Page 22 of Hitch
I crawl forward, gathering up my purse, searching for something else—anything! But Duane rips the purse from my hands and throws it against the wall. A gunshot echoes through the building, and another bag bursts with dirt and fungus. My throat swells. He grabs the stun gun off of the floor, trading it for his pistol, then he uses his weight, putting me back on all fours, holding his body against mine. I shudder in complete fear.
“What the fuck, Duane?” I whimper.
“I don’t need this to dominate you,” he says, holding the stun gun against my neck, ready to zap me. “I don’t even need a gun. I could kill you with my bare fucking hands.”
“Oh god,” I cry.
“Electricity ain’t my thing, but goddamn, I bet it’s yours,” he says. Before I can look over my shoulder, he presses the stun gun into my arm. The electricity shoots through me, locking every bone and joint into place, paralyzing me for a few seconds.
I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything. I’m helpless.
Then it’s done, and I swallow as much air as I can. I’m at his mercy like this.
And he laughs.
“Breathe, little Hitch,” he murmurs, pulling me back up against his body. A strange, comforting heat blooms inside of me, and I exhale, finally relaxing enough to steady myself. He wants me around. He won’t kill me because he likes me too much.
His cock finds my pussy again, sliding in my slit. The stun gun is on the floor in front of me now, almost like he wants me to use it again, just so he can force me back into this position. But I’m not willing to do that anymore. He cups my neck with one hand, holding his weight on his other as he buries his cock inside of me.
“You best learn one thing, Hitch. Don’t fuck with me,” he says. “You want trouble? You got trouble. You want this next bullet in your head? Then just keep fucking with me when we both know youwantme to crush you.”
His hips pulse into me harder and harder, until I’m forced onto my stomach. My skin scrapes against the cement, and he uses his size to overpower me, thrusting and fucking me so deep, I scream. My clit presses into the ground, rubbing against the rough surface, sensitive as hell, and an overwhelming pleasure begins to shoot through me. He reaches for the pistol.
“No,” I cry. The tears come down, pouring like an endless wave from this catharsis. It’s justusnow. Just us fucking. And my body starts cresting over that peak. But god, I don’t want to come right now. “No. No. No! Not now!”
But then I hear the click of the hammer pulling back, the metal pressing against the nape of my neck, and it’s too late. My limbs quake with Duane’s cock inside of me, his gun pressed to my neck. Burning light spins across the back of my eyes, and I come like I’ve never come before.
And it terrifies me.
I pant as I come down from the orgasm, shame wriggling up my spine. Duane pulls out, holding the gun limp at one side and jerking off with his other hand so hard that for a split second, I wonder if it’ll break.
Then he loses control too. Hot ropes of come strike my skin.
When his breathing calms, we both stare at each other, unsure of what to do now. But then a smile creeps across his lips, and he holsters his pistol. He pulls the zipper of his jeans with ease, like this was only sex between two consenting adults.
But me? I just want to be alone. I don’t even want to move. I cross my arms, covering my tits.
I’m disgusted with myself.
“Filthy,” he says, and I shoot him a glare, daring him to finish that sentence right now. “So fucking filthy and pretty,” he continues, his voice wistful, as if he’s enraptured by me. My stomach backflips, not expecting the compliment. But then I scowl at myself for being so easy when it comes to him.
He chuckles to himself, handing me my clothes.
“What?” I snap. I scramble into my shorts. I hate wearing wet clothes and my shorts are nearly soaked right now, reminding me of my own idiotic, lustful reaction. It pisses me off even more.
“Why are you so angry, Hitch?” Duane asks with humor in his voice. “Tell me.”
“Because you’re disgusting,” I say, though I know it’s more about myself than him.
“I’m not the only one who got off, am I?”
Shame flickers through me like a tendril of fire, but I don’t want to talk about that anymore. I don’t want to admit that he’s right. I pull on my shirt and change the subject.
“You broke my phone,” I say.
He lifts his head. “I suppose I could buy you another.”
I wrinkle my nose and hold out my palm. “Pay me and add extra for a new phone.”
