“You’re wasting your breath.” I shift my grip, my hand returning to cover her mouth a second after I shove her cheek against the wall. “Told you, there’s no getting out of this. So take it.”
My hips find their rhythm, rocking into her. I catch her zipper with my other hand and drag it down.
She can scream into my palm, can cry. Hell, she can pretend she doesn’t get off on it just as much as I do.
But she forgets one thing.
That I’m here. Looming over her. Seeing her.
I watch her back arch and feel her ass rub up against me.
I don’t think she can help herself. Her desperation crushes her attempts to break free.
“I’ll give you what you’re begging for.” My middle finger drifts down, brushing wet fabric. Heat surges through me. Her tears and accusing glare are just as hot. “But before that, there’s just one thing I need to take care of. I have to make them believe I’m hurting you.”
The desire in her eyes morphs into confusion. She blinks, eyebrows knitting tight, like she can’t make sense of my words.
No time to explain.
I release her mouth and slam my hand twice against the wall beside her head, each crack loud enough to rattle the boards.
Her body jerks, a sharp screech tearing out of her throat. Perfect.
It’s as if I threw her against the wall. As if I’d beaten her.
Never.
To keep up appearances, I raise my hand a second time.
“Stop! No, no, no,” she screams, turning her face to the wall. Pressing her forehead against it. “No!”
Hiding from me infuriates me just as much as the thought of her running away. I turn her face back to the side so I can see this—her expression when I shove my hand into her cotton panties.
It takes a few strokes and?—
Yes.
She’s moaning, huffing, heating up.
I rub up against her, my middle finger dipping lower, into her pussy.
Curling my finger inside her hole, I’m consumed by it. It’s where I want to be buried for days.
“Wet.” And perfect. “Means you want it. You’re hot for my finger.”
Her scent clings to me, and I groan when she clenches around me. I explore and graze every hot inch of her and—yes, she likes it. Her thighs shake. Little sounds spill out of her, no matter how hard she bites them back.
When her moans get louder, I grunt, “Stop it.”
“No, you stop it.” Her refusal sounds a lot like consent when her cheek is so goddamn red, and her smell is everywhere. “My sister. She’s hurt. I need to help her.”
“She’s alive.” I give her another finger, experimenting, rubbing her until her body responds, until she’s swelling beneath my touch. “Don’t worry.”
“Yes, but?—”
But nothing, because when I change an angle, and my fingers graze another spot, Skylar’s words die on her beautiful pink tongue.
The more I touch her, the more her eyes change. The more she forgets about anyone else other than the two of us.
