Page 29 of Gilded Fake

“Then that makes two of us. You think you’re so much better than me? A good person doesn’t kick someone when they’re down. A good person doesn’t do what you just did with me when he has a girlfriend.”

“You want to throw that in my face?” he demands, stepping closer. “Now? After what you did up there?”

I raise my chin and give him a cool look. “Just doing my job.”

“Bullshit,” he says, stepping even closer. He brushes back the hair plastered on my forehead, and I shiver from his touch, a whole new kind of shiver, so different from the ones quaking through me from the cold.

“Maybe.”

His eyes darken, and he wraps his fingers around my throat, backing me against the car and swaying against me. “Liar.”

I smile up at him, a thrilling surge of triumph swelling inside me even as despair flashes in the back of my mind. I can’t have him, and it will only end in heartbreak, but every time he touches me, he feeds my addiction, nourishes my parched soul like one more sip of water to someone dying of thirst. It sustains me in a way nothing else can.

He might not love me, but I live for these moments, for each touch, each smile, each cutting word he deals like a fatal blow. I would rather he tell me he hates me every day of my life than not have him speak to me at all. I can bear his hatred—I’ve been doing it for years. I can’t bear his absence.

“Is this what you want?” he growls. “Tell me the truth this time, and maybe you’ll get it.”

“How could I want a reject like you?”

“Fine,” he says, dropping his hand and starting to turn.

“No,” I cry, grabbing his arm and yanking him back. My heart is pounding so hard I think I’ll faint, but I can’t let him walk away. He can reject me a thousand times, but I have to take the chance. I will always take this chance. “You’re right. I want it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” I say in a rush. “I want you throw me up against the car and fuck me so hard I can’t walk for a week.”

He grabs my throat again, shoves me back against the Mustang, and reaches down to yank his pants open. My core throbs in anticipation and my knees go weak at his sudden change of heart. I glance around at the darkened lot, sure someone will interrupt us, that something will stop us the way it always does. It’s too good to be true. There’s nothing but the cars and the rain and the diner, and the road beyond the lot, and here, there’s him and me. I’m lightheaded with disbelief and a yearning that pierces straight through my body and into the marrow of my bones.

Colt hooks his finger through the string between my legs, his knuckle brushing my skin, and I whimper like the desperate slut everyone says I am. The rain drumming on the roof of my car drowns it out, but he sees. His eyes bore into mine, and his jaw clenches before he curls his finger and rips away the fabric. He yanks my thigh aside and drives up into me in one quick, rough thrust.

I’m so shocked I can’t even breathe for a second. Then a strangled, animal cry tears from me, and I drop my head back on the car, my free leg rising to wrap around his hips, locking him to me. I’m so wet from the orgasms he already gave me that he slides all the way in with one push, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation is so intense I think I’m going to shatter. He grinds his pubic piercing against the one in my clit, his girth strains against my walls, and the piercings through his glans nudge against a spot so deep inside me I can’t breathe.

I give a helpless, shuddering cry of relief and bliss, my back arching as I seek friction.

“Fuck you, Gloria Walton,” he growls in my face, gripping my jaw, his mouth inches from mine, rain dripping off his nose. He draws back and slams into me again. “Fuck.” Again. “You.”

He keeps repeating it with each thrust, pounding into me harder and harder, until I’m afraid he’s going to crack the window, dent the metal. For once, I don’t care. I don’t care if he crushes my precious June Bug into a pile of rubble as long as he keeps fucking me in the wreckage. I want him to fuck me through the car, through the asphalt, straight into the ground. I want him to keep fucking me until I’m buried six feet under, and then I want to die with him still inside me, driving into me like a madman, like he’s trying to rip my legs from their sockets and tear me in half with the force of his powerful body, his savage thrusts, his unleashed desire.

“Tell me what you are,” he demands. “I want to hear you admit it.”

“I’m a liar,” I agree, ready to say anything if he’ll keep fucking me like that, the thick head of his cock hitting the sweet spot deep inside that hurts so good.

“And?”

“And a fake.”

“And?” he growls, gripping my thigh even harder, slamming me up against the car.

“And a whore,” I gasp out.

“My whore,” he snarls, his thrusts growing more savage. He grabs my chin and squeezes so hard his fingers bite in, making my mouth drop open to relieve the pain. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“Your whore,” I whisper.

“Atta girl,” he says, his eyes molten as he leans in so close each drop of rain splatters off his face onto mine. He relaxes his grip and slides his hand down the front of my neck, making me shudder violently against him. His breathing is labored, and he slows his pace, sliding his thick cock out and then pushing in slow and deep. “Now cum on my cock, my pretty little whore.”

I do. Helplessly, shamelessly, I squeeze my thighs around his hips and grind my clit against his pubic bone, moaning and whimpering as he claims me with each stroke until my walls clench and flutter, and my thick cum coats every inch of his bare cock as he plunges it into me in a maddening rhythm. His fingers cut into my thigh with crushing, bruising strength that makes me sob for relief as he pounds me harder, punishing every wrong I’ve ever done him, until at last, he throws his head back and roars into the night, the rain streaking down, the clouds roiling overhead. I feel his cock thicken, feel the molten heat of his rage pour into me as he erupts with volcanic force.

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