Page 122 of Under the Bed

She doesn’t, and we both know it. I grab the base of my cock, line it up to her pussy, and thrust. Warmth spreads through me when I’m all the way in her, up to the hilt. She’s hot. Soaked. Mine.

“I hate you.” The words are cruel, but her touch softens. Both her hands thread into my hair, grabbing onto me with such desperation. Such honesty. It eats at what little sanity I have left. “I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anything.”

“Strange. You didn’t seem to hate me earlier. When you were full of my cock, bleeding and moaning for me like the whore you are.” Sliding a hand to the side of her neck, I press a thumb to her pulse point. She’s a wild one. The best thing in my life. “You were soaked and begging. Made a mess of my cock.” Each time I drive into her, her breath hitches. My blood thrums for her. “I’m drenched in you now, too. Doesn’t feel like hate to me.”

“I told you to come here and hide. I told you to hide yesterday.” Her accusations shouldn’t get me harder. They do. “You won’t listen. You didn’t leave me a choice. I had to come here and hurt you so you’d agree to do what I asked you. But—but?—”

“Keep going.” I suck on the other side of her neck, leaving another mark. Hoping against all hope that I can inhale every raw emotion from her and selfishly hold on to it. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s gorgeous. I want that. “Let it out.”

“You have no idea.” She balls her hands into fists and slams them against my shoulders. Once. I fuck her harder for that, groaning at the feel of her pussy pulsing around me. “No goddamn idea. It hurt everywhere, having to live without you. Worrying over what you might be going through. I was shipped to another state, and it was the worst. Do you hear me? I had a hole in my heart. The guilt was killing me. Missing you was killing me. I knew it was wrong, but I loved you anyway. I fell in love with the memory of you. Don’t do this. Don’t take this away from us.”

The way she says these things. Such a desolate, broken sound.

“Let’s go.” I pull out of her, get off the bed, and carry her in my arms across the bedroom.

“No.” She’s adorable. This little thing who won’t stop kicking and scratching my chest.

I cradle her into me. Soak up the rage that’s been pent up inside her for years. I withhold the storm for her. I’ll do that for fucking ever.

“You left.” She’s a human wildfire, her flames licking at my skin. Scalding me. Getting me harder for her. She’s having a meltdown, and I bathe in it. The panic. The loss of control. I also need to fix it. “Then you promised to go where it’s safe and I caught you. I caught you killing a man. That means anyone could.”

One arm under her thighs presses her so tight to me that she gasps. With the other, I gesture toward the rolled-up corpse in the living room. “Look at him.”

“I won’t.”

“You asked me to hear you out.” My gaze burrows into her frantic one. “It’s about time you do the same.”

“They’ll be coming for you.” Her growls are slowly becoming one of my favorite things about her. “It might even happen tomorrow after the police interview me. And now, with the investigator gone, Dad will definitely send someone here.”

“We’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.” We’ll also discuss my plans and how I get to keep her here, to mess with her head some more. Just because I like it. “Until then, I have his phone. I reported to your father. As far as he’s concerned, nothing’s going on.”

“He might’ve seen something before that.” That loser private investigator. “He might’ve reported that.”

“No, he didn’t. He was lazy. Hadn’t noticed me breaking into your apartment or coming up behind him. However?—”

“You should’ve gone into hiding!” Her fingernails break the skin on my chest.

A rougher approach, it is.

I put her down, hook an arm around her waist, and pull her to me. Her back is flush to my chest. My fingers curl around her delicate throat, holding her in place.

Once more, I have to bury the desire to snap it. I get off on being violent with her, but once she’s gone, there’s no getting her back.

“However.” I sink my teeth into her earlobe, and she whimpers, scratching my forearm that’s around her stomach. “I’ve had enough. He had to go. I couldn’t let him get in the way of our games. I’m having so much fun with you.”

“Why do you care about these games so much? What about you?” The dull pain from having her foot stomp mine is such a turn-on. She’s hot when she’s being protective of me. “Why don’t you care about what happens to you?”

“I care about you.” Her breaths are labored the more I restrict her air supply. The hotter and more furious I make her. “You, Shiloh. There’ll never be a day when my world won’t revolve around you.”

“If you wouldn’t have killed those kids”—it’s fascinating, how she thinks that her tiny foot could ever hurt me—“you would’ve stayed.”

Up until this point, I had managed to keep my temper under control. I had my shit together. We were playing.

This? This suggestion, again, that I should’ve spared their lives after what they’d done to her?

They touched her. They violated her.

She was just a kid and they made her cry. The shame that followed was worse.

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