Page 64 of Cruel Cravings

…but also from mine, even if I’d never admit it.

I’m breathless and aching, my body sore from pain. I’m shaking from the anger and frustration and lightheaded from the intense hatred. But there’s another part of me where my pulse races and my spine shivers and my pussy spasms. This part of me that screams just as loudly as the cruel words I’ve spoken. That begs for a moment of peace.

For pleasure.

Brontë closes the gap. He squeezes my throat and drags me toward him and then presses his mouth against mine—or what would be his mouth if it weren’t for the mask.

I’m left kissing leather. I’m kissing the wide gape that’ssupposedto be his mouth.

Yet desire sparks through me like an explosion of fireworks. I return his kiss with a lash of my tongue, licking at the opening of his mask as he tightens his grip on my throat and then gropes at my breasts.

He pushes me back against the pillows and tugs down the cups of my bra. Both breasts spill free, the supple mounds exposed, my nipples dark and puffy.

I cry out as he pinches the right one between his large fingers, tugging and pulling it forward.

Tears mist my eyes at the sharp prick of pain. He only tugs harder, twisting the puffy bead and watching the emotion flicker across my face.

“Don’t!” I pant. “I said… don’t… touch me…”

But who the fuck am I kidding?

My pants are wanton. They’re breathy and my skin’s hot.

My nipples grow stiffer, more erect as Brontë tortures them. He pinches and pulls. He twists and tugs. As I turn my head to the side and cry out some more, he lets go completely and then smacks my breasts hard with the open side of his palm.

“AH!” I scream at the smarting pain. “STOP! I said… I said… st-st…”

My mouth drops open and no sound comes out.

I’m robbed of all air as Brontë cups both breasts into his hands and gives them a rough, crushing squeeze. The pain percolates across the soft mounds of flesh, leaving them sore and enflamed like the rest of my body.

But as it does, and as I jerk against the handcuffs, I realize I’m playing along. I’m slick and flushed, my pussy throbbing in want.

He knows it too; he knows it because we understand each other.

“I hate you,” I whisper, and he grabs me by the face and forces me to look up at him. I spit at him, and he twists my nipple. I cry out and he silences me with fingers in my mouth, shoving them down deep. He makes me choke on them just like my hallucination—or was it real?

At this point, I don’t know anymore.

My head’s reeling and I’m gasping for air as he withdraws his fingers. They shine with my saliva as he rips my panties away and slides them into my pussy.

“Don’t touch me!” I demand. “I hate you and you’re hideous and you make me?—”

Brontë silences me with a smack across the cheek. It’s sharp and abrupt, though not hard. Just enough to startle me and shut me up.

I blink up at him through wet lashes, more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

“You don’t,” he says simply.

His fingers move inside me. They slide in and out of my throbbing pussy in slow, deliberate fashion, intensifying the arousal I was already feeling.

I turn my head away from him and focus on the hate. I concentrate on how deeply I loathe him and how I wish I would’ve shot him when I had the chance.

Anything but the hot feelings of arousal that crash like tidal waves over me as his fingers move deeper and rougher inside me. My pussy squeezes back, milking his fingers, pulsing around the thick digits as if begging for more.

“You make me sick,” I pant. “You disgust me and I’ll never want you!”

Brontë’s hand returns to my throat, another dominating warning. He withdraws the fingers from his other hand that’s slid inside my pussy and wipes them across my cheek. The sticky wet evidence of my arousal.

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