Page 67 of Hired Help

My fingers curl around the back of her neck, reaching up to tug at the band holding her ponytail, freeing her hair until it spills across her shoulders, curls cascading down her back.

I’m gentle, far too gentle as my hand delves farther into the long, dark strands. When her teeth worry at her bottom lip, I let my mouth curl into the snarl it wants to form, closing my hand into a fist and savagely twisting her hair until it strains at the roots.

Brooke’s mouth opens wide, and I spit into it, watching the recoil a second before I follow it with my tongue, jamming it as far into her as it will go.

She responds, doing battle with her own tongue, fighting for dominance. When I don’t relent, she tries to turn her head, to escape, but I easily hold her in place with the leash of her hair.

I make her stay until my cock is hard against her lower belly, straining at my jeans, fighting to be freed, so it can find the home it longs for.

When I pull back, gasping for air, I watch her eyes turn hooded, their crystal clear blue smothered by dark thunderclouds, pupils expanding to eat their fill.

Her lips are red where I’ve devoured them, teeth marks filling with a deeper crimson though I don’t remember biting her.

She’s so pretty. Breathtaking.

I stare at the stark contrast of her pale skin and crimson cheeks until she shifts from foot to foot, nervous energy making her hands flutter up to press flat against my chest.

There’s hesitation in her eyes. Hesitation edged with longing.

With a sharp jerk of my arm, I twist her head, lead her past me and toss her onto the bed. My hand tugs her hair hard enough that when I disentangle it, long strands cling to my palm. I wipe them off against the bedcovers, before covering her mouth with my left hand.

Not that she’s screaming.

Her shoulders hunch in a defensive posture, but that’s it. There’s no struggling, no fighting. My stomach plunges to the floor in annoyance.

I want her to fight me.

With a snarl, I press my knee between her thighs, forcing her legs apart. There’s a growing patch of damp arousal on her underwear. I drag them down, haul them off her and toss them over my shoulder.

The rush of blood to my cock makes me dizzy, draining whatever’s left of my brain away to maintenance level functions as I put my hands back between her legs, getting there just in time for her to clench them. I rejoice in the sharp moan she makes as I slap them apart, then slap the insides of her thighs just to make her repeat the sound, barely audible past the makeshift gag of my hand.

My fingers burrow, digging into her pussy with no regard to her comfort, shoving through the gathering wetness, forcing myself inside.

She shifts her hips, trapping my wrist at an awkward angle and I growl, low in my throat, a sound more animal than human.

And that fits the rest of me. Turned into a rutting mammal, mind lost in the urge to bury my cock deep inside her, to pin her in place while I take what I want, until she gives me what I crave.

Brooke bucks her hips, perhaps another way to struggle but it whites out my brain with a rush of pure desire. Better than snorting a line of the purest coke. Better than the lush suction of an opioid dragging me into a warm pool of mindless relaxation.

I fumble at my jeans, everything working against me as I struggle to remove the barrier between me and what I desperately need.

When my cock enters her, she clenches her muscles tight, trying to force me out. The drag against the smooth skin of my throbbing erection sends lightning bolts of pleasure to short out what’s left of my brain. I force my way into her, feeling the pull and release as she fights me, fights what her own body demands.

Then there’s a new sensation. The flutter of an orgasm sending her into rapturous spasms around the thrust of my cock.

“So fucking fast,” I gasp, my lips seeking her ear, nibbling and sucking at her lobe before I thrust my tongue into the hole, feeling her jerk away from the sensation as she’s always withdrawn from the messy sticky physicality of having sex.

And damned if I’ll let her escape. Not now this is all we have between us.

“Were you saving that one up, Brooke? Hm?” I adjust my stroke, moving faster, harder, my pelvis slapping against hers. “Did you have that one locked and loaded, ready to go?”

Her eyes blaze at me and I reach into my pocket, pulling out the same knife I used Monday, tapping the hilt of it against her forehead until she flinches away.

I snap out the blade, feeling her muscles clench harder around me, her hips thrust higher. With it pressed flat against her cheek, I stare at her, drinking in the reactions, the micro-expressions: the fear, the tension, the lust.

And it’s not enough. I don’t want consequences, I want answers.

I pull my hand from her mouth, rubbing her lower lip with my thumb from habit, sadness welling behind my eyes.

---