Page 52 of SNOB

Then it hits me. “Is that a paintbrush?”

“This is art class, isn’t it?”

He thrusts harder, another moan escaping me. “Mac…”

“Careful how you say my name, Butterfly,” he groans in my ear, his cock rubbing against my ass. “I might just fuck you.” He thrusts that paintbrush harder, pressing it against my spot, reading my body like a book. A very dirty book. "I won’t be nice when I do.”

“Is that what you want?” I'm almost breathless as the room disappears around us. It’s like I’ve been craving his touch. His attention. Even the stress from Hannah’s conversation fades.

“What I want is to see how good you take this.” He moves that stick faster, his grip on my strands getting tighter. “And you take it really well. Just like a Valley whore.”

“Fuck…” It’s hard to keep my composure when he moves the end of the thick brush faster and faster inside me.

Why do I let him keep doing this?

Because it feels so good.

This is a distraction. A distraction from him. A distraction from Beau.

His words circle my head.

Humiliation. Degradation. Praise.

“Will you come for me like the pretty little slut you are?” He groans in my ear as if he’s getting off on this too. His words swirl in my head as that pressure inside me builds.

You’re just as fucked up as I am.

My ass bounces back on that brush, wanting more. Moving his grip from my hair to my ass, he helps to pull me harder on it. And when he moves his hand around to rub at my swollen clit, I can’t help it anymore.

My legs shake as the room blurs.

“Do it,” he growls in my ear. “Come for me.”

My body listens to his command, my hand slapping against the door as I brace myself. A rush of electricity rolls through me, my body tensing as I reach that sweet release.

“Mac…” I moan, and I’m too deep in bliss to hate it. The room falls away, and I see fucking stars.

He keeps thrusting as roll after roll of intense warmth takes over me. It’s not until my body stops trembling that his chuckle fills my ear. “Did I kill you like I killed Beau?” The sickness of his words isn't as harsh, his tone soft. The shakes in my body calm like the end of a storm before he releases me.

My back falls against his sweaty chest, an arm coming around me. Looking back at him, his eyes aren’t as sharp as before. Like there’s a human in that monstrous demeanour. And all I can ask is…

“What the fuck?”

But… that’s not my voice.

My eyes whip to the sound before they widen.

Greta.

She stands in the doorway as we lock eyes just as Mac pulls that paintbrush out of me.

“Mac,” I whisper and he turns back too, but Greta scurries away.

Fuuuck. Fuck!

Was the door open the entire time?

Pushing Mac back, I adjust my clothes and bolt for the door, our conversation moments ago in my head. The one where I told her nothing’s happening with Mac. “Greta, wait?—”

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