Page 102 of Shattered In Darkness

“Good girl.” He snarls it, pride and cruelty tangled. “That’s it. Milk my cock. You’re so fucking desperate for it.”

He pulls out and shoves back in, faster now, wild. He grips my hip, yanks me upright, presses my back to his chest. Fisting my tits, he pinches and rolls my nipples between his fingers. “You think about anyone else when you touch yourself? You ever pretend it’s someone else fucking you like this, Lola?”

“No. Only you. Only ever you.”

He groans, savage, fucking me harder, losing control. His hips slam. I hear him pant, heat burning my neck through the mask.

“I’m going to fill you.” His voice is a graveled promise. “You want it? Want my cum inside?”

“Yes. Please. I need it.”

His cock swells inside me. He slams deep, holds, trembles. He comes, spilling hot, flooding my cunt. I feel it leaking out already. He keeps me pinned, one hand on my throat, one palm smashed over my tits, forcing me to feel everything.

We stay like that, shaking, ruined, breathless.

When he lets go, my legs buckle. I slide to the floor. He stands over me, mask gleaming white in the dark. His cock is still hard, shining with my wetness and his cum. He strokes himself, daring me to move.

I look up at him.

He laughs coldly. “Remember this, Bambi. Remember who owns you. Remember who you beg for in the dark.”

I nod. I can’t speak.

Brody crouches, grabs my jaw, forces my mouth open. Smears his thumb over my lips, inside, making me taste us both. He stands, fixes his jeans, mask never lifting. I am left on my knees, cum dripping down my thighs, empty, used, and desperate to be filled again.

The storm pounds outside. The whole world shakes.

Inside, it’s just him and me. Just the dark. Just his hands and his hate and the twisted, filthy need that owns us both.

32

BRODY

THE PAST (AGED 19)

Sunlight gnaws through the crack in the curtain, slicing my eyelids open. I blink. Sheets twisted from dreams I can’t remember. My pillow still has her scent, but it’s barely there. Vanilla. Some kind of shampoo only she uses. Faint, but enough to punch my chest open with wanting.

Hope. I hate the word. Hate that it can exist even for a second in a place like this. But today it dares. Creeps up my throat so I almost smile. Idiot.

Downstairs, the house is already in motion, everyone making sure not to cross into each other’s orbit. I hear Richard’s voice, slicing through a call. He’s always angry, or irritated, or neutral. Rarely happy.

Sophie’s shoes make no noise on the tile, but she’s there, always watching for the first sign of a storm. She pours herself oatmeal, looks at the spoon, looks at the clock, looks at me. Eyes darting.

Wolfing down a protein bar, I stare out the window. Lola’s house. Curtains drawn, but I know she’s in there. Alive. Waiting. I check my phone. No message. Not yet. I go back upstairs. Every muscle in my body is tight, wired, primed. I could run ten miles. Or tear a door off its hinges. My mind just goes to her. Skin, lips, curves. I want her here. I want her now.

I text her. Come to the back door. I will let you inside.

I walk back downstairs to the back door and wait. After a few minutes, I see her. She knocks exactly how I like—two short, fast raps, barely making a noise. Smart, careful. Better than me.

I open the door. There she is, cheeks flushed, hair tangled wild. Blue in her eyes like nothing else. She grins and I want to fucking devour her.

Pulling her in, hard, she laughs, but it’s not soft. It’s hunger. Bambi, my Bambi, all trembling wrists and hips that beg to be bruised.

I slam the door shut behind her and drag her upstairs. The world is just me, just her, the way it’s supposed to be. We don’t even talk. Don’t need to. Mouths find each other, hands everywhere. It’s desperate, every time, because we never know if this is the last one. I slide my hands under her shirt, obsessed with the way her ribs shudder when I touch her. She’s laughing into my mouth, clawing at my back, her thighs clamped around me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.

I rip her jeans down to her knees, drag my palm up her bare thigh, greedy, rough. She moans. I want to split her open, pour everything inside her so she can’t ever be empty. She’s wet for me, always is. I slide two fingers inside, thumb teasing her clit, and her head thumps back against the mattress. I fucking love it. I could die like this, her body trembling, begging my name. Mine.

We move fast. It’s never enough time. She yanks my sweats down, hand already working my cock. She knows every inch. I roll over, pin her underneath me, my teeth on her collarbone. Her hands in my hair, tugging, gasping. I slam into her, rough, and she cries out.