Page 41 of Lost to the Woods

“Look at you,” he says, voice thick with need, and my walls clench in response. “Already so fucking wet.”

I writhe underneath his wolfish stare, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The air between us is charged, thick with the scent of my arousal and the musk of his cologne. I’ve been dreaming about this moment for so long, fantasizing about his hands, his mouth, the way he could unravelme with just a look. Now that he’s here, I can hardly control the desire coiling tight in my belly.

“How many times did you play with yourself thinking of me since Valentine’s?” His voice is a low, taunting purr. He says it so confidently, like he knows the truth. Maybe he’s that cocky… or maybe I’m that easy to read

“Ugh! Zero times!” I try to kick him, but he catches my leg effortlessly, pinning it to the bed with that infuriating little chuckle.

“Liar.” His free hand slides up my thigh, fingers parting my slick folds with deliberate slowness. “Mmmm, this pretty little pussy knows who owns it.”

Before I can retort, he leans in and licks a long stripe, tongue wide and slow, and oh God—I feel the cold glint of his piercing drag over the most sensitive part of me. The shock of it—smooth metal against overheated flesh—makes my hips jerk, a whimper escaping before I can stop it.

“You like that?” he asks, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. Then he does it again, the piercing teasing my clit in slow, maddening circles. “You’re shaking. Is that from me, or are you still scared?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, sealing his mouth over me. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs against my tender flesh, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through me. “Daddy’s going to make it all better, baby.” And then he sucks hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyelids.

A broken moan tears from my throat as my fingers fist in the sheets, and I toss my head back. My hazed eyes catch the slightest shadow, blocking the moonlight.

Wait—moonlight?

The blinds are open.

And something’s there.

A tall, hunched figure, not moving, just watching.

A choked gasp catches in my throat. I bolt upright, blood running cold, fingers tangling in Ghost’s hair. “St—stop. There’s—someone’s at the window!”

He groans in protest, not letting go, mouthing me even harder, the bastard. “Bunny,” he says between licks, “we’re on the second floor. Nobody’s out there. It’s impossible.”

“Something is!” I whine, yanking at his hair. “We were told to close the blinds. You’ve heard everyone! Why didn’t you listen?”

He finally lifts his face. For a split second, I swear I see a strange glint in his eyes. Then he asks, voice ice-cold, “Well, why did you look?”

I shake my head, nudging him. “Uh, stop messing with me!”

He sighs—long, annoyed, like I’m the one being ridiculous—and gets up, adjusting himself with a quiet curse as he stalks to the window. He doesn’t even look out before grabbing the cord and yanking the blinds shut in a rattling snap.

“There,” he says, turning back to me. Even in the complete darkness, I notice his smirk returning. “Window’s closed. Mystery perv is gone.”

I’m still jittering, heart thudding loudly in my chest. I want to keep looking at the window, even with the blinds shut, because I felt it. The watching. It’s still there, even if I can’t see it now.

But then he kneels between my legs again, licking his lips. “Just relax for me, Princess. You’re creeping yourself out for no reason.” He drags his tongue across the slit of my pussy. “You taste even better when you’re scared,” he hums, eyes locked to mine, his voice low and dark. “Maybe Ishouldwant you terrified.”

And when his mouth returns to me—more relentless, more consuming—I can’t tell if the thing I see in the windowwhen I blink is a trick of memory or still there, pressing its shadowed face against the glass.

The wet drag of his piercing over my clit sends a jolt so sharp through me I cry out, hand flying to my mouth, but he pulls it away.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice dark, thick with lust. He palms my boob, pinching my nipple between his fingers, and I’m unable to choke down a moan. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

“But everyone’s sleeping.”

“Fuck it. Wake them up.” He sucks harder, tongue circling, teasing, then flattening with just the right pressure. “Let them know how many times I can make you shatter.” His mouth is heat and hunger, lapping at me slow and deep with that wicked fucking tongue, and when I buck against him, he groans like he’s the one getting off.

My legs tremble on either side of his head, toes curling into the sheets. I try to speak, try to warn him again—I think I hear something, a soft shuffle just by the window where the shadows stretch long and black—but the words melt into moans.

He owns my thoughts.

I can’t focus. I can’t think.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, gripping the edge of the bed. “Fuck, Daddy! What are you doing to me?”

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