Page 88 of Once A Villain

Then comes the sharp smack, his palm colliding with my ass. I yelp, but he’s already covering my mouth, his grip firm, commanding.

I push back against him again, his hold on my hip anchoring me in place. My muffled moan vibrates against his hand, the sound drenched in need.

His touch is relentless—rough, possessive, unapologetic. Every movement screams control, like he’s claiming me. When his fingers slide between my legs, I gasp, the sensation unraveling me. My hips move on instinct, grinding against his hand, desperate for more.

I bite back a moan as his fingers tease my clit, sharp sparks shooting through me. The leather of his glove presses against my lips, muffling my sounds as I arch my back, chasing more. But it’s not enough—I need him inside me.

I fumble behind me, seeking out his belt. I unfasten it, feeling the thick, hard heat of his cock in my hand. He tenses under my touch, his hold over my mouth tightening.

I guide him to my entrance, pushing back against him. The stretch burns, raw and thrilling, pulling a muffled cry from deep in my chest. My teeth sink into the leather covering his palm as he fills me completely.

His thrusts start slow, each one tearing the breath from my lungs. I rock back against him, begging for more, and he answers with a brutal rhythm that steals my thoughts.

He shifts his weight, shoving me into the mattress. My face presses into the pillows, every cry swallowed by the fabric. His hand is on the back of my neck, keeping me exactly where he wants me as he drives into me with an intensity that borders on desperation. Pleasure coils tight in my core, and I shatter around him, my body convulsing as I scream into the pillows.

He doesn’t stop—his thrusts grow erratic, punishing, until he buries himself with a guttural groan, his cum hot and searing inside me.

Collapsing on me, he holds me close, gripping my waist like I might vanish. His weight grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed. The alcohol, the pleasure, and sheer exhaustion crash over me. I close my eyes, the heat of him and the ache he’s left behind pulling me under.

I’m in day four of this drunken Hamptons haze.

Alcohol’s my only escape, and right now, I’m drowning in it.

Staring at another unanswered text, I sigh, tossing my phone onto the bed. I’ve been texting the masked man since that first night, begging for something, anything—but he’s ghosting me. He gave me a taste of what I’d been craving, then disappeared, leaving me desperate.

I feel like a junkie chasing a high, craving the escape he gave me, even if it was only for a moment.

I know where I went wrong. I overshared, got too real. That wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t interested in my baggage—just my body. And honestly? I can’t blame him. We were both using each other.

I head for the shower, hoping the water can wash some of this away. The ocean waves and seagulls drift through the open window, the sun is bright, and the breeze is cool. A perfect summer day.

But it doesn’t matter. My heart feels too heavy, the pain too sharp.

Under the hot spray, I try to let the water do its job—wash him off me, rinse him out of my head. It’s probably for the best that he’s ghosted me, but damn it stings.

It’s not just the sex. It’s him. His presence, his touch, the way he made me feel like I was more than a shattered mess. I don’t even know his name, but somehow, he felt real.

I need to stop fixating. It’s pointless. If Axe knew, he’d kill him. And if he knew how much I liked it, he’d kill me too—or worse.

I slip into a sundress, combing through my wet hair as if brushing away the thoughts. Spencer’s been keeping me alive—making sure I eat, drink water, and don’t completely lose it. He’s still an ass for kidnapping me and locking me in this gilded cage, but at least he’s trying to keep me sane.

The sound of shattering glass and shouting yanks me from my daze. Heart pounding, I race down the stairs.

“Spencer!” I scream, but my voice is swallowed by the chaos. I dart through the house, fear clawing at me, and skid to a halt in the kitchen.

Axe stands there, Spencer pinned against the wall, his arm wrenched behind his back.

“You’re going to pay for that, motherfucker,” Axe growls, his grip tightening.

“Axel…” My voice shakes. His cold eyes snap to me.

“We’re leaving.” His voice is a low growl that sends chills through me.

“No!” Spencer roars, struggling against his hold.

“Now, Rory!”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Spencer snarls, fighting to break free.

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