Page 42 of Into Ruin

He just looks…

Harper Shay, do not say handsome.

I glance around, and my gaze lands on his hockey bag. I leave his side and crouch before it, carefully unzipping it and fishing around. When my fingers find the familiar texture of tape, I smile. It’s not duct tape, but it’ll do.

Ten painstaking minutes later, Camden’s arms are secured over his head. His wrists have been thoroughly taped to his headboard.

The laces from his skates probably would’ve been better, but they’re not in his bag for some reason.

Whatever.

I also opened the blinds on his two wide windows, letting in a bit of light. Enough to see without squinting anyway.

I bite my lip. He either didn’t wake up—I made sure to gososlow—or he’s the world’s best actor. I glance to where I set my phone after I found the tape. It’s been recording this whole time, but I’m not sure I want to… Yeah, fuck it.

No one has to see it if it comes out like shit.

I slide his blankets off his body, kick off my sleep shorts and straddle his hips. I let my weight settle on him, and only then do I let myself register the sharp burn of arousal between my legs. I knew it was there. I woke up with the sensation, woke upknowingwhat happened.

And now I’m going to take what I need from him.

I reach down and palm his dick. I take a second to work my fingers through the gap in his boxers and grip him directly, slowly stroking him to hardness. When he’s tented up, I shift forward. He doesn’t react when I expose his length and navigate it to my slit. I’m wet from his edgingandhis cum, and it makes accepting his size all the easier.

My breath comes out in a short exhale when he fills me.

On top… it’s a different angle like this. I roll my hips, taking him deeper, and my eyes flutter.

No. I need to focus.

I push his shirt up, exposing his abdomen, his stomach, his chest.

He has a six-pack while sleeping. I didn’t really know that was a thing, unless he’s flexing. My gaze whips to his face, but his eyes are still shut.

Maybe he should join me in consciousness.

I lean forward, putting my face over his. With one hand, I cover his mouth.

With the other, I pinch his nose.

Wait for it.

The deprivation of air snaps him awake. He jerks under me, every muscle in his body cording.

“Shh,” I say in some mockery of what he said to me, “it’s just me.”

He thrashes, and I release his nose. His nostrils flare when he inhales. His gaze cuts through me, so different from his sleeping, peaceful expression. His biceps leap as he yanks at his wrists, and his brows furrow when they don’t move.

I used a lot of tape.

His nostrils flare again, and his jaw works under my fingers. My palm is clapped to his lips, my nails digging into his cheek.

But his fury is nothing compared to the shock that flickers across his face when I roll my hips.

“Oh,” I groan. I lift up a little and lower back down, and he hits a deep part inside me that needs it again. “You feel good like this.”

He shakes his head, glaring.

“No, no.” I move again, rolling. The micromovement sends shivers of pleasure through me. “You don’t need this—Ido.”

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