my cock. The tip is already damp withprecum, my body primed to ram into her. I shove my mask up just enough to spit in my palm, then fist myself.
Braced against the window frame, I stay steady. One hand grips the wood like it’s her, the other works me slow, relentless. Root to tip. I squeeze myself, making it hurt because of how desperate I am for the friction.
But stroking gives me nothing. Just scraps. A pale imitation of what I need.
What I need is her beneath me. My hips would grind while her nails tear down my back, breaking skin.
Her pussy, hot and wet, will be much better than those on Jett’s websites, the ones he forgot to close. The ones I never cared for.
Being inside her will be even better than my hand pumping me.
Biting my lip, I silence the groans and huffs that threaten to escape. I stare at her, hard, pretending we’re already together.
