Page 80 of Knotting With A Stranger

I purr, pressing my thighs together, desperate for friction, for relief.

“Then make me yours,” I whisper, my body already his to ruin.

He leans back just enough to admire his work—my wrists bound, my body flushed and trembling beneath him. A grin pulls at his lips, his gaze dragging over me like he’s savoring every inch. Not just looking—devouring.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts and underwear, dragging them down slowly, as if he’s unwrapping something rare, something meant only for him.

“You are everything I need.” His voice is rough, but there’s something almost reverent beneath it, something that makes my breath hitch.

He doesn’t rush. Instead, he runs his palms over my bare thighs, spreading warmth and anticipation like a brand. His touch is slow, deliberate, mapping me with a kind of aching appreciation that has me trembling before he’s even fully touched me.

“Every inch of you, angel.” His lips brush my hip, his breath a wicked promise. “Every fucking inch is mine to taste, to worship, to claim.”

My back arches, my hands above my head flexing in their restraints as he takes his time, his mouth exploring—pressing kisses, dragging his tongue in teasing strokes, nipping just enough to cover me in goosebumps.

He settles between my thighs, his hands firm yet tender as they spread me wider. The anticipation is unbearable, my entirebody strung tight, aching for more. Then, his gaze meets mine, dark and filled with something deeper than hunger. Something savage.

“You want me to take you?” he murmurs. “I want to feel you fall apart first.”

I whimper, my body thrumming, heat pooling so fiercely I think I might shatter before he even pushes inside.

“Then stop teasing,” I gasp, my head tipping back. I’m panting, my hips rocking, and I let my knees drop wider. “I need you.”

His smile is slow, knowing. “Oh, angel,” he breathes, bringing his hand to the apex of my inferno and spreading me with two fingers.

I groan. The touch, the desperation, is destroying me.

“I love how pink you are, how much you glisten.” Then he drives two fingers into me, thick, long fingers that stretch me, and I cry out. Fuck me, but that’s what I need.

My bound hands flex, fingers twitching as if they’re desperate for something—anything—to hold on to. I arch, instinctively reaching, and my fingertips brush against the cold metal edge of the washing machine behind me. I grip it, the hard surface grounding me.

Hunter isn’t gentle. I knew it the moment his hands claimed my thighs, the way he nudged me wider, his fingers pumping into me, causing that unrelenting stretch. He watches, completely focused, his grin dark and devastating as his fingers keep vanishing into me.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, staring at me like he’s looking at something priceless—something that belongs to him.

Pleasure coils tighter, spiraling higher, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I’m teetering right there—so close, so damn close.

Then he stops.

“No… don’t stop!” I cry out, my hips rocking instinctively toward him, chasing the sensation, the release I was seconds from shattering into.

But he’s already on his feet, leaving me aching, exposed, completely at his mercy.

Every line and ridge of muscles cuts like he was sculpted just for sin. My mouth goes dry. The way his abs flex, the deep V leading lower—he’s beautiful in a way that steals breath, the kind that makes you forget your own name.

His hands move to his belt, the soft clink of metal snapping me out of my haze. My pulse thunders as he pushes his jeans down, leaving nothing between us. Nothing to hide how much he wants this—wants me.

Then he’s kneeling, spreading my thighs apart further, his hands gripping my hips as though I’m something to be savored. His gaze lifts, locking onto mine, full of promise, possession, and the wicked intent of a man about to make me his.

“Now,” he breathes. “Let’s see how long you can hold on.”

My breath stutters, my body thrumming with the unbearable need he’s just denied me. Hunter kneels between my thighs like a man prepared to devour me, but his eyes tell a different story. There’s no mercy in them. Just heat, possession, the kind of brutality that promises I won’t be the same once he’s done with me.

His hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into my skin as he drags me forward, pulling me closer until I’m right where he wants me. I’m trembling, my bound hands still clutching the back edge of the washing machine, trying to ground myself, to steady my thoughts, but it’s impossible.

Not when he’s looking at me like that.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he murmurs, and the rasp of it sends shivers through me. “All spread out for me, desperate, already shaking.”

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