Page 65 of Cruel Cravings

“SO WHAT!” I choke out despite the squeeze of his grip. “I STILL HATE YOU!”

Click.

My eyes widen watching him pull the pistol from behind him. He must’ve had it secured in the waistband of his pants.

The same sleek, silver pistol I’d taken with me when I ran into the woods. The same pistol I’d shot Sheriff McGrath with.

The same pistol I pointed at his head as I fucked him.

I swallow against the sudden hard lump in my throat. “Brontë…” I mutter. “What are you… DON’T!”

He’s pointed the pistol at his head, his finger hovering over the trigger. He redirects it toward me as I lay handcuffed in bed at his mercy.

Fear like I’ve never known floods me, ice cold and paralyzing. It’s like I’ve plunged into arctic waters, my breath permanently stolen away. I can’t breathe as I glare up at him, yet I still don’t beg. I don’t take it back.

I let my cruel words hang in the dark air that’s poisoning the room.

Brontë seems to know this. He accepts that I won’t give in… so he decides to make me.

He bows his head over mine for another heated kiss. Another touch of my lips against the mask that he hides behind.

I’m almost lost in it before I feel what’s prodding at my entrance.

The cool, sleek barrel of the pistol.

“NO!” I scream, trying to clamp shut my thighs to no avail.

He presses down against my lips, kissing me harder, and pushes my thighs open with one hand. The other nudges the pistol until it slides inside, aided by my natural juices.

It feels wrong. More wrong than anything I’ve ever felt or experienced in my life.

Fresh tears blur my vision, a cry spilling past my lips.

But the rest of me pulses with need—my nipples are so hard, they ache. My pussy stretches to accommodate the pistol’s stiff metal, the discomfort at the intrusion present until cravings take over, and all I want in the moment is to come.

All I need is the wave of pleasure that he can give me.

The confusing juxtaposition of emotions bubbles up inside me as he drags the pistol out and then back in.

I clench shut my eyes in shame yet so turned on I’m already close.

There’s a fucking gun in my pussy and I’m maybe more wet and aroused than I’ve ever been in my life.

It’s held by a man who is a twisted, psychotic stalker, and who has made my life a living hell for years. All it would take is a pull of the trigger and he could ruin me in unspeakable ways.

Sick. Vile. Truly fucked in the head.

But it’s that fear that plays into the dark desires consuming me.

The fear so intense that I’m lightheaded. So intense that it morphs into the arousal lubricating my pussy, making my walls slick enough to even accommodate the pistol in the first place.

Brontë fists my curls and forces my eyes open. He makes me hold his gaze as he fucks me with the same weapon I’d used against him.

I find myself stifling moans as he pushes it deeper,rougher, and a spark of pleasure-pain lights me up. It spreads from the nerve endings of my pussy to the rest of my body. Tingles travel up my spine, the beginnings of my impending orgasm.

My walls clench and ache around the hard foreign object, sensitive and overstimulated.

He slides it in slow and deep, then pulls it out even slower, making me feel twisted and empty without.

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