Page 44 of Lost to the Woods

I fucking loved it.

She came so many times, and Ihopethey heard everything. The thought sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to my aching cock.

God, I need to come.

She’s completely naked and perfect, sleeping beside me, her cheek pressed against my chest. Her pink hair spills across my skin, tickling my jaw. One of her legs is thrown over mine, warm and possessive, her heat seeping into me like a brand. My hand—almost of its own fucking accord—drifts down, fingers tracing the curve of her plump ass before slipping lower, right between her thighs.

Fuck.

A groan sticks in my throat as I trail up and down her slit. Her pussy is raw and swollen, and yet still, so wet for me.

She makes a soft noise but doesn’t wake. As much as I want to bury my face between her legs again and feast on her until she’s a trembling, breathless mess beneath me, I don’t. She’s exhausted after barely getting any sleep and needs strength for the hike.

She needs to be ready…

So I ease out from under her, careful not to jostle her too much. She murmurs something unintelligible, nuzzling into the pillow where I’d been just seconds before.

I grab my mask on instinct—just in case I run into anyone else in the hallway—before locking the bathroom door behind me and stepping under the shower.

I set the water hot, steam rises fast, fogging up the space, but it does nothing to dull the ache in my balls. I’m so fucking hard it’s painful.

My hand wraps around my shaft, feeling the engorged veins pulsing with need. I stroke slowly as last night plays behind my eyelids—her sexy sounds, the way she clenched around my fingers, the delicious taste of her, that heady, addictive sweetness still lingering on my tongue.

Holy shit, she was so willing, finally letting her desire take over.

But it’s not the first time I’ve had her.

My mind drifts...

To that rage, thick and blinding, boiling under my skin as I stood on the stairs outside her brownstone, snow melting into my hoodie. Nate had stepped out, arms crossed like some kind of fucking bodyguard from the discount store, his breath fogging in the cold as he told me she didn’t want to see me.

Like I gave a single fuck about what she wanted.

Iwanted her. That was the only thing that ever mattered.

She didn’t even have the fucking guts to face me and say it herself. She sent in her boy toy without benefits and let him speak for her. Like I was some casual fan of hers that she could have just erased from her life.

Like I wasnothing.

What a fucking bitch.

And so would be my payback.

I didn’t lunge. Didn’t snap his neck right there on her front steps. No—I backed off.

Well, at least I made it seem so.

I checked into a shitty hotel in a shitty neighborhood. No cameras in the lobby. No questions at the desk. Just a key and a room infested with roaches, and a mattress that stank like other people’s failure.

And then I went shopping. I moved around the boroughs. Changed stores. Paid cash for everything. Kept my head down.

Each item went into a duffel bag. A couple of knives. Duct tape. Binoculars. Zip ties. Rope. And chloroform, because I wasn’t taking any chances.

I also got a new balaclava since my sewn-in mask was too recognizable. And leather gloves—black, fitted, the kind you wear for grip and silence. Great for New York’s winter, plus, I wasn’t leaving fingerprints.

Wasn’t leaving anything at all.

The street was quiet when I returned to her brownstone that night, the nearest streetlamp was a few feet away. The cold deepened, and flurries came down soft, almost lazy, as I stood across and watched the lights in her windows.

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