Chapter 14 Jillian #2
“Look at you,” he rasps, fist tightening on the upstroke.
“Soaking wet on your own kitchen floor. Your own juices slicking your thighs. You came so hard you’re still twitching and all you can think about is getting your mouth on me.
I can see it. Don’t even try to lie or conceal it.
It’s right there—your tongue just moved at the mere thought.
” He pumps himself down again. “I know what you’ve been thinking.
But do you want to know what I’ve been thinking about since the first night I came through that window?
This. Exactly this. You, underneath me, wrecked, dripping, begging.
I’ve been thinking of what’s about to happen.
” His thumb circles the head and his breathing gets heavier.
“How I’ll bury myself so deep that you’ll feel my cock in every inch of you.
I’ll rearrange you to my liking. I’ll fuck you until the only word left in that bratty little mouth is please.
” He grips harder, pumps faster for two strokes, then forces himself to slow down.
“And you’d say it, too. Don’t pretend you won’t.
You already did once tonight. You’ll say it again.
You’ll say it every fucking time I tell you to, because that’s what good girls do when they’re finally honest about what they want.
” His free hand finds my inner thigh and squeezes.
“And you want it, little fox. Don’t you. Don’t you?”
He bends down, anchors his hands on either side of my head, and lines himself up.
The head of his cock presses against me, not pushing in yet, just resting there, hot and heavy, and I think that this is the closest I’ve ever been to a true psychotic break.
All the things that make me me have been ruined and cast aside. I’m a body, not a person.
And my body wants his.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I look at the mask.
“Tell me to stop and I stop. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say it back to me.”
“If I tell you to stop, you stop.”
“Good girl.”
Then he pushes in.
It’s been five years. My body resists… and then doesn’t.
He goes slow, feeding me one inch at a time, and the stretch is overwhelming—not painful, exactly, just a lot, too much and not enough at the same time.
I grab his jacket with both hands and pull, trying to bring him closer, trying to ground myself in something solid.
He bites his lip as he sinks the rest of the way in until our hips meet.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving. My entire body is clenched around him. I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t do anything except hold onto his jacket and exist.
Then he pulls back, slow, and pushes in again. Out, then in. Out, then in. Each thrust bottoms out and, like he promised, I feel it in my spine, my teeth, the roots of my hair.
It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced. Not even close. It’s total and consuming. I’m aware of every single point where his body meets mine.
His hips against the backs of my thighs.
His hands caging in my head.
The rough denim of his jeans against my bare skin.
The weight and pressure and cinnamon heat of him above me, inside me, everywhere.
“You feel—” He thrusts harder, a snap of his hips that has me seeing stars. “Fuck. You feel unreal. Your cunt is milking me, little fox. You’re pulsing around me.”
He fucks crazed sounds out of me one at a time. None of them make a bit of sense, except for the fact that they make perfect sense: They’re for him and him alone.
The Masked Man.
My stalker, my shadow, my would-be killer, fucking me into hazy-eyed oblivion.
He drops to his elbows, which puts his masked face is right above mine, those gray eyes locked on me, and the intimacy of it—the sustained, unbroken eye contact while he moves inside me—is suddenly more than I can take.
I can see too much in his eyes and he can see too much in mine.
If I stay here one more second, I’m going to crack wide open in a way I can’t put back together.
I press my hands against his chest and push. He stops mid-stroke.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No. No, I just— Flip me over. I need to—I can’t—”
I wriggle away, twist under him, and roll onto my stomach, then push up to my hands and knees. The tile is wet under my palms now, from my sweat and juices.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He sounds angry now. His hand palms my hip. “Look at me.”
“I can’t.” My fingers curl against the floor. “Please. Just—like this. Please. I need it like this.”
“You need me to fuck you where you can’t see me.”
“Yes.”
A long pause. His grip on my hip tightens.
“You’re going to regret that,” he warns. “Because now, I don’t have to be gentle.”
Both hands seize my hips and he slams back into me. I cry out, my elbows buckling, my forehead dropping to the cold tile. The angle is deeper this way. He fills me completely on every stroke and I take it, all of it, face pressed to the floor, fingers spread flat against the tile.
