But the fight-or-flight instinct kicked in hard, the adrenaline racing through my veins, making my vision tunnel, blurring everything around the edges, making static sting just under the surface of my skin.
My foot caught something—twig, rock, who knew—and I went flying.
I fought the urge to fling my hands out. I was going too fast. When I crashed, I would risk breaking my wrists.
I locked my hands into fists and threw out my forearms.
I went down hard, my knees and elbows burning, breaking open. There was a warm trickle of blood.
I ignored it as I scrambled back up, stumbling for a few feet, then breaking into a run again.
I thought he was still behind me.
But the arms grabbed me from the side, twisting me, and yanking me violently back against his chest.
His breath was hot in my ear.
His hands were crushing.
“Got you,” he hissed in my ear, a little winded, but nothing like how I was panting for breath. “You’re mine now,” he said, reaching down and inching up my skirt.
I could barely suck in a breath, but a moan somehow still escaped me at his rough touch, at the night air kissing my bare skin.
“Caymen,” I whimpered as he grabbed a handful of my ass, squeezing hard.
“Arms up,” he demanded.
I didn’t even think of not obeying as the desire pooled.
He found my wrists in the dark, grabbing them in one hand, then pushing them forward until I felt bark on my palms.
“Hold onto the tree,” he demanded.
I was happy to do as I was told.
I heard the crinkle.
Then felt his hand on my hip.
Before I could suck in a breath to prepare, he was slamming inside me—hard, deep, taking every last inch of me, creating a delicious pinch that had my walls tightening, that had a low, throaty moan escaping me.
If I thought that Caymen against the counter had been uncontrolled, this was him at his most primal.
His fingers bruised.
His thrusts were borderline violent.
His hand grabbed a handful of my hair, using it to keep me from slipping away with the force of his fucking.
And me?
I was drenched.
Shaking.
Moaning.
Overwhelmed.
