Chapter Five #2
“—unhinged, cave-dwelling, motherf—”
smack.
My teeth click like castanets. My cheeks burn.
He takes off at a sprint, jostling me with every step. The world blurs—the distant sound of Custom-Mask groaning behind us.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” I’m yelling before I can think, pounding on Dollar-Store’s back with both fists as he charges deeper into the forest.
“You stabbed him. You—with a real knife, you psycho. Are you—”
smack.
“—crazy—”
His palm connects with my ass so hard I gasp.
“You’re fucking—”
smack.
“—insane! This was supposed to be—”
Another slap. Hard enough to make my eyes sting.
I go rigid, fury and something far less righteous zipping down my spine.
“You let him touch you,” he grits out between punishing strides, each step jostling me against his bare, blood-warm back. “You moaned for him.”
Fuck, is this for real? Or just another scene to keep me wet and confused?
“Put me down, you maniac. Put. Me. Down!”
One second, I’m bouncing over his shoulder like a kidnapped damsel. The next—I’m on my feet, hauled upright by the collar of my hoodie, my back slammed against a tree. Bark bites into my spine.
“Don’t pretend you’re not loving every second of this,” he rasps, inches from my face, breathing hard behind the mask. “But go ahead, scream all you want.”
And I do—my brain on autopilot, eyes closed, lungs filling to capacity, and—
kriiikkk.
What. The. Hell.
Dollar-Store—he just fucking duct-taped my mouth.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “Take a breath. Bet you’re gonna need it.”
I claw at the tape, but of course it won’t budge.
I thrash, slap at him.
He pins me face-first to the tree, grabs my wrists, and yanks them behind my back. Then comes the tape.
I scream—indignant, muffled, a full-throated pterodactyl.
smack. His palm lands on my bare ass again.
My hiss sticks to the duct tape. My mouth goes liquid. My nipples are so stiff they ache, and that quiver right through my pussy? Damn. If this is what happens when I fight back—
I. Am. Done.
“Stay. Still,” Dollar-Store growls.
Like hell I will.
I squirm as he wedges his hand between my thighs.
His fingers glide over me—pushing just so.
My hips stutter. My knees betray me.
I rake my teeth against the tape, reveling in the rough grit. Hating the way my pussy pulses.
My spine arches as his thumb zeroes in on my clit.
He drags one finger over me, savoring, then a second—testing, stroking—pinpointing every spot that makes me twitch or gasp.
Three fingers slip inside. I buck, and Dollar-Store doesn’t miss a beat.
“Slut.” He curls them. “Behave, and I’ll let you come.”
A whimper escapes—muffled, soaked in heat.
“You haven’t begged yet,” he murmurs, pumping in and out. “Maybe you’re not gagging for it, hmm?”
Asshole.
But his fingers never stop working.
Fireworks spark behind my eyes … beneath my skin. A sound claws up my throat—half-wail, half-sob.
“So wet already,” he mutters. “Too easy. I need you downright filthy before I even think about letting you come.”
My feet are cement. My breath AWOL. I shudder against the bark, caught between stubbornness and sex-starved spite.
A huff behind me. Zip. Cloth rustle.
Holy shit. Is he—
I drop my head, stealing a look—and there he is, framed in the narrow gap between my cheek and the tree, stroking himself through the open fly of his jeans.
He lines up behind me—warm and way too solid—his chin resting on the crown of my head.
Something else notches into place. A blunt, insistent tip. His cock, if the guttural groan is anything to go by. Hot. Stiff. Pulsing.
I buck my hips, eager to shove myself back on that thick, glorious—
But he shifts, just out of reach.
Why the hell isn’t he moving? One thrust and he’ll ruin me.
Fucking cocktease.
My face is on fire, my clit throbbing. Apparently, my body doesn’t give a single shit about common sense or ethics or someone being stabbed.
“MMMmmmMMMMMM.”
“What’s that? Begging already?”
Sweat slicks the back of my knees. Another spasm curls through me.
The tree presses hard where his hands grip my shoulders, pushing me down—a reminder who owns this moment.
Dollar-Store rocks into me, curt and relentless.
I grit my teeth. Who, why, or how—none of it matters. Just stop teasing and fucking go.
I reach back, groping blindly, fingers snagging on his hipbone. My grip is pathetic. Fever-shaky. And goddammit. Is that laughter rumbling in his chest? I dig my nails in.
He gives me a thigh in reply.
I hate this. Hate him. Hate how he can probably smell how much I love every filthy second.
“More,” he growls in that stupid filtered voice, knee wedged between my thighs. “Give me a little more, and I’ll end you in the sweetest fucking way.”
End me … what, no—
A rough grind upward. “Here. Feel that? Go ahead. Rut.”
“MMmmmMMM.”
This is what he reduces me to—bound, gagged. And God, so fucking needy.
Thump. “Hmpfh.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” He swipes a hand over my forehead—as if checking for bumps. “We’re just getting started.”
Right. Night’s still young. If he’s not game, someone else out there will be more than happy to leave me sore and satisfied.