Page 40 of Locke

“If it’s too much, call me Max,” he spoke now, his voice tight. “It’ll pull me back, understand?”

I nodded once. “Okay.”

“Tell me your name,” he demanded next.

“I’ll tell you my name when you’ve fucked me back together again,” I said.

A devilish smirk slowly spread. “That, little lion, I can do.”

Thirteen

Locke

This woman was chaos.

Her demand was simple: take her how he desired it, use her like she wanted, and then go their separate ways.

Since when had the prisoner become the one to call the shots? And why the fuck had he acquiesced so heartily?

The girl was hypnotizing. He’d seen that aura before, in Conor. It reeled Locke straight in, and now that he was pulled into her orbit, he found it hard to say no to this temptress little witch.

She’d cast a spell on him.

Him.

Locke, who had never batted an eye at a pair of tits who ever dreamed of demanding a thing of him.

But her…

This defiant, dirty mouthed fighter—if she told him to drop to his knees, he’d fucking do it, and how unfair was that? The whole point of this was to be the one in charge. To abuse his power over her because he needed to know what it was like to be on this side of the fight.

The little boy in him needed this.

And for him, he would do it.

Spurred on by her resistance, he came at her, forcing her to backpedal. He cornered her swiftly against the wall of the room. She didn’t give him the opportunity to cage her. She struck him wildly, fighting with the vigor of a woman who was at the end of her rope, and all she had left was her rage. He felt the pain, in not just the physical form, but the one that sat deeper beneath the skin. A rage that was part of her soul rather than her body.

This was not the fight of a prey.

This was something else entirely.

It felt like… revenge.

But not at him.

She was just using him.

Like he was about to use her.

He felt the burn of her claw marks down his chest, and he grabbed at her hand to stop the trail she was leaving. He tugged her to him quickly, forcing her bare chest to crash against his. His arm clamped around her waist and he held her in a vise-like grip as she shook like thunder.

But not once did she actually scream. Her quiet was unnerving to Locke. He used the silence to drop his head to her mouth, to swipe at her lips with his own in a cautious way. Perhaps he might devour her mouth as he forced his body on her.

But the little prey turned her head away, refusing his mouth. It was a stark rejection. One that fuelled his desire to try again, to force it from her this time. His grip tightened, and then his hand was in her hair, balling it, forcing her face to look at him. He went for another kiss, pressing his lips against her mouth—

She bit at him like she’d done on that field.

She split back open the cut on his lip, and the blood was everywhere, all over her face and cheek, running down his chin and neck.

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