Page 10 of Snow Bound

“I don’t care.” He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “Last chance.”

With no choice—it felt like she’d die if he left her hanging—she slapped her hands back on the counter above her head and curled her fingers over the edge. “There,” she spat. “Happy?”

“Not yet, but I will be,” he assured her and started fucking her again.

Over and over he hammered into her, the thick, heavy length of him dragging against her sensitive, swollen pussy. She writhed on the counter like a bug on a board, pinned and helpless and kept that way by her own desperate need.

She didn’t have to succumb to his ridiculous demands or lay there and let him bang her like a drum. She could push him off and get up, walk upstairs, lock the door and dig out the vibrator she’d brought with her for stress relief and make herself come. She knew he’d stop if she said ‘red’.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to make herself come. She’d been making herself come for nearly two years now, and dammit, she wanted someone else to do it for a change. And right now, that someone else was him.

So she clung to the counter like her life depended on it and worked herself on his dick as much as she could. When he said, “Pull your shirt up, I want to see your tits,” she didn’t hesitate, dragging the thin cotton up over her bouncing breasts.

“Look at you,” he ground out, hammering, hammering, hammering. “Spread out like a fucking feast, ready to be devoured. You love this.”

She shook her head before she could think better of it, an automatic denial born of pride.

His answer was a harsh laugh, disbelieving and derisive. “Yeah, you do. What else do you like, huh?”

She wanted to spit back at him, some pithy response that would erase the cocky look from the smug bastard’s face. But before she could come up with something, he slapped one bouncing breast.

She jerked and gasped, shocked tears stinging her eyes. He’d caught her nipple with the edge of his hand, and for one brief, panicked moment she thought he might have actually slapped it off. But almost immediately the pain shifted from stinging burn to simmering heat, and her pussy gave a hard, clenching spasm.

“That’s what I fucking thought.” With an arrogant smirk curling his lips, he switched hands and slapped the other one.

She was expecting it this time, but it was no less impactful. Her pussy clenched again, and through the haze of her own lust she saw his eyes darken in response.

Thrilled, emboldened, she deliberately tightened around him, determined to drive him as wild as he was driving her. Pleasure flashed over his face and he grunted, his hips losing their rhythm, but her triumph was short lived.

Because he lifted his hand and slapped her clit.

Pain and pleasure shot through her, an unholy mix that had her vision going white. Her shocked scream bounced around the room, the echoes mixing with his sadistic laugh.

“Oh, more of that,” he decided and slapped her again.

Her hips jerked and she would’ve screamed again if she’d had breath in her lungs. The best she could manage was a strangled whimper while her cunt pulsed and throbbed and ached. She was so close she could all but taste the orgasm, but still, it hovered just out of reach, and when she caught her breath she used it to curse him. “Asshole.”

“Pain slut,” he fired back and slapped her clit a third time.

And shot her right over the edge.

Pleasure burst through her in a blinding surge, the tension that had gripped her for what seemed like forever releasing in an explosion of sensation. It went on and on, her body jerking, her pussy spasming so hard she imagined she could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock through the protective sheath of the condom. He kept fucking her, forcing himself through the clutching, grasping muscles, setting off a fresh round of pleasure every time he slammed into her.

He shouted, the sound dim through the roaring in her ears, and incredibly he grew harder and bigger inside her. Then his hips were jerking and he was coming, setting her off again.

When he finally slumped over her, sweaty and spent, she closed her eyes and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now.

She went to bed. When he rolled off her to deal with the condom, she slid off the counter and stepped over the sleeping dog to hurry out of the kitchen. Ignoring him when he called after her, she dashed up the stairs and into the bedroom to lock the door behind her. Then she dragged the dresser in front of the door, crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling to contemplate the situation.

Her body was still humming from the orgasm so it was hard to feel regret, but she imagined that would come soon enough. She had no idea what he was doing here, though she believed his claim that it was his mother’s house. Now that she knew, the man in the photo on the dresser could be no one else. The chiseled jaw, the tousled hair and broad shoulders—she should have seen it. She would have seen it, if she’d been paying attention instead of moping about her mother.

One more thing she could lay at Kimberly’s feet.

She sighed. That was unfair. As many things as Kimberly had to answer for, this wasn’t one of them. Nope, she’d fucked Grant Snow all on her own, and the consequences were hers to face.

But not until the morning—if he was even here in the morning. If the fates were smiling, she’d wake up and he’d be gone, saving her from the awkwardness of a morning after. But his footsteps on the stairs dashed those hopes before they could fully form.

She listened intently, her stomach jittering when the footsteps paused, and she imagined him standing in the hallway outside her room, staring at the closed door. She held her breath until he started walking again, footsteps echoing past her door and down the hall, and the faint click of a door closing had her breath whooshing out in relief.

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