Chapter 25 #2
“You already knew that.”
A beat passes. Then he brings it back, closer this time. I don’t miss the way his gaze drops to my mouth as I lean in again. “Small,” he says quietly. “Just hold it.”
I draw in a shallow pull and keep it there. The smoke sits on my tongue, acrid and strange. I let it slip back out. It curls between us.
“See?” he says. “You’re not missing anything.”
I’m closer than I realized, standing between his knees now, the space narrow and warm. His hand with the cigarette rests on the counter beside my hip, caging without touching.
“It tastes like you,” I murmur.
His eyes lift, darkening. “That’s not a selling point.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
Something in his throat shifts.
I take the cigarette from his fingers. Our skin brushes–quick and electric. I copy what he did, smaller this time. Hold. Release.
He watches the smoke leave my mouth like it’s doing something to him he doesn’t want named.
“Still awful,” I decide.
“Good.” I hand it back. He takes a drag immediately, like he needs the reset of it. The air between us has changed and I’m not ready to go back to the way we were before. I close the gap until we’re inches apart.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, careful.
I look down at him–really look. The strong line of his jaw, the cut cheekbones, those pale eyes that always seem to see straight through me. My heart is already hammering.
I swallow. “Can I sit on your lap?”
He studies me for a long beat–searching, weighing. Then he gives a single nod.
I climb on carefully, straddling him, knees bracketing his hips.
The chair creaks under our combined weight.
I settle down, and the hard length of him presses right against my core through our clothes–thick and insistent.
Heat floods me instantly, mixing with the lingering ache from the welts, turning pain into something desperate, hungry.
We’re face to face now. Close enough that I can see the faint scar under his left eye, the way his pupils have blown wide. His hands settle on my hips–not gripping, not yet–just resting there, warm through the fabric.
This is new, the two of us touching like this. New, and scary. I don’t back off.
“You could fuck me,” I say, voice barely above the music. “Damon would.”
His tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip. “This is a risky game, Hex.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Because you’ve never seen me unleashed.”
My heart slams against my ribcage. “We’re still not fully alone. Someone could walk in, that girl who always comes early. Everly?”
“Nah. She won’t be here for hours.” His fingers bite into my hip, just a bit.
“The song could end,” I counter, glancing at the console, at the silent mic. “You could leave that on and give us an audience.”
“A safety net,” he says, voice rough. “You’d have to be quiet.”
“So would you.”
His eyes darken. One hand slides up my back until his fingers curl around the nape of my neck. The other stays on my hip, just hard enough to be a reminder.
“You follow my directions. Every last one.”
“I will.”
“Clothes on,” he says.
I nod.
“Not a goddamn squeak, understood?”
I nod again.
His hand reaches out and he flicks on the mic, the red light casting over us.
He pulls me down at the same time he rolls his hips up–just once, hard enough to make me gasp.
The friction is immediate, electric–his cock grinding against me through the thin layer of fabric, right over my piercing. I bite my lip to trap the sound.
His grip tightens on my neck, not choking, just holding, keeping me exactly where he wants me. He rocks up again, slower this time, dragging the hard ridge of his erection along my clit piercing until I’m trembling.
I rock down to meet him, grinding in small circles, chasing the pressure. His fingers dig in harder, deeper, every time I move, but the pain only makes the pleasure better, brighter. His hand on my neck flexes, his fingers pressing just enough to make my pulse jump under his thumb.
I exhale a silent cry on my lips. His mouth crashes into mine, tongue hot and controlling. His teeth bite down, tugging at my lips. It hurts.
I want it to hurt. I want to feel something other than sadness and confusion. I want to feel heat. Hands. Teeth.
I ride him, hips rolling, breath hitching every time the seam of his jeans catches the ring. My hands brace on his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt. He’s rock-hard under the denim, straining, but he doesn’t rush. Just watches my face, eyes locked on every flicker of reaction.
The song shifts–darker, heavier bass–and he matches the rhythm, thrusting up in time, controlled, but relentless. My thighs start to shake. I’m close, too close, already slick and aching. A moan slips between my lips.
“Quiet,” he says, voice deep and under the music, his thumb pressing harder against my throat. “Or I’ll stop and leave you like this.”
My hips stutter, grinding down harder. He fights his own groan, jaw clenched tight.
I know he’s getting close, just like the end of the song.
As it starts to fade out, he reaches for the mic, I think to turn it off, but instead, he pulls it close to his mouth.
