Page 63 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Knew that beneath all my threats and aggression, I wouldn't actually watch her undress without consent. That there's a line I won't cross, even with someone I'm actively blackmailing. Another boundary found. Another limit exposed.
The little manipulativeshit.
I should be furious. Should be planning exactly how to punish her for this blatant disrespect, this challenge to my authority. Should be reminding myself that she's nothing but a tool for revenge, a means to an end.
Instead, I'm lying here in a hospital bed with a half-hard cock and the phantom image of her in that rabbit hoodie burned into my retinas. Those fierce honey eyes staring straight through thecamera at me. Like she could see me watching. Like she knew exactly what effect she'd have.
My irritation shifts to something darker, heavier. Something I haven't let myself feel in years.
Want.
I've never wanted anyone. Ever. Because nobody wantsme—the monster under the mask. They want Rex Steele, the mysterious rock star. The persona. The illusion. And I learned a long time ago not to want what I can't have.
But my cock doesn't seem to have gotten that memo.
Fuck it.
My hand slides under the thin hospital blanket and the first brush of my fingers against my hardened cock makes me hiss through clenched teeth.
I close my eyes, and she's there immediately. Not just the glimpse from the camera—the full fantasy my fucked-up brain has been building since she walked into my life.
She's in my bed, her hoodie discarded on the floor. Her white hair spreads across my black sheets like spilled moonlight. Those honey-gold eyes blaze up at me with that familiar defiance, but there's heat there too. Desire she can't hide behind her usual armor.
I grab her wrists, pin them above her head with one hand. She struggles playfully against my grip and bites at my wrist, but her body arches toward mine, her hips grinding against me. My other hand wraps around her throat, right over that leather collar she never removes, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers.
My lips crush hers. She gets a hand free and her nails rake my shoulders and her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer even as she bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
My hand moves faster, gripping harder as the fantasy deepens.
I flip her over, press her face into the mattress as I bite that leather collar from behind, pinning her in place, rutting into her, knotting her. I tangle my hand in her bone-white hair, yank her head back so I can see her face in profile—mouth open in a blissed-out gasp, those honey eyes rolled back in pleasure, pupils blown wide with…
With horror.
Who the fuck would want this?
The thought slithers through my arousal like ice water.
My hand stutters to a stop. The image of her beneath me warps, twists. Now she's pressing against the tunnel wall, trying to get away from the thing that can't even eat and drink in front of people without revolting them.
My cock goes soft in my hand.
Shit.
I snarl and grip harder, trying to force it back, trying to reclaim that heat. But the more I try, the more pathetic the attempt becomes.
The monitor beside me starts beeping faster, probably alerting some nurse that the patient in room 314 is having an "episode." I force myself to give up and focus on my breathing until my heartrate slows to a normal rate despite the frustration burning through my veins.
I haven't felt this way about anyone. Ever. Because I made sure I never would. Built walls so high and thick that nothing could get through. Turned myself into someone so vicious and cold that no one would ever try.
And then she shows up with her fierceness and her raw bravery and her refusal to be intimidated, and suddenly all those walls might as well be tissue paper.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And why the fuck does it have to beBells?
Chapter
Nineteen
