Page 104 of Trick Shot
He pumps his fingers harder.
“What kind of man makes you come when you’re alone at night,” he breathes. “What kind of man you dream about.”
I can’t form words, only desperate sounds.
I feel him everywhere. On top of me, inside me, under my skin. His fingers are still sliding in and out, slow and deep—and I still can’t make sense of any of this.
“Are you in love with him?” he asks, fingers curling.
“Yes,” I moan, grinding my hips against his hand and hating myself for it.
He exhales like the word feeds him. Then his lips skim the shell of my ear.
“And what do you feel for me?” he asks, voice thick.
My heart trips, my eyes snapping to his.
“Don’t think, Melody. Just say it.”
I shake my head, but his fingers thrust faster and I cry out.
“I hate you,” I moan.
“That’s not news.” His teeth graze my nipple.
“You piss me off,” I breathe, my hand tangling in his hair. “You’re cocky and arrogant.”
But every word slips out on a gasp, my body betraying me—aching for his touch while my mind starts to spiral. “I hate how much I want you.”
He slams his mouth against mine, swallowing the rest of my confession like it’s a prize he’s been waiting to collect. His lips are soft, his stubble is rough, and he’s feeding off every piece of information on Ghost.
And it doesn’t stop him. I think it fuels him.
“Do you think you’d still feel the same if you met him in person?” He pumps slow, torturous strokes inside me with his fingers, his body still looming.
“Do you think you’d still get wet for his voice if you saw who it came from?” His fingers curl inside me and I cry out, but he doesn’t stop.
“Would he still be your safe space if he had a face and a name?”
“Jace,” I breathe, eyes wide, orgasm building too fast.
“Because you did hate him when you met him again,” he whispers, lips brushing my jaw.
My heart kicks even more.
“You hated him when you saw his face. When you learned his name.”
“What are you saying?” My chest is heaving now, my heart is thrashing, and my body craves his touch more and more with each second.
His fingers slide in again, torturously slow.
“You hate him right now,” he breathes, lips against my ear, “with his fingers buried in your little pussy.”
This is a punishment. That’s what it is. This is why he was so calm—he was planning out how to torture me. And this is what he chooses? Psychological games? Trying to make me believe it’s Ghost?
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I snap, voice cracking. “But it’s sick.”
I try to move, but his body keeps mine pinned.
