Chapter 38
Isprint across the yard, not daring to look behind me and risk slowing myself down. Adrenaline rushes through my veins at the thought of being caught. At knowing I’ll be caught—he’s faster, stronger, and a supernatural being, after all—but the thrill of the chase is exhilarating nonetheless.
The night air is crisp and cold, chilling my lungs with every inhale and coming out in a puff of vapor with every exhale.
My entire body is electrified with the thrill of the chase, anticipating the grip of his hand on my arm at any second, but I can’t even hear his footsteps over the sound of my own feet pounding the ground and my pulse thundering in my ears.
I’m closing in on the house, knowing that a chase through the woods would bring me right back to my dream but knowing it wouldn’t go so smoothly in reality. It’s pitch-black outside, not to mention freezing, and frankly, I don’t trust myself not to trip and break my ankle.
Besides, I’d much rather Ambrose catch me inside the house, where he can toss me onto a warm bed and fuck me senseless.
When I reach the house, I throw open the back door and slip inside, unable to resist the urge to glance behind me.
There, silhouetted against the dim halo of yellow light emanating from the garage windows, is Ambrose.
Not running, but striding with unhurried purpose.
Stalking me, knowing I won’t be able to escape him no matter where I go.
I let out a tiny yelp of fear and slam the door shut before running further into the house.
Where do I go now?
My feet slam against the hardwood floors as I tear through the hallway with my heart hammering in my chest. My mind is aware that I’m not in any real danger, but my body doesn’t know the difference.
Every sense is dialed high, impelling me to scream, fight, or run from the predator who’s chasing me.
I take a sharp right and skid into Ambrose’s study, slamming my shoulder against the doorframe in my momentum. “Shit,” I hiss, pressing a palm to the tender spot, but there’s no time to dwell. I scan the room in a frenzy, searching for potential hiding places.
Bookshelves, desk, curtains. No closet. I’m running out of time.
My pulse thrums louder now, not just from running, but from the awareness that he’s getting closer with every second that passes.
I need to hide.
The couch is my best bet, I decide. It’s angled against the far wall, pushed out just enough that I might fit behind it.
I dart across the room and drop to my knees, awkwardly attempting to wedge myself into the narrow gap between the couch and the wall.
The carpet muffles the sounds of my shuffling, thankfully.
I press a hand to my mouth, torn between keeping my eyes wide open and squeezing them shut.
The thud of his footsteps echoes down the hallway with slow, deliberate thuds. He’s doing it on purpose, knowing I’m somewhere in the house listening to every minor movement with bated breath.
He’s not rushing to find me.
No, he’s hunting me.
“Brielle…” His voice floats down the hall in a sing-song tone, with that unmistakable purr of danger that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. “You really think you can hide from me?”
Yes.
No.
Please don’t find me.
Please do.
He opens a door to another room, and it creaks on its hinges. His footsteps pause. I picture him scanning the shadows with that unnatural stillness of his, just before he moves in for the kill.
“Not in here,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
My heart skips at the sound of something crashing to the floor—probably something he knocked over on purpose, because he knows what that noise does to me with how on-edge I am. It startles a gasp out of me, but I bite it back.
He’s toying with me.
I listen as his footsteps recede into the kitchen, then grow louder as he gets closer.
My body is thrumming, alive with tension and anticipation that makes it hard to stay still. It’s the thrill of the hunt, and I’m his helpless prey.
The floor creaks with the sound of his footsteps, louder now than before.
Closer.
I hear the moment he crosses over from the hardwood floor into the carpet of his study, when his footsteps go eerily silent.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
The weight of his presence settles into the room like thick smoke. I can feel him without seeing him—his energy, his gravity.
“Brielle…” he says again, quieter now, teasing. “You can’t hide from me, baby.”
A spike of arousal shoots through me at his words, and I bite my lip to keep myself quiet.
He takes a step.
Then another.
I can’t even see him from where I’m crammed behind the couch, so all I can do is listen and wait.