Hunter leans forward just enough to reach the mic, one hand still firm on my hip, keeping me pinned exactly where he wants me.
My thighs tremble, breath caught in my throat, every slide of my clit piercing over the rough denim of his jeans sending sparks up my spine.
I bite down hard on my lip to stay quiet.
He clears his throat once, calm and professional, then speaks into the mic like nothing’s happening, voice low and steady, velvet over steel.
“Forsyth… It’s late. The city’s breathing in deep, heavy breaths tonight.
Like she’s waiting for someone to finish what they started.
” He slides his hand over my shirt, fingers dragging over my nipple piercing, giving it a little tug.
“Some of you are still up, restless, maybe you’re looking for something to fight off the monsters that wander our streets.
Something that leaves marks you’ll feel in the morning.
This next track’s for the ones who can’t sleep–lying in twisted sheets, minds running and bodies exhausted.
Let it sink in. Let it hurt a little. Slide into the dark with me.
You’re not alone… and you’re definitely not innocent. None of us are.”
He hits the fader, cues the song–a brooding instrumental that fills the airwaves. The red light stays off.
Only then does his grip tighten, hips rolling up once, dragging a muffled whimper from me that he swallows with his mouth over mine. He doesn’t break rhythm, and he refuses to rush. Just keeps me there, grinding silently while the music plays on, like he’s still just doing his job.
My skirt is bunched high around my hips now, panties shoved aside, the rough denim of his jeans dragging directly over my piercing with every roll of his hips.
The friction is brutal–electric, almost too much–and the lingering bruises on my ass flare every time I shift, turning pain into something molten that feeds straight into the heat building between my legs.
His cock is thick and rigid beneath the zipper, trapped but insistent, grinding up into me in perfect, punishing circles.
I rock down harder, chasing it, thighs trembling. His arm cinches around my waist, holding me against him so I can’t escape the pressure.
“You close?” he breathes against my mouth, voice wrecked.
I nod frantically, biting down on my own lip until I taste copper. My hips stutter, small, desperate jerks, and he matches me, thrusting up in short, controlled snaps that make stars burst behind my eyes.
The song swells around us, and he grinds harder, faster, the seam of his jeans catching my clit piercing at the perfect angle. I’m soaked, slick enough that I can feel it soaking through his jeans. My nails dig into his shoulders, body locking tight as the edge rushes up.
He feels it and rolls his hips one last time, pressing his cock against me.
I come silently, even though the mic is off now, my body seizing, thighs clamping around him. The choked, muffled cry is swallowed against his neck as pleasure rips through me in white-hot waves. My walls flutter uselessly around nothing, clit pulsing in time with every aftershock.
He’s right behind me.
His grip on my neck tightens, hips jerking up once, twice, grinding hard against me as he spills in his jeans. A low, guttural groan vibrates through his chest, muffled against my hair. I feel the heat of it through the fabric, his cock twitching against my pussy.
We stay locked like that for long seconds, breathing ragged, bodies trembling. Our clothes may still be on, but they’re messy and ruined.
He finally exhales, breath shaky, and reaches for the cigarette burning on the can. It’s still burning, tip glowing cherry-red in the dim light of the console.
He brings it close—close enough that I feel the heat kiss my cheek, then lower, hovering just above the swell of my breast. His pale, stormy eyes meet mine–pupils blown wide.
“I could mark you right here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Burn my own mark into your pretty skin. Make sure you remember who made you come like this while the whole town listened.”
My breath hitches. The heat of the cigarette is so close I can feel it prickling, promising pain that might drown out everything else—the fountain, the bugs, the ghosts racing in my head.
I don’t pull away.
But he does.
He pulls the cigarette back, takes a long drag, and then drops it in the can.
“Not tonight,” he says quietly. “I’ll save it for another time. When you’re ready to scream for real.”
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, gentle, almost tender.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask, “Hex.”
“Because I’m pretty sure the day we met, you put a curse on me.”
There’s no humor behind his words. No smirk on his mouth. He means it.
“Next song’s almost over,” he says in his radio voice. “Fix your skirt, we’ve got air to fill.”
I nod, shaky, still buzzing from the high.
And when he spins back to the console, voice sliding smoothly into the mic again like nothing happened, I know the truth about myself. I wanted it. I wanted to feel that pain. And that’s what makes Hunter and me dangerous together.
One day, one of us isn’t going to stop.