Page 191 of Filthy Elites

He opens his mouth to speak but swallows the words back, reaching out and hooking his fingers in beltloops of my jeans. They’re loose, and he yanks them down, taking the boxer briefs with them, then tossing both on the floor.

I should run, fight, scream, but I just watch as his thumb pushes at the button of his low-slung jeans and they drop, piling next to mine. He’s bare underneath, and he reaches for his cock. It’s blistering red, hard, and glistening at the tip. He strokes it up and down, pushing and pulling at the taut skin.

It’s the last thing I should do, the absolute insane, wrong,what the fuck am I doing, thing to do, but I reach for him and run my fingers down his shaft. He hums, the sound coming from deep in his throat and bends, kissing me along my stomach, up my breasts to my neck. He’s so warm. Hard. Powerful. He’s exactly who he is and nothing else. He’s not hiding behind a mask, a position, or a calling.

He's Miller Hansen.

Amonster.

And when he touches me between my legs, I’m ready for him. Wet and hot. Knees falling to the side. I don’t fight him. I’m ready to be done with this—done with him.

“This isn’t a punishment for saving your friend. It’s for going off with another man—a man that doesn’t understand that you. Are. Mine.”

The pads of his fingers brushing against my clit, sliding in the slick heat. There’s no hiding my desire. My body has betrayed me. I buck against his hand, and he rises to crash his mouth against mine.

This time there’s no resistance, just two bodies in synch. I fall into the taste of him, bitter liquor matched with something sweet. His touch is firm, but not the harsh punishment from before. He stokes the fire building inside of me, the one dying to let loose, the inferno waiting to explode, thrusting two fingers inside. They curve, applying pressure in places I didn’t know existed.

“Jesus,” I breathe, “God.”

He chuckles against my skin. “You said it, not me.” He withdraws his fingers, forcing me to cry out, but I feel the hard press of his tip against my entrance. I wait for the invasion—the final barrier to be broken between us.

He hovers over me, forehead resting against mine, blue eyes blazing with an intensity I’ve never seen before. I freeze, terrified he’s changed his mind, that he’s just taunting and toying with me. Another twisted move in his fucked-up game.

His fingers glide down my cheek. “What do you want, Reagan?”

“I don’t know.” For a second, his determination falters, eyes shuttering. My belly drops, and that’s when I realize I don’t want him to stop. I arch my back and I grab him by the hips. “Fuck me, Miller.” I bite down on his bottom lip. “I just want to feel you inside.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, kitten.” He grins wolfishly, teeth bared, and his hips rear back before he plunges into me, stretching me from the inside, filling me to the point I can’t breathe.

He stills as I adjust to him, watching me closely. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was waiting to see if I’m okay, but I bite down on my bottom lip and rise my hips to meet his, wrapping my legs around his back. It’s all the signal he needs, and he punches forward, once, twice, three times, each time going deeper. I lock my ankles together and hold on to this disturbingly delicious man as he drills into me.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, dropping his face into the crook of my neck. I sink my teeth into his shoulder and that only seems to spur him on. “So goddamn, fucking, good.”

The rhythm he sets is mesmerizing, different from Royer. He was in constant motion, shifting and turning, preforming chaotic acrobatics. My body could never catch up—was never satisfied. Miller dominates, his focus laser sharp. Every muscle in his body a part of the action. His biceps tense, the line in his forearm creasing as he holds his weight as he pulls almost all the way out before he fucks back inside. Each time is a little more tantalizing, more intense, sending a sharp jolt along my fraying nerves.

He lifts and watches where our bodies meet, the cut muscles of his lower abdomen tensing with each thrust. I close my eyes and hold on to the buildup, the way my body reacts to his. The feeling inches up my spine, flickers across my skin, and burns in the pit of my stomach. His tongue licks into my mouth and he grunts against my tongue, “Come for me, kitten. Let go for once in your goddamn life.”

It's like I needed permission, because once he says it, my nerves pulse and unfurl, clenching around his cock, spreading throughout my body. It feels good; he feels so good, kissing me through my orgasm. It’s surprisingly gentle, although he never stops moving, and when my body stills, the warm rush fading, he picks up his pace and pounds into me like he can’t get deep enough.

I tighten my grip on his body, digging my nails into his back to hold him close. I watch him. His face, the scrunch of his nose, the tension in his jaw, the way his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. He’s sexy and possessed. Abandoned and raw. When he pounds in his final thrust, his entire body shudders, starting with a groan erupting from low in his chest.

He pulses inside of me, warm and slick. Filling me in a way I didn’t know existed. After he’s finished, he hovers over me for a long moment, keeping the connection, his eyes holding mine. I reach up and push a lock of hair off his forehead and they shutter, the icy blue returning. He pulls out and rolls off, taking his heat and weight with him.

Absurdly, I cover my breasts and sit up, looking for something to clean off with, but his hand grabs my wrist, and he says, “Don’t.”

I blink and watch as he runs his fingers in the sticky mess between my thighs. He scoops the cum with his fingers and pushes it back inside. It’s the moment I realize he didn’t use a condom and that he’d done it on purpose. The action is foreign, confusing, and a still numbness washes over me. I’m surprised when he drags me close to his body, tucking me under the crook of his arm and engulfing me in his warm, musky scent.

What have I done? What havewedone?

His fingers graze the heated skin of my belly, drawing tiny circles. “Sometimes,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet, “I wish things were different.”

“I always wish things were different.”

He shifts, looking down at me, his normally hard eyes soft. “What if you’d never met Royer? Never fell under his radar and just gone through rush like normal.”

I peer up at him. I’ve replayed this scenario more times than I want to admit, but what is he talking about? “What do you mean?”

“You would’ve been a shoo-in for GE. You would’ve been invited to our parties, come dressed in your tight bikini tops and I would’ve noticed.” He splays his fingers over my breast and sighs. “Things could’ve been different, that’s all.”

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