Page 74 of Fire Fight

I’m vulnerable.

I’m exposed.

Like he’s reading my thoughts, Drake eases my hem higher and higher, pushing it up, up, up until it sits at my waist.

He angles my head for another kiss, this time rubbing against my flimsy underwear, increasing my excitement with every stroke.

When I moan, betraying myself, his mouth captures the sound, swallowing it whole.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, pulling back from our kiss as his fingers clamp harder around my head, massaging my scalp as he moves me where he wants me. “I can feel it through the fabric.” His finger curls, the knuckle finding my slit and pressing until the material is inside my lips. “You’re getting these poor panties absolutely soaked.”

The roaring need that bursts forward at his whispered words scares me. It overtakes my senses, demanding things I’ve shied away from in the past. Demanding his touch. Insisting he fill my pulsing pussy until it drives away the ache that lodges deeper and deeper until it frightens me. Until I can barely think above the throbbing need.

Drake bends his mouth to my ear again, sucking at my lobe, panting until the sound turns my ear into another erogenouszone, shrill and insistent. A finger slips inside my panties, resuming the rhythmic friction on my bare skin, tracing the same path as his touch excites me into a painful storm of need.

His lips find the curve of my throat as he twists our bodies at torturous angles, all for the pleasure of kissing along my windpipe, licking the hollow above my collarbones.

“Who’s Madelaine Summers?”

The question is lost in a rush of sensation, the tiny warning bell ringing in the back of my mind drowned out by the desire that grows stronger with every pump of my heart.

Then his fingers tighten on my hair, twisting it into a rope, dragging at the roots until they’re shrieking in alarm. “Who is Madelaine Summers?” he repeats, drawing his fingers away from my pussy just as I reach the edge, desperate for the promised release.

“I don’t…”

My scalp screams as he twists my hair again, throbbing when he eases his grip. “You do.” His voice is ragged as he demands, “Tell me.”

The change in direction is a slap, shocking me back to reality. I’m straddling him in a car, far from any help, incapacitated.

He lets go of my hair, pulling a flick knife from his pocket and slicing through my panties on each side, tugging away the fabric to leave me exposed. He balls them into his fist, putting the knife away, his hand cupping me with a firmer grip. The touch that would have been welcome a second ago, now sends an icicle straight to my heart.

“You can talk, or I can shove these down your throat to keep you quiet while I do whatever I want to you.”

With one twist of his fingers the top button of his jeans is undone, the zipper dragging down an inch as his hard cock strains against the thick fabric.

His finger rubs along my pussy again and this time, I struggle at the touch, tears springing from nowhere, one trickling down the side of my nose and dropping into his lap, marking a dark circle on the bunched denim.

I’m an idiot.

My arms are restrained, and my legs splayed wide, on display for the world to see. Drake coaxed a myriad of sensations from my body that I’ve never felt before.

Enough to have me near ecstasy, fully alive for the first time in years. I feel close to him, like a part of him is beating inside my heart.

But he doesn’t give a shit about me.

My pleasure is just a tool for him to get what he wants. All his touches were cold, calculated. I’m no better than a bug under a microscope with him testing to see what gets me to talk.

The realisation comes too late to do anything, but self-recriminations still pile in my brain. Pointing out the obvious. That I’m the stupidest girl who ever lived.

And Drake’s smirk grows wide, adding to the whirlpool of panic that tries to suck me into its dark void.

“I’m going to try asking you again and this time, I want you to give me a full and honest answer.” He leans back, withdrawing his hand to stare at my naked lower half with a slippery smile. Then he pulls out his knife again, stabbing the blade into the seat beside my right leg.

“You’ll answer or you’ll pay the penalty.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DRAKE

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