There’s the sound of the desk chair dragging across the carpet as he checks underneath.
The rustle of the curtains is next.
I press my back tighter against the wall, my ribs aching from how shallow I’m breathing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear my pulse with how hard it’s pounding.
The room falls quiet again.
And then, he stops.
Right in front of the couch.
I freeze.
My body is taut and my breath trapped in my lungs. I don't move. I can't move. It’s as if my limbs know the rules of the game even better than my mind does. The hunter is close. Any sudden movement might give me away.
But he already knows.
A slow, deliberate hand slides around the back of the couch, shifting it forward a few inches and exposing me to the room. A moment later, a strong grip closes around my wrist.
I yelp as Ambrose tugs me forward. It’s not painful, but it’s clear how much stronger than me he is. I scramble slightly, the carpet scratching at my knees, but he doesn’t give me time to get my balance before he hauls me up and over the arm of the couch in one smooth motion.
I land on the cushions with a surprised shout, and the heat of the room seems to surge around me all at once as I’m forced into the metaphorical spotlight.
He's standing over me, surveying me like the prey that I am, and his dark eyes gleam with dark satisfaction. I can only lie there, breathing hard and wondering what comes next now that he’s caught me.
“Did you really think you could run from me?” he asks in a dangerously soft voice.
I manage a small, shy smile, because I know that’s what he wants, and also because I kind of like the way butterflies take flight in my stomach at his tone.
“Careful, pet. Don’t forget, you belong to me now. I’ll chase no matter how far you run.”
The words should bother me. They’re both possessive and domineering. Combined with the fact that he used the nickname I used to hate so much, I should argue with him.
But I don’t, because none of that bothers me anymore.
In fact, I love that he’s claiming me as his, because his possessiveness isn’t suffocating; it’s liberating. It makes me feel wanted but not controlled, desirable but not objectified.
He examines me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he sees every crack in my armor and is enjoying the way he’s prying me open with the gentlest touch.
Without a word, he begins to strip.
Right in front of me, with no hesitation and no shame, holding eye contact the entire time.
He pulls his sweater over his head, followed by his undershirt, exposing his broad chest and muscular arms. His hands move to his belt next, undoing the buckle with slow, deliberate motions.
I can’t look away. My mouth goes dry as he pushes his pants down, letting them fall to the floor, followed by his briefs.
His cock springs free, already half hard.
Ambrose undresses like a man who knows he’s a god—or a devil—before those meant to worship him.
And fuck, do I want to.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just sits beside me on the couch, completely naked, and begins to stroke himself lazily, watching me with that unreadable expression.
I’m frozen under his gaze for a moment, but I come to my senses and go to move closer to him when he finally speaks.
“Stand up,” he commands.
I do, unsure of myself but wanting to please him regardless.
“Take your shirt off,” he says after making me stand there for a few uncomfortable seconds. I reach for the hem, nerves twisting my stomach, but before I can peel it off, he adds, “Slowly.”
Oh, he wants a show.
He wants to look at me the way I’ve been looking at him, with barely restrained lust and desire.
I meet his gaze and tug the hem of the sweater up inch by inch, revealing the strip of my stomach, the underside of my breasts. His eyes follow every movement. I roll the fabric over my shoulders and down my arms, watching it fall to the floor.
I reach around to unclasp my bra next, then slide the straps down my arms, slow and teasing, and let it slip from my fingers.
His hand moves faster on his cock, and my nipples harden from both the cool air and his full attention.
“Turn around,” he instructs. “Pants next.”
I turn slowly, hooking my fingers into the waistband of my leggings before looking over my shoulder and meeting his intense gaze.
Bending forward slightly more than necessary, I peel the fabric down over my hips and thighs, revealing the curve of my ass.
I step out of the leggings and panties carefully, leaving myself bare before him.
Turning back around, I give him a look as if to say, “What’s next?”
He crooks a finger, beckoning me to him. “Come here.”
