Page 46 of Bullet

That resolve is flimsy against the dirty thoughts burrowing through my brain. It feels like nothing compared to the throbbing heartbeat in my chest, and to the one between my legs. My nipples are ready to slash right through this silk top and my breath is coming out in sharp, little pants.

At that moment, Bullet’s eyes tear open. “I’m gonna come, Lynette.”

Panic spears me in the gut. What the hell does he want me to do about that? Give him the go ahead? Tell him not to?

His hand churns up and down his shaft. He must have been doing this for a while before I barged in on him, to be so ready this fast. Then again, if I so much as grazed my clit, I know I’d throw myself into a mind-shattering orgasm of my own.

“Okay. Yes. Make yourself come.” I swear to god, there’s nothing else to say.

Not when he fists his cock like a madman, doing things to it with his hand so tight that it looks painful. His body bows, his shoulders curling into himself. He stops breathing, and then suddenly there’s an explosion of air, the sharpest exhale and amuffled groan. His cock kicks in his hand, white jets oozing over the top of his fist. He’s angled his cock towards his stomach and the eruption is so violent that it even reaches his pecs.

I stare at the shining, wet globs, a hunger like I’ve never known blooming inside me.

I’ve never wanted to do anything more than I want to know what it would feel like if he buried his cock deep inside me and came like that. If he filled me with those hot splashes of his come. I want to know what it would taste like if I got off this couch right now and ran my finger through that glistening wetness and licked it off.

I’m so far gone that I can actually imagine myself leaning over him and cleaning off every drop, though the idea should be completely repulsive. I’ve never wanted to give head before, and I really haven’t ever wanted to get eaten out either.

All of my strange, dark impulses send a thousand alarms pinging in my brain. I shouldn’t be here right now. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I shouldn’t be burning so violently that my skin is probably steaming. I shouldn’t be sitting in ruined, soaked pajama bottoms, wondering what this man’s come tastes like, while thinking about riding his cock until he comes again, then sitting on his face while he—

I jerk upright, springing off the couch. “Let me get you a towel. Hold on.”

“Thanks,” he says past gritted teeth. “Much appreciated.”

My cheeks are blistering as I snatch the soft tea towel out of the kitchen. I wet part of it with warm water before returning to the living room and thrusting it out at Bullet.

His hand curls around it and takes it gently.

I’m the biggest sucker for punishment because I can’t stop my eyes from following his movements. He cleans his cock first, though he barely touches it—the towel is probably too abrasive for that velvet soft skin and that vulnerable, sensitive area. He’s much rougher with his stomach and chest, scrubbing away the wetness, then balling up the towel carefully. He doesn’t hand it back. He sets it in his lap while he tugs on his t-shirt, and then he stands, tucking himself carefully away in his jeans and zipping them up.

“We’re not going to talk about this,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever.”

His face is a storm, the aftershocks of pleasure still lingering there, and I’m the hottest hot fucking mess that ever existed. I need to get out of here before I combust on the spot.

“Not ever,” I hiss, picking the gun and bullets back up to put it all away, and rushing from the room.

I’m so fast in the kitchen that I probably set a world record for stashing a gun, then I scramble up to my room, turn out the lights, and fling myself under the blankets.

For the second night in a row, it takes everything I have not to jam my hand into my pajama bottoms and give myself the release I so desperately need.

I’m not ready for what happened down there. I might want it, but what has want ever had to do with anything? I know what’s right, and that wasn’t it. I’ve warned myself against this repeatedly. I don’t know what’s happened to make my ironclad will turn as soft and molten as gold. It’s pathetic, really, that Ishould capitulate and turn into this wanton, half-wild woman with this enormous sexual appetite in one day.

My icy façade has melted, and I’m so hot with shame, embarrassment, self-recrimination, and animalistic need that I can’t think straight.

But I need to.

I need to get myself in order and get this under control. I was blessed with a good brain, and I need it to function how it always has. Duty first. Emotions second, or better yet never. Sex? Who really needs it. I need to be the focused, driven, impeccable woman without a single weak spot.

Despite my resolution, my hand slips down under my pajamas, landing on my soaked, swollen pussy. I don’t allow myself the luxury of enjoying it. I just work my clit for all of twenty seconds before I shatter so hard that I just about black out. I feel no relief after, just a growing sense of emptiness that makes me want to scream in frustration.

Instead, I climb out of bed and grab a new pair of pajama bottoms before wrapping myself up tight in the comforter and closing my eyes. I purposely do that stupid exercise with words where you think of a letter and name all the words you can that start with it, so my brain doesn’t go straight back to giving me a repeat of the gorgeous, godlike, raw and rough man pleasuring himself downstairs.

I’ve never watched porn, but if it’s anything like that, no wonder people get turned on.

“Fucking damn it,” I mutter into my pillow before ramming my face into it so hard that I can’t breathe and have to tilt sideways before I smother.

Apparently, now that I’m here in Hart, and will undoubtedly be seeing Bullet every day, the torture is just starting.

Chapter 12

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