Page 112 of Traitor

Fucker.

But I can't even think about it, not when my body is flooded with sensation. His thumb enters me slowly. Every touch, every movement is too much, too little, never enough.

Heat spirals outward, embers igniting into an uncontrollable blaze. I burn. I shake. I can barely breathe.

His fingers keep moving. In. Out. Curl. His other hand keeps stroking my clit. His thumb applies just enough pressure inside me to keep me on edge, to hold me there, body straining for more, for release.

He's so fucking good. How is he able to make so many different movements at the same time? Ambidextrous fucker. He plays my body like a violin.

The moment I'm about to go over, he stops.

Everything vanishes.

A gasp rips from my throat, desperate, frantic. I'm moved fast, repositioned.

Knees. Hands. A sharp, fluid shift.

A pause.

And then, I feel his thick cock impaling me with a brutal, devastating thrust.

I barely have time to process before he moves again, his hand anchoring me at my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me, where I have no choice but to take everything he gives.

His thumb enters me again. So fucking good. So full. I feel his length moving inside of me, my inner muscles clamping down, spasming around him. He uses my body like he's been doing this his entire life. Like we didn't just meet three months ago.

A groan, deep and guttural. His body tightens, his pace sharpens. His control is slipping.

I fucking love it.

His grip shifts, fingers trailing upward, over my ribs, my waist, my breast. A pinch, sharp and unrelenting, sending electricity down to where we're joined.

And then his hand is suddenly in my hair, yanking me upright, flush against his chest.

"Look at me," he growls, breath hot against my skin. "Keep your eyes on me when you break." I keep my eyes on him.

His fingers slide lower, dragging through my slick folds. He feels it, feels how close I am.

"Come for me, baby. I can feel you’re almost there."

A sharp tug at my hair, a bite to my neck. His fingers pinch my clit hard.

And then I shatter.

Pleasure detonates through me, unbearable, consuming, pulling me into the abyss.

I scream his name. I tremble. I have no control left.

Somewhere in the haze, I feel him follow, his grip tightening, his body shuddering against mine as he spills inside me, groaning low, deep, satisfied.

The only sound left between us is our ragged breaths.

"That," he murmurs against my ear, "was just a warm-up."

I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to break free. My sheets feel suffocating, twisted around my legs like chains holding me down. What. The. Fuck.

I shove my hands into my hair, gripping tight, trying to force the remnants of that dream, no, nightmare, out of my mind. No, no, no, no. This is not happening. This is not fucking happening. I haven't had a dream like that in more than four years. Years of sweet silence. And now?

Now my own subconscious betrays me.

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