Page 108 of Hurts So Good

“No, no—” I let go of the hood’s edge again and began pulling hard, trying to free my hands from the fabric.

The killer grabbed my chin roughly, nearly perforating my cheeks with his grip. “Stop.”

With an anguished cry of frustration, I ceased struggling and returned my gaze to the masked face. The killer gentled his hold and rubbed the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip, making hushing sounds while I composed myself.

“I want to make this pleasant for you, Samara, but I need you to be a good girl for me. Can you do that?”

Make this pleasant? What did he mean? My violation? My death? Did such a state of pleasantness exist?

“I need an answer, Samara.”

Unsure what else to do, I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and nodded.

“Okay,” he murmured, releasing my jaw. “I’m trusting you.”

I hid in the darkness of my closed eyes and tried to focus on anything but him. They way my heart thumped erratically. How my blood rushed in my ears. The feel of the cool air pulling at the tendrils of my hair.

Cold metal pressed flat against my stomach, and the tension on the pleated skirt gave as the waistband was severed. Seconds later, the cloth was pulled away, leaving me as naked as the motorcyclist was clothed.

Truly, I wanted to check out, but my petrified psyche insisted on categorizing every sensation, from the feel of his jeans between my naked thighs to the smooth metal beneath my bare back.

I held my breath and waited for my rapist to paw at me. I barely tolerated Jeremy’s clumsy attentions on a good day. Men were aggressive, everything rough and hard. I mentally prepared myself for the pain I knew was coming. I had let Jeremy finger me once, and he made me bleed. It was awful.

When the motorcyclist laid upon me, I realized he had removed his bloody shirts. Hard warmth blanketed me. Should I be grateful? Should I be relieved that he did not soil me with my dead boyfriend’s blood?

“You deserve to be worshipped, Samara,” the killer rumbled in my ear before nuzzling my hair. “Every inch of your amazing body.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lingering in the darkness behind my eyes, I turned my head away and tried to ignore his seduction. But even while wearing a cloth mask, I could feel his hot breath searing paths along my damp, chilled skin.

Following the curve of my collarbone, the killer cupped my breasts, gently lifting the weight to his mouth so he could nuzzle the swell of flesh. He then drew one nipple between fabric-coated lips while his thumb strummed the other.

He spoke so many declarations of care and odes to my beauty, paid such tender attention in his exploration of my body. It was almost too easy to convince myself that I actually wanted this, that this man loved me, that he wasn’t some rapist and serial killer who’d just offed a dozen of my classmates.

When I felt him kissing his way back to my throat, I tilted my head all the way back, opened my eyes, and stared off into the abyss below. Meanwhile, the killer mouthed my neck and jaw, his passion demanding my attention. I finally caved to his insistence on kissing my lips, surprised that his mask had been drawn up to do so.

“You taste incredible,” he mumbled between the deep sweeps of his tongue. “Sweet like candy.”

I moaned into his mouth, agreeing with the sentiment. He tasted of mint and overwhelmed my senses. I was so used to Jeremy, who seemed to be perpetually beer and salt flavored.

The killer broke the deep kiss, admittedly the best I’d ever had, and licked his way back down. He sucked hard on my nipple while warm fingers delved between my thighs to cup my sex. My back arched into the teasing pain of his teeth grazing against the puckered bud in his mouth.

Rather than just fingering me hard and fast, the psychopath took his time caressing me, gently exploring my folds and circling my clit with the pad of his thumb. My body had long ago broken connection with my emotions, choosing instead to dwell in the biological pleasure the killer provided.

I didn’t understand how he could work my body like he knew it already. I cried out and moved into his hand, striving for some unknown peak that I had heard the other girls talk about achieving, but I myself had never quite reached.

I moaned in relief when he slipped a finger into my pussy. It was delicious, and my mouth watered. He set a rhythm of gentle rubbing along the wall that seemed to ignite a wanting, a need for something raw and carnal and primitive.

“Oh God,” I whispered, trying hard not to let go of the car’s hood or pull free of my cloth shackles. “Oh God,” I then repeated in despair. This should not feel this good.

The killer slipped a second finger inside me, and I whimpered. While not painful like it had been with Jeremy, it was almost too much, like an uncomfortable stretching. My body struggled to accept the new addition.

“You’re so tight, Samara. Fuck. You need to relax your body.”

Breathing hard, I tilted my hips up and opened my thighs wider, willing my muscles to unclench. My face burned in humiliation. I was facilitating my own assault.

But I wanted it to be easier. I didn’t want it to hurt. I wanted it to feel good. I wanted what he promised me.

---