“I’m not afraid.”
“Because you’ve never seen me unleashed.”
My heart slams against my ribcage. “We’re still not fully alone. Someone could walk in, that girl who always comes early. Everly?”
“Nah. She won’t be here for hours.” His fingers bite into my hip, just a bit.
“The song could end,” I counter, glancing at the console, at the silent mic. “You could leave that on and give us an audience.”
“A safety net,” he says, voice rough. “You’d have to be quiet.”
“So would you.”
His eyes darken. One hand slides up my back until his fingers curl around the nape of my neck. The other stays on my hip, just hard enough to be a reminder.
“You follow my directions. Every last one.”
“I will.”
“Clothes on,” he says.
I nod.
“Not a goddamn squeak, understood?”
I nod again.
His hand reaches out and he flicks on the mic, the red light casting over us. He pulls me down at the same time he rolls his hips up–just once, hard enough to make me gasp. The friction is immediate, electric–his cock grinding against me through the thin layer of fabric, right over my piercing. I bite my lip to trap the sound.
His grip tightens on my neck, not choking, just holding, keeping me exactly where he wants me. He rocks up again, slower this time, dragging the hard ridge of his erection along my clit piercing until I’m trembling.
I rock down to meet him, grinding in small circles, chasing the pressure. His fingers dig in harder, deeper, every time I move, but the pain only makes the pleasure better, brighter. His hand on my neck flexes, his fingers pressing just enough to make my pulse jump under his thumb.
I exhale a silent cry on my lips. His mouth crashes into mine, tongue hot and controlling. His teeth bite down, tugging at my lips. It hurts.
Iwantit to hurt. I want to feel something other than sadness and confusion. I want to feel heat. Hands. Teeth.
I ride him, hips rolling, breath hitching every time the seam of his jeans catches the ring. My hands brace on his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt. He’s rock-hard under the denim, straining, but he doesn’t rush. Just watches my face, eyes locked on every flicker of reaction.
The song shifts–darker, heavier bass–and he matches the rhythm, thrusting up in time, controlled, but relentless. My thighs start toshake. I’m close, too close, already slick and aching. A moan slips between my lips.
“Quiet,” he says, voice deep and under the music, his thumb pressing harder against my throat. “Or I’ll stop and leave you like this.”
My hips stutter, grinding down harder. He fights his own groan, jaw clenched tight. I know he’s getting close, just like the end of the song. As it starts to fade out, he reaches for the mic, I think to turn it off, but instead, he pulls it close to his mouth. Hunter leans forward just enough to reach the mic, one hand still firm on my hip, keeping me pinned exactly where he wants me. My thighs tremble, breath caught in my throat, every slide of my clit piercing over the rough denim of his jeans sending sparks up my spine. I bite down hard on my lip to stay quiet.
He clears his throat once, calm and professional, then speaks into the mic like nothing’s happening, voice low and steady, velvet over steel. “Forsyth… It’s late. The city’s breathing in deep, heavy breaths tonight. Like she’s waiting for someone to finish what they started.” He slides his hand over my shirt, fingers dragging over my nipple piercing, giving it a little tug. “Some of you are still up, restless, maybe you’re looking for something to fight off the monsters that wander our streets. Something that leaves marks you’ll feel in the morning. This next track’s for the ones who can’t sleep–lying in twisted sheets, minds running and bodies exhausted. Let it sink in. Let it hurt a little. Slide into the dark with me. You’re not alone… and you’re definitely not innocent. None of us are.”
He hits the fader, cues the song–a brooding instrumental that fills the airwaves. The red light stays off.
Only then does his grip tighten, hips rolling up once, dragging a muffled whimper from me that he swallows with his mouth over mine. He doesn’t break rhythm, and he refuses to rush. Just keeps me there, grinding silently while the music plays on, like he’s still just doing his job.
My skirt is bunched high around my hips now, panties shoved aside, the rough denim of his jeans dragging directly over mypiercing with every roll of his hips. The friction is brutal–electric,almosttoo much–and the lingering bruises on my ass flare every time I shift, turning pain into something molten that feeds straight into the heat building between my legs.
His cock is thick and rigid beneath the zipper, trapped but insistent, grinding up into me in perfect, punishing circles.
I rock down harder, chasing it, thighs trembling. His arm cinches around my waist, holding me against him so I can’t escape the pressure.
“You close?” he breathes against my mouth, voice wrecked.
