Page 332 of Hell Hath No Fury
My thighs quaked, my hips rearing forward and then back. “Oh, god.”
My hair was pulled aside, lips at my ear. “Ride him. That’s it.Fuck.” The stranger stole my earlobe and sucked, then he turned my chin for his mouth to meet mine.
He tasted like tobacco and expensive scotch, a combination I thought I’d consider gross, but it only served to eradicate every other thought from my mind. Nothing else existed but this.
All that remained were sensations. His taste, Cooper’s touch at my breasts, a hand crawling down my stomach to find my clit, their bodies inside mine, and the sound of our choppy, growing excitement.
The stranger’s teeth sank into my lip. His mouth roamed over my cheek, his words all breath as though he didn’t want Cooper to hear. “You like it, don’t you? You like it so much you don’t know how you’ll ever come without it again.” He laughed, throaty and hypnotic, and raised his voice. “So come, pretty Rose. Come for us, all over us, and make it fucking loud.”
“Shit,” I said, and grabbed his face to take one last taste of his flavor and store it away for safekeeping. His tongue was silkentenderness, a stark contrast to the animalistic fury in his touch and grunted exhales.
It climbed higher, this brand-new inferno inside me, destroying judgment and all sense of time and place until I was nothing but erupting heat. A scream tore out of me, the stranger’s eyes a brand I could feel upon my face as he pulled away from my mouth and watched.
“She’s coming again,” Cooper said, and I fell forward. My hips were squeezed from behind as the stranger began to use my ass for his own pleasure.
My body locked and writhed, and I cried out into Cooper’s chest, lost and found and so thoroughly used. Cooper held me to him while he came, and I couldn’t escape the stranger’s wrath.
“Fucking hell, yes,” the man moaned out, jerking and planting himself so deep, I thought something might tear.
Cooper stroked my hair and my back as I laid there, my face in his familiar soap-scented neck and my mask askew. “Becuman,” he murmured, and I did the same.
A wheezed bout of laughter sounded, the mattress rocking as the stranger retreated and left. “Becuman indeed. Welcome aboard the one-way train to hell. You may remove your blindfolds when you hear the door close and then proceed into the next room to receive your tattoos.”
A second later, the door slammed, but we didn’t move. My legs were still spasming, and my heart was still trying to catch up with all I’d done.
With all we’d done.
CHAPTER TWO
Cooper
Some would call Rose Beckett my best friend, my girlfriend, my sidekick, my future wife, and my ball and chain.
They’d be a thousand percent right to. She was all those things, but she was also so much more.
She was my world, and it’d been that way since we were just two kids digging up bugs in the weed-crusted sandbox behind my house.
That sandbox was now a vegetable garden. My mom and Rose had built it together after her mom died from breast cancer. Rose had only been nine years old, and unbeknownst to us at the time, her mom had asked mine to keep an eye on her and be there for the things she couldn’t be.
Jackelyn had loved Marlisa Beckett almost as much as her own husband, I was sure, so she threw her grief over the loss of her best friend into the raising of her daughter.
We’d already been inseparable because of their friendship, and with Rose’s increased presence in our household, a bond was forged through dirt, broken bones, first boners, and pubes and periods.
I was sure the many firsts we’d experienced together were supposed to shake loose any desire that came knocking—any curiosity and petty jealousies that came our way.
So we were just as surprised as my mother when we eventually realized what’d happened.
Our souls were one and the same, and I didn’t even care how much of a pussy that made me. I’d rather be considered a loser than be without Rose.
Thankfully, people gave up on giving us shit mere months after Rose’s lips had first met mine. That probably had less to do with me and everything to do with her spit-fire attitude.
“I think you like me,” she’d stated on my sixteenth birthday as she swung a stick between her fingers, that shine visiting her impossibly dark eyes that always spelled trouble. “More than a friend should like another.”
I’d raised a brow and crossed my arms, even as my stomach had dropped and bounced, and my cheeks caught fire. “Sure.” I shrugged. “I like you as much as anyone likes a pest that never leaves them alone.”
Rose had smirked, dragging the stick through the dirt. Then in those short as shit denim shorts and a ribbed yellow tank, she’d dropped it and pounced. “Time for your present, Pest.”
I hadn’t asked what it was. There was no way I was going to stop what I’d hoped was about to happen. And happen it did.
