Page 60 of Bound to a Killer
If he’s hoping to see me beg like I did in the woods, he’ll be sorely disappointed. That girl’s gone.
She’s had nothing but time to sit with her fears, to peel back the scabs over every wound left behind by men who got off on hurting and intimidating.
Like Steve, my mother’s ex.
Like Hunter and his idiot friends.
Like the stranger from the cabin.
He’s nothing like those men. They took from me to gain for themselves, but Ledger’s…different. My life has only cost him.
It cost him his safety. Not only for himself, but for the people closest to him.
It cost him his position in The Ringer. His relationship with his boss.
Even his own identity.
Isn’t that why we’re here? In this hotel?
Why he was so desperate for me to sign off my name back at that warehouse?
He smooths his hand over the spot he struck seconds ago, then slides his hand lower, shifting to the front until it makes contact with the throbbing bundle of nerves between my thighs. I suck in a sharp breath, then whimper as he moves his rough fingers around the sensitive spot that pulses beneath the thin fabric.
He groans from behind as I buck deeper into his hand, desperately chasing the delicious build rising with the friction of his calloused fingers over the grit of the wet fabric. Flashes of light spark behind my eyes. Everything turns to black and white as his fingers work into a steady rhythm, and I grit my teeth, eyes screwing shut. I’m so close. Oh, God.
My head grows lighter than a feather as I drift closer toward my release, my breath caught in a strained hold as I teeter at the edge, until something firm wraps around my neck, and theshaky breath I’ve been holding slips out just before the pressure tightens.
My eyes flash open in a panic, but all I see is static dotting the porcelain square tiles in front of me.
My arms flutter like a baby bird learning to use its wings for the first time. They land on the smooth ceramic grid, slick with steam, the heat just as suffocating as the arm around my throat.
Leaving one hand on the wall, I fling the other up toward the hand clamped around my throat, digging my nails into him, but he doesn’t budge.
The spots in my vision widen. Pulse hammering.
He isn’t going to let go, and my fingers, although still desperately clinging, grow limp as the seconds drag. I want to beg him to stop, to call out to him, but nothing escapes my burning throat.
Then his other hand shifts between my legs again, reminding me that it’s still there. His palm is so large that it practically blankets my entire mound as he jerks against the swollen region. The friction slides against my clit over and over, and I begin to twitch from the sharp bursts of pleasure it brings.
With the rest of my vision spotting, I lean into the first wave of contraction that hits me, my mouth rounding wide enough to make my jaw ache. A burst of bright gold flashes between the black specks in my vision like a shooting star as my orgasm slams into me, the strongest I’ve ever felt.
The pressure around my neck loosens enough for me to drag in ragged, greedy little breaths as the next wave of pleasure rolls over me, one after another, and another, until I jerk in his hand with the last of the aftershock.
The lack of oxygen to my brain makes my next move sluggish as I pant against the heavy steam, slowly waiting for the strain inside my thighs to soften, and the rest of my body goes lax in his arms.
He nestles into the crook of my neck, letting out a low groan as he gently kisses the tender skin there. “The way you cum on my hand is so fucking hot.”
He peppers more kisses along my neck as my heartbeat begins to slow, and I become acutely aware of the hard erection pressing into me. I still. My mind still fogged from the aftershocks of my release and the shower steam.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice low and strained as he reaches for a bottle of shampoo from the shelf above us to the right.
He squeezes a couple dollops out before shelving the tiny, hotel-complimentary bottle and working it into a lather through my wet strands, massaging deep into my scalp. My eyes flutter. The sensation is heavenly.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper shower.
His long fingers continue working the product into each strand with thoughtful care, his gentle strokes almost lulling my eyes shut, until an unwelcomed thought slips its way in.
It persists inside my head as he guides his surprisingly tender touch down my neck and over the rest of my body, like I’ve become too fragile for him to handle. Like even the lightest pressure might cause me to crack.
