Page 23 of His to Hunt

I've lost myself completely.

His touch grows more insistent—testing at first, then deeper, rougher, crueler. Every thrust of his fingers draws an involuntary reaction from me. A gasp. A tremble. Sounds that taste like shame and surrender on my tongue. My face burns and my skin prickles as my knees dig deeper into the ground, legs spread too wide to hold anything back.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, his voice unhurried and smooth as silk. "That's your pussy begging me to ruin it."

My mouth falls open as a whimper escapes. "I hate you."

He curls his fingers inside me, and I cry out—the sound sharp and raw in the quiet forest.

"A little thief and a little liar," he says, satisfaction clear in every syllable.

His free hand slides up my back where my dress has torn open, tracing my spine as though memorizing every inch. I shudder helplessly.

"Say you want me to stop," he demands, each word punctuated by the movement of his fingers.

I remain silent.

"Say this isn't what you came for."

I can't bring myself to lie.

Without warning, he withdraws his fingers—wet and glistening in the dim light—and pushes them into my mouth before I can protest.

"Suck."

I should scream or bite down, but instead, I close my lips around them as though I've done this countless times before, tasting myself on his skin.

His breath falters momentarily—just enough to reveal he's not as unmoved as he pretends to be.

"I bet you taste like sin," he breathes, watching intently as I suck harder. "Messy, filthy little thing. I should put you on your knees and keep you there until you forget how to fight."

My thighs press together instinctively, seeking pressure, relief—something to ease the ache building between them. I can't rationalize how much I hate him, yet how desperately I want his hand back between my legs.

And that's the most devastating part—I've already lost something far more important than the Hunt. I've lost the freedom I came here to claim.

When he pulls his fingers from my mouth, he drags them slowly across my cheek, marking me with my own desire.

"You don't need to say it," he murmurs knowingly. "I can feel it as your body surrenders, every time you forget you're supposed to be fighting."

His hand moves back between my thighs, and I whimper shamefully at the contact.

"See?" he whispers against my ear. "You're desperate for my touch."

His fingers resume their torment, and I hate what I've become in his hands. Not because my reactions aren't genuine, but because they are—and that terrifies me to my core.

I'm soaked and panting, grinding mindlessly against his hand like it's all that matters, and he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"Good girl," he breathes, the words so tenderly cruel that I flinch as though slapped.

"Don't," I whisper desperately.

"Don't what?" His fingers move faster, harder. "Don't praise you for being the perfect little pet you are?"

A choked moan escapes before I can stop it.

He laughs softly, the sound dark and dangerous. "You can pretend all you want. You can fight and cry and curse and claim this isn't what you want." Suddenly, he's flipped me so that I'm on my knees, his other hand knotting in my hair, yanking my head back until my spine arches painfully, my mouth falling open against the chilly night air. "But you're dripping for me."

I try to shake my head in denial, but his grip only tightens, holding me immobile.

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