One Dirty Night

No sign of the cultured scientist.

No scorn from my broken flatmate.

Just a barbarian intent on getting his fill.

A rough, gruff caveman losing himself to the most ancient act on Earth.

My back arched as a feral moan wrenched from my lungs.

He drilled into me with muttered oaths and muffled grunts.

Bruising me with his thrusts, punishing me with his passion.

There was nothing sweet about the way he bucked into me.

He was obsessive, possessive, brutal, and borderline cruel.

And literally the best thing I’d ever felt.

“Yes!” I screamed, shoving my hips back, sending shockwaves of energy through our writhing bodies. “God, yes. More. More.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Nick panted, his voice tangled with nightmares. “I can’t. I can’t—”

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop,” I seethed, anger pouring out of me. Frustrated fury hijacked my sanity; I craved a deeper, darker pain.

I threw myself backward.

I ground myself on him, forcing him to crawl inside me.

“Don’t stop.” I cried out as he thrust particularly deep, making me wince and sob and beg.

“Stop?” He speared right to the top of me. “You think I can stop after this? You think I could ever stop now that I know how fucking good you feel?”

“I told you she’s a witch.” Hunter laughed. “She’s bewitched us both.”

“She’s a fucking menace,” Nick groaned. “She deserves to be punished.”

“So punish her,” Hunter taunted. “Your dick’s inside her. Mark her. Brand her. Make her so sore she’ll remember you for the rest of her life.” Looking past me to Nick, he threw fuel on the already manic wildfire. “She’s yours, man. You know it. I know it. She knows it.”

“Tonight only.”

“If you still think that, you’re a fucking idiot.” Hunter bared his teeth. “But if that’s what you have to tell yourself not to admit you’re in love with her, then by all means. Fuck her like you hate her.”

Oh God.

Another thread of Nick’s leash snapped.

His hips pistoned into mine. Shallow and nasty—a daggering pace full of pain and passion.

Each time he surged into me, his desperation fed my churning, spindling release.

The way he rode me.

The way he needed me.

The things he felt poured through his body and into mine, bypassing words and lies and hopes, revealing the truth.

He didn’t hate me.