Page 356 of Hell Hath No Fury
But a larger part of me longed to join in, to give over to the warring crash of chaotic violence. My arm moved of its own volition, drawing back to let my beer fly. It hit the same tree exploding on impact.
My breath skipped, a joyous rage blooming in my chest as I watched the shimmering glass fall to the ground.
I heard a noise, a savage, brutal sound. Glancing at Pope, I found him watching me—his gaze dark, his expression hungry and wild. I twisted away from him, instinct urging me to run, but he caught my hand, yanking me against his chest.
Run!
I pressed my hands to his shoulders, shoving back as he bent his head. Twisting, I struggled to escape the prison of his arms.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, fighting for freedom.
"Making you feel better."
His lips captured mine, his mouth rough, hot, and possessive. He took advantage of my surprised gasp, his tongue slipping between my parted lips to taste the inside of my mouth.
Pope.
He surrounded me, overwhelmed me. His arms held me tight, his body anchored against mine.
How did this—?
He made a noise—a groaning grunt so primal and filled with male satisfaction it sizzled from my head to my toes.
And hearing it, my helpless grief morphed into a frenzied, angry need. The tension between us crackled with violent despair.
Giving in to the need to hurt, to rend, to dominate, I bit his bottom lip needing to inflict pain. My teeth pierced his skin, and I relished the metallic taste of blood on my tongue as Pope jerked back, cursing.
"You fucking minx." He pressed a hand to his lip. A drop of blood coloured his fingers, the moon lighting the dark liquid.
"What’re you gonna do about it?" I asked, lashing out like a hurt animal–daring him to retaliate.
He wiped his fingers against his jean leg, his lips curling into a feral grin. "Don't worry, babe. I'll make you pay."
Pope backed me up to the picnic table, the backs of my legs pressing against the edge of the wooden slats. I welcomed the bite of pain.
"Tell me what you want," Pope ordered, wrapping one hand in my hair.
I bared my teeth. "To feel."
His eyebrows rose, his gaze searching my face. "To feel?" He tugged on my hair, the sting forcing me to tilt my head back, exposing my throat. "Or to hurt?"
His question proved too decadent to ignore.
"Make me hurt."
Pope’s dark chuckle coiled tension low in my abdomen, my thighs growing slick with my arousal. The sardonic sound twisted around me, promising to deliver the rough, carnal pleasure I craved.
"Are you sure, Jules?" he asked, nipping his way across my exposed neck. "These violent delights have violent ends."
"Shakespeare?" I murmured, my eyelids drifting shut. "Really, Pope?"
"You want me to hurt you, darlin'? Then you better have a safe word."
I forced my eyes open, my gaze crashing into his.
"Hollow. My safe word is hollow."
Because that's what I feel—empty, hollow, a shell.
