Page 19 of Hunting Gianna
Shehardlysleptlastnight. I sat outside the door and listened to her talk to herself for hours, trying to process what the fuck she found. So far, she’s seen my level-headed side. Pretty quick here she’s going to get a taste of the monster inside me.
It’s wearing me thin trying to be a gentleman when I want to be anything but.
I listen to her footsteps for an hour before I bother to go in. She’s wearing a path into the floorboards, the same frantic route every time: window, then door, then window, then door. As ifthe outcome would change with each repetition, as if she’d wear down the lock with nothing but persistence and raw animal panic.
She’s not wrong. Persistence does win, sometimes. I want to see how long it takes before hope burns out and something else flickers in.
To be perfectly honest, all I can think about is that look of terror in her eyes while she’s on her knees in front of me, sucking me into the back of her throat as I face fuck her. Tears streaming down her face as she chokes.
God, wouldn’t that just be the most holy of sights?
When I finally enter, she’s standing at the window, palms splayed on the glass, fogging it with her breath. Her shirt is too big, the one I gave her, and it slides down her shoulder. A wave of shock hits me when I realize that despite her fear, she still chose to wear my shirt instead of finding another one. I take a moment to study her. The way her hair clings to the sweat on her neck. The way she chews the inside of her lip, fighting not to cry.
She notices me and spins, eyes wild. “Open it,” she says. Her voice is hoarse from hours of talking to herself, or maybe screaming at the wind. “Let me out. You said you’d fix my fucking car yesterday and somehow it keeps getting pushed off. Unlock the damn door so I can go down to the Retreat and figure it out on my own.”
I move slow, measured, crossing the room with my hands in my pockets. “You’d last half a mile,” I say, “if you were lucky.” I let my eyes travel down her body, lingering, because I want her to see it. I want her to feel it. “It’s safer here.”
She bares her teeth. “Safer for who?”
A low chuckle shakes loose from my chest. I like her anger. I like it more than fear. I like it when the prey looks the predator in the eye and dares him to do his worst.
She’s trembling, but she stands her ground as I stop a foot away. The heat coming off her is something I want to bottle, something I want to rub all over my skin until the scent of her sticks. I lean in, but she doesn’t move. She’s learning.
“What do you want from me?” she demands. Her hands are fists at her sides, nails biting into her own skin. “What are you going to do?”
I take my time, let the silence stretch out between us. I want her to think about it, want her to feel the weight of every second I don’t answer.
“Why do you have rope in your drawer?” she blurts. “Why do you have a bird with my name on it? Why—” her voice shakes, breaking the mask for a half second— “why do you stare at me when you think I’m asleep?”
I don’t bother denying it. Instead, I touch her face, careful, like I’m inspecting bruised fruit at the market. Her skin is hot undermy fingers, feverish and tight. “Because you’re mine,” I say, calm and cold, like a doctor telling some asshole he’s going to die. “And because I can.”
She tries to slap me. It’s beautiful, really. The way her body coils, the way her arm flies, the way she commits to the strike even though she’s shaking. It lands across my cheek, stinging and bright. I let the pain bloom, let it settle in. I want her to know she got through.
She’s so stunned that I let it happen, she barely has time to react before I grab her wrist and pin it behind her back, twisting her body into mine. Her breath explodes from her lungs, wild and sharp.
“That all you got?” I murmur into her ear.
She kicks me in the shin, hard enough to hurt. Then she spits, the fleck landing on my collarbone, where it glistens like a second mouth. I press my hips into her, letting her feel the evidence of what she does to me.
Her voice is thin, almost a whimper. “Don’t.”
But she doesn’t mean it. Not really. Her body betrays her in every way that matters, the arch of her back, the way she leans into me, the way her fingers curl into my shirt instead of clawing for the exit.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her. I don’t give her the option to resist. My mouth is a weapon, a hunger, a warning. Ibite her lower lip and draw blood. She tries to pull away, but I hold her there, let the taste of her fill my mouth. When I finally let her breathe, she gasps, shaking all over.
“You fucking psycho,” she hisses, but her arms are around my neck, her nails digging deep into my skin.
I walk her backward to the bed, never breaking the kiss. She tries to twist away, but I grip her waist and throw her down, hard. She lands with a yelp, legs splayed, eyes burning. I like the look on her face. I like the way her thighs are open, the way she’s still glaring up at me even now.
Pulling her up by the hair, I twist her body and push her face into the pillows. My hand finds her ass and I squeeze, leaving red fingerprints that will blossom into bruises by morning.No underwear. Such a good girl.She’s panting, desperate, a wild thing that’s run too far to turn back.
I shove the shirt up, exposing the creamy expanse of her back. I run my nails down the length of her spine, leaving thin, red trails. She shudders, her body going limp for a moment, then tensing again as I press my cock against the heat between her legs.
I can’t fucking wait anymore.Pulling my sweats down past my hips, I manage to grab her just as she tries to jump off the bed.
“Stay still, Gianna. All you’re doing is making me harder.”
She whimpers again, but this time it’s a plea, not a protest.
