Page 56 of Blood & Kisses

“I’ll go easy…to start off,” his reply doesn’t help my apprehension, and I tense as his fingers dig deeper inside me.

He lays a hand on my butt cheek, pushing my body further down onto my stomach, then places a knee on each side of me. His penis prods the rim first before moving in, and I sigh as he fills me up while hitting a G-spot I didn’t know I had.

“You’re so tight,” he growls, pushing further, deeper, triggering sensations that travel down my thighs and into my clit, “feels so good.”

He thrusts slowly at first, and if I had my hands free, I would play with my clit to ease the growing tension. With every thrust, he grunts in pleasure, which is satisfying to me that I make him feel good. He pauses to adjust himself again, pushing me right down onto my stomach before leaning over me a little further and, “I need to go deeper.”

He’s not asking for my permission. Instead, he’s claiming my body and doing whatever he wants with it, and I consent. I consent to him punishing me, using me as his mule, pleasuring himself inside of me. But even I have my limits.

His thrusts are quick and deep; his entire body is heaving and bouncing up and down; I’ve become his trampoline; the power in each shove is enormous, the mattress shifting under my naked body, the bed legs shuffling across the floor.

Each vigorous thrust draws a gasp from my lips as I crumble under his weight; the entire room shakes with every giant lunge; those hips of his are incredible.

When I hit my height, the orgasm thundering through my body, breathless, crumbling under his pressure, sighing, close to tears from the enormity of the contraction.

He pulls out, and warm liquid spurts all over my back under his groans and confident hands.

Stillness falls.

He’s still there over me, but I can’t see exactly what he’s doing. The soft brushes of his warm hands move along the back of my thighs and buttocks, followed by kisses and gentle nibbles. He peppers kisses along my spine to the base of my neck, brushes my hair aside, and licks along my neck and cheek.

Then his hands run along my arms to my wrists, where he releases me from his belt, gets up off the bed, and leaves the room again.

Finding this behavior strange, I hopped off the bed, grabbed my shredded clothing from the floor, and tiptoed back to my room, where my bag of folded clothing was still waiting on my bed.

I shut the door behind me while searching for fresh clothes and underwear to put on as my stomach turned with anxiety as to what I should do now. Does he want to leave? He fucked me like he wants me, or maybe he’s just used me and discarded me in the space of an hour.

I’m so confused.

My hand touches something cold and solid in the bottom of my bag, and my fingers wrap around the barrel, pulling it out. Gabe's self-assured footsteps walk past my door as I check to see if my trusty old Glock is loaded.

I hold the Glock up to catch the light and flick the safety cap off in preparation to hunt down my prey.

28

Fully clothed and in control, I quietly open the door and tiptoe out of my bedroom. The door at the end of the hall is open, so I pad to his room and poke my head inside to find it empty. I swear I heard him walk past toward his room, but maybe he left again.

I dash down the stairs barefoot, Glock loaded in my hand, and pause when I hear tinkering in the kitchen. I peer around the doorframe to see him sitting at the table eating. His eyes are down, so he doesn’t see me, and I can catch him unawares.

A handgun pointed at his face. I walked in, stepped right up to him, pressed the barrel against his forehead, and relaxed back in his chair, a simmering smirk on his face. “Atta girl,” he croons proudly.

“I’m not nice,” I snap, perplexed by his temperature change toward me.

“You’ll always be nice,” he disagrees. “That’s who you are, Rae.”

“I can pull this trigger if I want to,” I hiss at him, annoyed that he’s not concerned by this gun indenting a ring in his skin. “Death is only one second away.”

That smirk of his widens. “Pull the trigger, Rae,” he says calmly. “Do your best work.”

I wrestle with the emotions streaming through my body. “Why did you treat me like a whore?”

He tilts his head to the side, running those eyes over my tanned legs under beige shorts. “To find your limits.”

“Do you do this to every girl you bring home?” I ask as my heart hammers against my ribcage; again, he takes my breath away, and I wish he didn’t have this effect on me.

Those blue eyes narrowed under the weight of the question. “I haven’t had a girl in my bed for years,” he confesses. “But I have thought about it many times.”

The hurt from his rejection and throwaway comments is driving me crazy. I need to resolve that he will never view me as girlfriend material. “Do…” I swallow, finding the courage to ask how he feels about me, but he interrupts.

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