Page 43 of Hunt Me
Panic spikes through me. I try to hold my breath, but my lungs burn, demanding air. The inhale comes sharp and ragged, impossibly loud in the silence.
Fuck.
His head turns toward the closet. Toward me.
“There you are.”
I press harder against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. The shelving unit scrapes across concrete as he shoves it aside, and then his hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me forward.
I stumble out of the darkness and straight into his chest.
“Caught you.” His arms lock around me, trapping me against him.
“Let me go.” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
He spins me around, back pressed to his front, one arm banded across my waist. His breath is hot against my ear.
“No.” His voice drops lower, darker. “A deal is a deal.”
His free hand lifts, phone screen illuminating both our faces. The timer reads 10:47.
“Ten minutes,” he says, lips brushing my temple. “Nowhere near the hour you needed.”
My pulse hammers against his forearm. I can feel every inch of him pressed against me—solid muscle, controlled strength, the hard evidence of his arousal against my lower back.
“That’s not fair,” I breathe. “You said you’d give me ten minutes before you started?—”
“I did.” His hand slides up from my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs just below my breast. “And then I found you in another ten. Face it, Iris. You never stood a chance.”
His hand slides lower, skating across my stomach, fingers spreading wide over the silk. My breath catches as he pauses at the hem of my dress.
“Tell me to stop.” His lips brush my ear. “Say the word and I will.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
“That’s what I thought.” His hand disappears beneath my dress, pushing fabric up my thighs. Cool air hits my skin.
I should fight. Should break free and run.
Instead, I arch into his touch.
His fingers trace the edge of my panties—delicate, exploratory. Testing. Then he presses against the soaked fabric and groans low in his throat.
“Fuck, Iris.” His voice roughens. “You’re drenched.”
Heat floods my face. Shame and arousal war inside me, neither winning.
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He rocks his palm against me, dragging the wet silk across my clit. “Don’t point out how fucking wet you are? How turned on you got while hiding from me?”
A whimper escapes before I can stop it.
“That’s it.” His other arm tightens around my waist, holding me steady as he grinds his palm harder. “It’s so goddamn hot how scared you get. How your fear makes you this wet.”
“That’s not—” I gasp as his fingers slide beneath the fabric, skin to skin. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.” He circles my clit with practiced precision. “It is.”
