Page 119 of Craving Consequences
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EVERLY
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My knees sting against the raw wood as I crawl deeper beneath the bed. Muscles twitch with the effort to stay quiet as the house roars around me. The hem of my top has bunched up, pressing every inch of naked skin from my belly down into the unforgiving chill.
Outside, the storm bellows with a new ferocity. It claws at the window as thunder cracks in the distance.
Somewhere below, a door slams.
My heart kicks in my ribs. The pounding is so loud, I know they’ll hear it. I try to cover my mouth with both hands, muffling the pitiful whimper lodged in my throat.
But it’s the hot, sticky moisture trickling between my legs that I can’t stop. I’m so wired, so unimaginably turned on, I can hardly tell if I’m shivering because of the chase, the cold or how badly I want them to catch me. How desperately I need to feel them stretching me, filling me, making this ache stop.
Something creaks just outside the door.
Soft.
Deliberate.
A floorboard sighs under pressure.
Light slices beneath the wood, a taunt so cruel I squeeze my eyes closed.
“You know,” Van calls, voice a sadistic purr coiling through the corridor, “we may not know this house as well as you do, but there is one thing you seem to forget, little doe.”
Another footstep. Closer. Just outside.
“We know your scent,” Lachlan finishes for his friend.
My thighs clench. It’s useless. I’m soaked. Arousal is literally dripping from my clit. It’s soaking the wood beneath my hips and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
“We can smell your cunt,” Van continues lazily. “It’s so fucking wet the house is thick with it.”
I bite down on my knuckle to hold the moan in check. My nipples ache, tight against the thin cotton of my shirt. I have to resist the urge to roll my top up the rest of the way and let the wood soothe them. There isn’t any time.
The doorknob clicks.
The hinges groan.
My lungs stop for a full heartbeat as twin footfalls fill the space. White, artificial light drags across the floor, trapping dancing particles of dust in their stream.
Cheaters,I think.
“Come out, little doe,” Van taunts as his heavy boots move in torturously slow strides around the bed.
The flashlight stays freakishly still in his grip, a testament to his resolve. The halo of blinding white leads the way around the side of the bed. It pauses on my right, highlighting the scuffs and scars crossing over leather as the bed dips overhead. The wood creaks. Long, capable fingers curl over the edge of the frame.
Pauses.
I should run. I should scramble out the opposite side and bolt for the door. I know I’m caught, but I can’t let myself get captured, and still ... my limbs won’t move. They want to get caught. Punished.
A hand slides under the bed. It inches deeper into my space and I am too paralyzed to move. Praying that if I am still enough, he’ll miss me. But I’m not so lucky when the knuckles graze my knee and I jump.
