Chapter 48 #2
He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is wet breath and blood.
I bring my boot down on his wrist. The bones shatter instantly, tendons snapping beneath my heel. The scream that comes out of him barely makes it past the blood clogging his throat.
I grab what is left of his expensive jacket and drag him across the pavement.
His legs leave two thick red smears trailing behind.
One of his shoes has come off, and the bare foot twists limp, shredded at the heel.
His femur juts fully out of the torn skin.
His broken arm flops with each pull, bone sawing against the ground.
He gurgles, choking on blood and broken teeth.
I reach the back of the car and pop the trunk. The latch clicks and the lid lifts, hinges groaning under the strain.
“Kincaid, you piece of shit,” he rasps. Blood bubbles at his mouth as he tries to crawl backward. “Don’t put me in there!” He claws at the asphalt with one hand that barely works, fingernails scraping uselessly against the pavement.
I grab him and haul him up. His body sags in places it should not, weight shifting wrong as bones slide against each other.
I shove him into the trunk without slowing.
He hits the metal hard, lands twisted on his side, and starts screaming.
The sound is shrill and broken, panic tearing through every breath.
I slam the trunk shut.
The steel dulls the noise just enough to make it tolerable.
I stand there for a second, listening to the muffled pounding and the sounds he makes when he realizes no one is coming. Then I walk back to the driver’s seat. My hands are slick with blood. I wipe them on the inside of my jacket, dragging my palms along the lining until the fabric darkens.
Brooke is already in the passenger seat.
I slide in beside her and glance over.
She looks radiant. Her eyes are bright, lips parted in a slow, satisfied smile she doesn't bother hiding. Her head tips back against the seat as she lets out a long breath, the kind that empties something heavy from her chest. Her thighs press together beneath her dress.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
She shifts in her seat, adjusting herself, and a soft sound slips out of her throat. She bites her lower lip, not to stop it, but to draw it out longer.
I chuckle. “You’re going to make me pull over.”
She laughs.
The sound of adrenaline still flooding her system. She liked watching me do it. She likes what I did to him. She likes that he begged. She likes knowing he is still back there, breathing hard, panicking, screaming into a box that won't open.
Her body makes that part very clear.
I take the next turnout without easing up much.
Gravel snaps under the tires as I cut the wheel.
The car slides before it catches, headlights sweeping over trees and brush before landing on a narrow overlook carved into the mountain.
There are no streetlights, no traffic. Only a rusted guardrail and a drop beyond it that vanishes into black.
The engine idles low. I shift into park and shut the engine off.
“Get out.”
She looks at me with her breath caught. “Out here?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
I don't answer. I open the door and step into the cold night air. She follows without hesitation, her heels crunching over gravel as she trails behind me.
We move around the back of the car. The paint gleams under the moonlight, streaked only with road dust and blood.
The brand new trunk shifts, metal groaning with a hollow echo.
A muffled scream kicks up from inside, followed by several frantic bangs.
He is panicking now, kicking at steel he is too broken to bend. It's pathetic.
Brooke stares at the trunk, her eyes wide but focused. Her lips part slightly, breath coming out slow. She looks satisfied. She looks turned on. Nothing about her posture reads as fear. This is power, and she likes how it feels when it belongs to her.
“Hush” starts playing from the speakers, like it has been waiting for this exact moment.
I step in close and wrap my hands around her hips, my fingers digging into warm skin as I pull her against me so she can feel exactly how hard I already am.
She doesn't flinch when I lift her and set her on the trunk.
From inside, Elliot slams his fist against the lid again.
“Let me out!” he shouts, his voice muffled and frantic. “Let me the fuck out!”
He hasn't passed out yet, and he hasn't given up.
Good.
She looks down at the trunk beneath her instead of at me, staring at the metal like she can see straight through it into the dark where he is trapped. She knows he can hear everything.
I step between her legs and drag my hands slowly up the inside of her thighs, spreading her wider as my palms move over heated skin. Her breath hitches hard when my thumbs brush closer to where she is already wet. I push her dress up inch by inch, exposing her completely to the cold air and to me.
