Page 376 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

He groans deep in his throat and drops his head to kiss the side of my neck. I moan, bucking my hips to force harder pressure against my pussy.

One of his fingers starts stroking my clit, then massaging it.

Waves of ecstasy spill through me, but I’m no closer to an orgasm. It just keeps building, and building, and building. Impossible, incredible, intense as fuck. Something else slips between my legs. It’s not his fingers—it has to be his cock. Buthis body is flush with mine now, and we’re in the backseat, and there’s nothing for me to look at but his dark, malicious eyes.

“See…” he murmurs. His head stays still as something thick and hard and hot rams into me. I whimper, and he grabs my jaw, keeping my focus on him. “You’re a freak…just like me.”

I moan, writhe, squirm. I’m soaked, slippery and hot. Every inch of my body is alive with sensation, and it feels like there are a thousand hands on me, touching everywhere all at once. I hear myself, moaning so loud that I’m sure someone standing beside my bed will hear me.

“You love it,” Jude says. “You loveme.”

My eyes fly open, and I’m in my dark room, a gasp rattling through my throat. I still feel the shock of his words reverberating through my mind like a ghostly echo.

Despite the deep ache in my core, I jerk my hand out from between my legs and wipe my fingers on the sheets without even thinking.

When I sit up, wetness oozes out of me, soaking my already drenched underwear. I glance over at the nightstand and grab my phone, sighing in relief when I see I still have two hours before I need to wake up.

With a groan, I fall back in bed and manage—somehow—to fall asleep again.

I don’t know what triggers these dreams, but I really wish they’d go away. They’re making thingsverycomplicated. And I have no idea what I’m going to do if they don’t stop.

Chapter 3

Jude

My eyes skate over the Range Rover’s console, and I shake my head when I see the time. This is bullshit. She’s ten minutes late. I open the car door and stalk over the drive to our Georgian-style estate.

Trust her to make me wait. Never mind the fact that I’m doing her a favor taking her to school. Never mind that I barely gotanysleep last night, because she was playing her music so fucking loud.

If she’s busy preening in front of the mirror, I swear she’s walking to school.

She can’t hear me from the kitchen, so I sprint up the stairs. On the landing, I call out, “Harper?” a second before I knock on her bedroom door. It swings open to an empty room. Her en-suite bathroom door is open a crack. Steam and the sound of running water spills out.

She’s still in the fuckingshower?

Every cell in my body is telling me to leave her behind, to go to school, to let her get herself out of this fucking mess. But even if we leave now, we’ll both be late regardless of how manytraffic signs I blow through. And as much as I hate myself—and her—for it…my father gave me a direct command. He wouldn’t hesitate to take away my car.

He’s done it before.

I hurry over to the bathroom and push open the door. I expect her to be in the shower, a pane of frosted glass between us and some steam for good measure. What I didn’t expect was to see her palm pressed against the glass. Or to hear her soft pants.

Air swirls around from the opening door, shifting some of the steam that had been shielding her from me. I catch a perfect snapshot of her naked body, one hand shoved between her legs, her head thrown back as if she’s on the cusp of a climax.

I start backing out of the bathroom, but I’m not fast enough. Harper turns to the glass and presses her forehead against it as her body shudders, a muted, “Fuck,” escaping from her lips.

Then, as if she senses eyes on her, her lashes flutter open and those hypnotic blue eyes fix on me. “Jude?” she squeals, throwing an arm across her breasts, the hand between her legs clamping over her pussy. “What the hell are you doing?”

Watching you rub one off, princess.

I drop my eyes, letting out a muffled, “Christ,” as I clap a hand over my eyes. Pointless when I already have a Polaroid of this moment seared into my mind for eternity. I turn my back. “You’re late,” I tell her evenly.

She stutters out, “And that gives you the right to barge in here like that?” I hear her snapping a towel off the rails before she barks, “Get out!”

“If your ass isn’t in my passenger seat in the next sixty seconds, I’m leaving without you.”

I’m halfway across her bedroom when she slams the bathroom door closed.

A minute later she sprints out the manor’s front door and races over to my Range Rover. She has her backpack in onehand, her shoes in the other. Her white school shirt is buttoned up all wrong and not even tucked into her pleated gray skirt. She winces when she slams the passenger door closed behind her and turns that apologetic simper in my direction.

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