Page 46 of Cruel Cravings

But I’ll figure it out real fast if I have to. If Brontë wants to take me there.

“Who have you been in contact with, Brontë?” I ask. “The police? The hospital staff? You know, I’ve been thinking, and it’s funny how no one ever sees you but me. Almost like it’s intentional. Almost like you’re all in on it.”

Another laugh pours out of me as I glance sideways at him.

“Of course,” I whisper. “You were working with them the whole time. Tell me the truth and I might spare your life.”

He challenges me with the heat in his dark green gaze, and just when I think it’s the only reaction he’s going to give me, he speaks for the second time.

“You were where you belonged.”

His voice is raw, naturally throaty, like he’s used it so little his vocal cords can’t keep up.

I freeze in shock at his audacity, breaking into a laugh that he woulddaremouth off.

“What did you just say to me?” I ask slowly.

I’m flushed, hot all over. The heat rises from the inside ’til it’s left me hot everywhere. It’s same precursor to the explosion I’d had yesterday. The mania is taking over, it’s driving me to the edge of sanity, like a fuse about to blow.

“What did you say to say to me, Brontë? You said I deserved it? I deserved to be there?”

I hop into his lap in a smooth motion, my thighs on the outside of his. The pistol suddenly feels so natural in my hands as I press it against his temple.

“Careful,” I croon. “Be very fucking careful with what you say next. Tell me, tell me I didn’t deserve it!”

Brontë lifts his chin defiantly, his jaw clenched as if made of steel.

He’s definitely challenging me. He’s daring me to fucking do it.

A beat of madness pounding deep inside, my adrenaline on high, I’m struck by the same realization I had last night. His defiance, his strength, his dominance even in the face of captivity, all of if does something to me.

It turns me on.

This massive monster who has been stalking me and made my life hell turns me on.

I’m jumping out of my skin to make him feel pain while down below, my pussy’s throbbing in want. In some sick and twisted way, these moments between us make me wet.

I’m not alone.

As I sit astride Brontë’s lap and we glare into each other’s face, Ifeelhim. The bulge that hardens right under me, thick and engorged even through his pants.

I’m panting now as I glance down between us and my hips naturally undulate in his lap, grinding down against him.

“Look who’s hard,” I taunt. I lean forward and lick at the mouth of his mask, pistol still pressed against the side of his head. “Want a taste of pussy? I’ll tell you what, Brontë. I’ll take you to heaven before I blow your fucking brains out and send you to hell.”

His wide, cavernous chest heaves with the next ragged breath he takes. It sends a direct frisson of excitement jolting through me, like a transfer of energy. We haven’t even fucked yet and already I’m so damn in tune with him.

I can feel the most primitive side of him emerging. The more I grind my hips and let my pussy rub against his erection, the harder he breathes. It doesn’t matter that our clothes are in theway, serving as a barrier. The friction it creates is delicious and sinful, a real fucking tease for us both.

My panties cling to my labia, soaked through. The denim I’m wearing grazes the sensitive area and turns my breath shallow as I mash my pussy against his huge bulge.

It feels so good, I could probably come from just this. He could too.

He’s quickly losing it, his mask futile now. He can no longer act composed.

“You like that?” I pant, squeezing my thighs outside his. I rock harder and lean toward his ear. “Would you like to feel my pussy, Brontë? Do you want that big fucking dick of yours to be buried deep inside me?”

He tenses up, breaths coming even harder. Low and animal-like.

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