She is not wearing panties.
Her thighs tighten instinctively, but I force them apart again and keep them open with a firm grip.
Her throat works as she swallows, and she nods once without lifting her eyes from the trunk. Her fingers curl over the edge of the metal behind her, and her nails scrape across the paint as she anchors herself.
The car shifts again beneath us.
Inside, Elliot pounds harder.
“Let me out!” he yells. “You fucking bitch!”
I let one hand slide higher between her legs and press two fingers against her slowly, feeling the slick heat waiting for me. She sucks in a breath so hard that it stutters in her chest. I drag my fingers through her, spreading her open while I watch the way her hips lift.
She is already soaked.
I circle her clit with my thumb while my fingers push inside her at the same time, stretching her carefully.
Her head tips back and her chest rises with a shaky inhale.
Her legs try to close around my arm, but I keep them open and slide my fingers deeper, curling them slightly until her body reacts.
She gasps and grabs the trunk harder.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
I drop to my knees between her legs while keeping my fingers inside her. I pull her closer until she sits right at the edge of the trunk, her ass hovering over his face through layers of steel.
I flatten my tongue against her and drag it slowly while my fingers pump inside her.
She cries out, and the sound is not quiet.
Her hips jerk forward into my mouth while her body clenches around my fingers. Her breathing turns messy instantly. I work her with my tongue in long strokes, then circle her clit while curling my fingers inside her, rubbing that place that always makes her lose control.
Her thighs start shaking.
Her hands slide on the metal before gripping again.
“Oh fuck,” she gasps.
I suck her clit into my mouth while my fingers move deeper, slower, then faster, stretching her open and filling her at the same time. Her hips start grinding against my face in short, desperate movements.
The car rocks under us. Inside, Elliot screams again.
“Brooke!” he yells. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
She hears him, and I feel it in the way she tightens around my fingers.
I drive my fingers harder into her and curl them firmly while my mouth stays on her, licking and sucking until her whole body starts trembling.
Her stomach tightens visibly. Her breathing breaks apart into gasps.
She is dripping onto my mouth.
“Please,” she whimpers. “I’m going to come.”
I push in deeper and work her faster, relentlessly now, with my fingers curling and uncurling inside her while my tongue keeps circling her clit without mercy.
Her thighs clamp around my shoulders. Her back arches. Her hips buck forward.
Right then, Elliot makes another sound from inside the trunk, and it comes out thin and weak. He is running out of fight or oxygen.
She comes hard.
Her body locks around my head, squeezing my fingers as wave after wave tears through her. Her hips slam forward. Her chest heaves. Her mouth opens in a sound she can't control while I keep my fingers inside her and my mouth on her, riding every wave.
She shakes violently. Her moans come out broken and high.
I stay there and hold her through it, feeling every pulse, every clench, every desperate aftershock around my fingers while my tongue never leaves her.
She is still trembling when I finally slow my fingers and pull them out of her gradually, watching her wetness shine in the light, knowing he hears every sound she makes while she comes on top of his coffin.
I slide my hands up her sides and hook my fingers under the neckline of her dress.
I shove the fabric down hard and slow, scraping it over her skin until her tits spill free.
They are full and heavy in my hands, nipples already tight from the cold and from the way she just came apart for me.
I lean down and take one into my mouth. I suck hard, my tongue working her nipple while my hand closes around the other breast and squeezes.
I roll her nipple between my fingers until she gasps and arches, pushing herself into my mouth.
Her back bows, her chest pressing into my face, her hips rocking. I can feel my cock straining behind my zipper, aching and thick and pissed off from waiting.
I pull back just long enough to undo my pants and free myself in one sharp motion.
My cock slaps against my stomach, heavy and leaking, and I make sure she sees it.
I want her eyes on it. I want her to feel the way my body is coiled and ready when I step between her thighs.
Her pussy is still pulsing, wet, hot, and open.
I grab her hips, line myself up, and drive into her in one brutal thrust.