Page 22 of His to Hunt

I fight harder against his hold, bucking and twisting as I hiss his name like a curse. "Get off me?—"

The growl that rumbles through his chest is deep—it's primal, dark, and entirely savage. The sound travels straight down my spine and settles low in my belly, like the answer to a question I never dared ask aloud.

His mask presses cold against my flushed cheek. Ican't see his eyes or read his expression, but I feel him everywhere, surrounding me, overwhelming me.

"You like this?" I manage to spit out between ragged breaths. "Throwing women in the dirt and forcing them to comply?"

He shifts his weight slightly, grinding his thigh against me in a way that makes my breath catch traitorously in my throat.

"Say the word," he murmurs, his voice smooth and perfectly controlled beneath all that restraint. "Say stop, little thief. Say no."

His hand trails slowly down the curve of my hip, claiming me inch by inch. I go completely still, not because I want to submit, but because I hate how desperately I want to discover what happens if I don't resist.

"You won't," he adds, his voice dropping darker. "You don't want to."

"I hate you," I breathe, the words barely audible.

"You'll hate me more when you come for the first time with dirt under your knees."

My stomach clenches and my thighs twitch involuntarily. My mouth opens, but no words emerge—because he's right. Because I can't say no. Because some treacherous part of me is burning for his touch. And my desire is clouding my rational judgment.

And judging by the satisfaction in his touch, he knows it perfectly well.

His hand moves lower with deliberate purpose, fingers sliding over the torn fabric at my hip as though he has all the time in the world to explore what he now considers his. He'd removed his gloves at some point and the feeling of his bare hands on my skin has me involuntarily shivering. My body betrays me further, arching instinctively toward his touch asmy breath catches and my thighs part just enough to invite him closer.

"You don't get to do this," I whisper, my voice a desperate, breathless plea even to my own ears.

His palm spreads against my inner thigh, holding me open. "Don't I?"

I dig my nails into the soft earth, grinding my teeth against the sounds threatening to escape.

"I'm not yours."

"You didn't run," he counters smoothly.

"I did."

"Not fast enough."

I try to turn my head away, not wanting to admit exactly what I know is true.

"You're soaked," he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek.

I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms. "Shut up."

"Why?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Are you ashamed?"

I shake my head sharply. "You're not supposed to win."

His hand slides beneath the fabric without hesitation. "I already did."

My back arches as he begins to push two fingers inside me. My hips press back into his hand, thighs falling wider, while a whimper catches at the back of my throat that I can't fully suppress.

His fingers move with maddening precision—slow, deep, controlled. One push, then two.

"Say stop," he challenges, his voice harder now. "Say it and I walk away."

But I don't. I can't. Whatever this is—this heat, thisshame, this crackling electric hatred wrapped in desperate desire—has become inescapable. And I can't see anything past it.

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