“This what you wanted?” He pulls out to the tip and drives forward. “To hide from me?”
I moan into the floor.
“Answer me.”
“Yes…”
“Then take it. If you want me to fuck you like an animal, then I’ll give you that.”
He is a man of his word, because he starts to fuck down into me like he’d break through the floor if he could.
“Harder,” I gasp.
He gives it to me. I choke on the impact and push back into him, meeting him, wanting more. One of his hands leaves my hip and fists in my hair, yanking my head back off the tile.
“You want to hide? Fine. Hide. But your body can’t lie to me, little fox.
” He delves in deep and holds there, grinding, and I feel every inch of him pressed against my cervix.
“I feel you squeezing me. Every time I open my mouth, your pussy gets tighter. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?
You like when I talk dirty to you. And you fucking love being facedown on your floor, getting railed by a man whose name you don’t even know. ”
He pulls back and slams forward and I yelp.
“You’re dripping down my cock. There’s a puddle on the floor under you.
You know that, right? You’re making a fucking mess of yourself for me and you love it.
I didn’t ask nicely and you love that. You love that I climbed through your window and put you on your knees and made you beg, because nobody else has ever had the nerve to do that, have they?
Nobody else has ever looked at you and seen what I see. ”
His fist tightens in my hair. His hips pick up speed.
“I see all of you, Jillian Pierce. The parts you show the world and the parts you don’t, the ones you locked away.
I see them and I want every single one. Give them to me.
I want you feral and I want you soft and I want you ruined, and you’re going to give me all of it, because you already are.
Right now. On this floor. You’re giving me everything and you can’t stop. ”
I can’t stop. He’s right. The second orgasm builds without my permission, a sharp spike of overwhelming heat low in my belly that expands outward fast.
“Cum,” he orders. “Whether you like it or not, you’re going to cum on my cock. Now. Show me.”
I implode. My arms give out completely and I collapse flat on my stomach and he follows me down to blanket me, still buried inside me, hips stuttering as I clench and pulse and soak us both again.
He bellows as he rips out of me, and even though I don’t have the strength to look up, I hear the wet smack of him pumping and then—
Hot, thick ropes land across the small of my back, striping up my spine. He cums on me more than I ever thought possible, in long, heavy spurts that pool in the dip of my lower back and drip down my sides.
He strokes himself through the last of it. I feel the final pulse land warm between my shoulder blades.
My cheek is pressed against the kitchen tile. His cum is cooling on my back. I can hear him breathing above me, ragged, heavy, slowing down.
Then he pushes his weight off me and I feel the air rush in where his body was.
I don’t get up—I crawl. Hands and knees, pajama bottoms still tangled around one ankle. I make it to the wall next to the fridge and sit with my back against it. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and hold on for dear life.
It’s been five years since anyone touched me. Five years since THE NIGHT, the one that split my life into Before and After. I spent those years flinching and lying and sleeping with the lights on, all the while telling myself I was fine, I was healing, I was getting better.
And THIS is how I break the dry spell?!
Facedown on my kitchen floor? A masked stranger’s cum drying on my spine? A puddle of my own making under me?
Across the kitchen, I hear the clink of a belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper. I look up to see that he’s standing by the table, pulling his jeans back up over his hips, fastening the button. The mask is still on. His chest rises and falls under the dark jacket.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I whisper hoarsely. I sound like I’ve been screaming, which I guess I have. Kinda.
He finishes with the belt and looks at me, sitting there against the wall with everything I’ve ever hidden written all over my face.
He bends down and picks something up off the floor. I can’t see what it is, but he turns it over in his hand, looking at it. Then he tosses it to me. It lands next to me with a clatter. I look down to see my pink Taser.
“You might need this,” he suggests, sounding like he’s smirking. “Next time, don’t miss.”
He walks to the window, opens it, and throws one leg over the sill. He pauses there, half in and half out, and looks back at me one more time.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have anything left.
He sighs and drops out of sight. The curtain flutters once and goes still.
I sit there on the cold kitchen floor, and I don’t move for a very long time.