Heat pools low in my stomach as I walk over to him fully exposed, feeling the burn of his gaze trailing over every inch of my skin.
He reaches out when I get close enough, sliding both hands around my hips. Up until now, he’s still been slowly stroking his cock while watching me.
“Ride me,” he growls.
Heat pulses in my core, and my knees almost give out just from the way he says those two words.
He leans back then, giving me space, draping his arms casually across the back of the couch as he settles back into the cushions. His entire body is a masterpiece, and my eyes are drawn from his face down to his erection.
Steadying myself with my hands on the back of the couch, I situate myself over top of him with one leg on either side of his hips.
I sink down until his cock presses against my entrance, and I pause. Is this really happening? Am I allowing myself to give in to this man who, only weeks ago, I hated with every fiber of my being?
Yes, I decide, I am. Things have changed. He may not be a good person, but at this point, neither am I. Maybe I’ve come to care for him only under these unusual circumstances, but that doesn’t mean a thing right now.
I reach down between us with trembling fingers as I line him up with my entrance.
He doesn’t touch me yet. He simply watches. His eyes roam across my face, then down my neck, lingering on my breasts, my waist, and finally, where we connect.
Slowly, I sink down onto him.
I gasp at the stretch as he fills me inch by inch. Fuck, that feels good. Just when I think I won’t be able to go any further, I’m seated on his lap, and the fullness is overwhelming.
His head tips back slightly. “It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he groans.
I sit there for a moment, motionless, adjusting to the intense pressure of his cock inside me. His hands move from the back of the couch to my hips, stroking slow circles along my skin. He doesn’t rush me.
I begin to move, slow at first, lifting my hips just an inch before sliding back down. The sharp stretching sensation morphs into a low, pleasant ache that grows with every movement. I roll my hips, keeping eye contact even as my body begins to unravel.
Ambrose’s hands stay on me as he grips my hips, guiding me while I ride him.
“I meant what I said earlier. You’re mine,” he murmurs.
I nod. Words have left me completely.
Every inch of me burns, not just with pleasure but with the realization that I don’t mind being his. At least not right now, not like this.
I move my hands to grip his shoulders rather than the couch, needing every bit of contact with his skin I can possibly find. I ride him with growing urgency, chasing the pleasure that’s just out of reach. Each time I rise and sink back down, his breathing stutters.
My thighs begin to burn from the effort, muscles quivering, but I don’t stop. It feels too good, and the subtle pain is worth every bit of the pleasure.
Suddenly, he moves, surging upward and lifting me as though I weight nothing. I barely have time to wrap my legs around his hips before he twists and flips me onto my back.
I sink into the cushions, splayed out on the couch before him as he steadies himself over me then drives into me in one thrust.
I cry out at the suddenness of it all, bucking my hips upward to meet his unforgiving thrusts.
Our slow pace is gone now, replaced by something more desperate.
“This is what you get for running,” he grits out between thrusts. “Just remember that you asked for this—to be hunted, caught, and fucked.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he growls. “Not until you scream for me.”
Every thrust pushes me closer to the edge. My legs are shaking, my core pulsing with need, the only thing that exists in this moment is him. Ambrose.
He changes the angle, grabbing one of my legs and lifting it higher over his shoulder while keeping his relentless pace, and I fall apart.
I come with a sob, my back bowing off the couch as my orgasm crashes through me. My muscles tense as pleasure wracks my body, but Ambrose doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, harder and deeper, chasing his own release like his life depends on it. He presses a hand against the back of the couch for leverage, the muscles in his forearms straining as he drives into me over and over again.
Moments later, he comes inside me with a groan, his hips slowing as he pulses deep inside me.
Beneath him, I’m breathing hard and overwhelmed with something between awe, obsession, and contentment.
He stays like that for a minute, staring down at me with his cock still inside me while his expression mirrors every emotion welling up inside me.
Then he leans forward, just enough to bury his face against my neck, and I wrap my arms around him.
Neither of us speaks, but we both know that, once again, everything between us has shifted irreparably.