Page 19 of Lost to the Woods

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t lash out. He just turns and walks out of the restaurant, his movements eerily controlled.

Mark agrees, and we exchanged numbers. I make sure he gets some ice to apply to the sore spot before I gather our things into the camera bag and follow Ghost outside. He’s pacing, fists balled at his sides, barely keeping himself in check.

“Seriously, are you clinically insane? What the hell was that?!”

He stops pacing the second he hears me, his head snapping toward me. Then he moves.

I barely have time to react before his finger hooks around the O-ring of my pink leather choker, yanking me forward until I collide with his chest. My breath catches. He’s close—too close, his body radiating heat, his fingers flexing against the leather to grip my throat.

“This little fucking bitch,” he growls, his voice thick with something unhinged, “was staring at what’s mine.”

His other hand curls around my hip, his fingers digging into the thin fabric of my dress—hard enough that tomorrow I’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingertips. The possessiveness in his touch makes my stomach flip… and my thighs clench.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, the heat of it brushing against my ear. “I don’t like being tested, Bunny.” His voice is velvet and razor wire, twirling around my spine. “You know that, don’t you?”

I swallow hard. My skin prickles. My pulse jumps. I should push him away, should tell him he’s out of line, but my body betrays me.

He knows it. He always does.

His hand is suddenly below my skirt cupping my pussy, and oh my God, he can feel how damp my underwear is.

I have to crane my neck to look up at him. All I see is my own doe-eyed reflection in his blank mask.

He tilts his head. “You liked it, though, didn’t you? Me putting him in his place.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “You need therapy.”

Ghost chuckles, squeezing my throat harder. “Admit it. Did you have fun trying to make me jealous, hm?”

“Cut it off! Someone is really going to call the cops on us!” I have no idea what’s gotten into him—he not only assaulted poor Mark a few minutes ago, now he’s trying to get in trouble for this shit.

But he ignores it as his fingers hook under the lace of my panties and pull them aside.

“No,” I yelp quietly, not to cause any alarm in public. “Ugh, don’t do this now.”

But his fingers already gently tracing the slit of my pussy feeling more wetness pooling.

I try to shove his wrist away, but he’s immovable, his hand pressing harder, fingers teasing, rubbing slow, agonizing circles.

My knees threaten to buckle, and I can’t hold back a moan.

“That’s right,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement. “Moan like the horny little slut you are. Right here, in the middle of the sidewalk.”

His other hand releases my throat, then slides lower, palming my breast, massaging it, rolling my nipple between his fingers until it hardens into a pebble.

I squeeze my thighs together in a desperate attempt to fight back the pleasure, but all it does is trap his fingers exactly where he wants them.

“Please, stop,” I beg, but it’s pathetic—weak. A lie. Because my body does the opposite and my hips buck against his fingers, searching for more friction. I’m desperate. I don’t think I’ve ever been this aroused, and we’re barely even doing anything. But the fact that we’re doing it publicly in broad daylight is what gets me. The risk of getting caught. His dominant attitude and degrading words…Him.

His fingers glide so easily, like he knows my body better than I do, like he already has me figured out. Maybe he does.

“God, you make my cock so fucking hard, baby.” His voice is all gravel and smoke, all hunger. He eases a finger inside me, groaning softly when he feels how eagerly I take him.

I bite my lip, muffling another sorry moan, but a whimper escapes anyway. It’s all the encouragement he needs to add a second finger.

“Such a perfect, tight little pussy,” he groans, voice reverent, like he’s obsessed. Like he’s worshiping me in his own fucked-up way. “I can’t wait to ruin it.”

“That’s never going to happen,” I manage to whisper, but I know my reactions are telling him a different story.

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