Page 81 of Lost to the Woods

I don’t look at him, but I feel him—muscle and menace pressed right against my back. His clothes are getting soaked,but he doesn’t seem to care. The rough texture of his jeans rubs against the backs of my thighs.

His soapy palms drag across my scalp, fingers massage, lathering. It should feel clinical. It doesn’t. He works slow, kneading. Down my neck, across my shoulders, between my shoulder blades. His hands are big, rough, used to controlling—breaking—things.

They glide lower. Across my back. My ribs. Then they’re on my breasts.

He lingers too long.

His touch changes.

Slower. Deliberate.

Palming. Pressing. Rolling.

His palm glides down my belly, rough calluses scraping across the hypersensitive skin just above my pelvis. My muscles flinch.

I try to twist away, but his grip clamps around my waist, bruising-tight. His other hand snakes down between my legs before I can close them.

I press my thighs together in protest, but he shoves his knee between them, prying me open.

“Spread your fucking legs.”

The order is a blade against my throat. I shake my head, but he doesn’t wait—he wrenches my thigh open, his thumb pressing hard against my clit. A sharp gasp tears out of me.

God, no!

I’m raw there, swollen from last night. But his touch doesn’t care. His touch hunts. It knows what it’s doing. I jerk as a bolt of unwanted heat shoots straight to my core, and he chuckles.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock admiration, dragging his fingertip down my slit, slow and filthy. “All puffy and red. Still wet for me even when you’re sore.”

“It’s just—ah!—just water,” I pant, but my voice cracks as his fingers circle my entrance, teasing, testing.

“Liar.” He pushes two fingers inside without warning, and I cry out, back arching. My body clenches around him, betraying me instantly. Shame burns through my veins.

I slap at his wrist, nails raking over his skin, but he just laughs, low and dark, curling his fingers.

A whimper escapes me. My hips rock, seeking more, and horror floods me.

“See?” He pumps his fingers lazily, watching my face. “Your cunt knows what it wants. Even when you’re fighting me.”

Horror and pleasure coil together, twisting my stomach. I can’t… I can’t let this happen again.

I lunge sideways, scrambling off the platform, but he’s faster. His arm locks around my waist in an iron grip, hauling me back against him.

“Oh, Bunny,” he purrs, fingers still buried inside me, “you really think you can run? Where you gonna go?”

I thrash, kicking back, my heel connecting with his shin. He grunts but doesn’t let go—just yanks me harder, his free hand fisting in my hair. Pain sparks across my scalp as he drags my head back, forcing me to look at him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Every fucking inch of you.”

I spit on his stupid mask.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at me in silence. Then he rasps, in that rough gravel of his, “You don’t learn, do you?”

Before I can react, he lifts me like I weigh nothing, throwing me over his shoulder. I scream, pounding my fists against his back, but he just walks, unfazed, one arm clamped around my thighs to keep me pinned.

“Let me go, you sick bastard!” I writhe, hitting him harder, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“You had your chance to behave,” he says, voice chillingly calm. “Now? Now I’m going to show you what happens when you disobey me.”

---