Page 20 of Hunting Gianna
I run my fingers through her pussy lips. “You say you don’t want this, but your pussy is telling me a very different story.” I want to be inside her more than I want to breathe. I want to fuck the defiance right out of her, to make her forget every man who ever made her feel small. I want to ruin her for anyone else.
I spread her open, fingers digging into her hips. She’s dripping, slick and ready, and the sight of it makes me lose what’s left of my control.
I push inside, slow at first, letting her feel every inch of it. She cries out, tries to twist away, but I hold her still, hands locked on her hips. My weight slams into her, forcing her to arch her back so she doesn’t suffocate in the pillows. I pound into her, harder and harder, until her body gives up and melts.
“Do you like it when I fuck you like this, pretty girl?” My voice is a rasp, I can hardly contain the urge to take all her holes, leave her a gaping mess.
She moans, low and desperate, biting into her forearm to keep from screaming. Her hands claw at sheets and the sounds she makes drives me wild.
The wait was worth it. The way my balls ache with the need to empty inside her, the feel of her tight pussy clenching around me as she comes all over my cock…
She’s fucking perfect.
Just like I knew she would be.
I fuck her until she’s sobbing, until her voice is hoarse and her body is limp. I fuck her until the only sound in the room is the slap of skin on skin and the wet, broken gasp of her surrender.
When I come, I bury my teeth in her shoulder, marking her, branding her, making sure she knows she’s never getting away.
When it’s over, I collapse on top of her, my weight crushing her into the bed. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lies there, trembling and spent.
I roll off, leaving her in a heap. I stare at her, let the image burn into my memory. The perfect ruin of her, the way her body is curved, the red handprints on her thighs, the blood trickling from her bitten lip. My come seeping from her well fucked hole.
“I’ll be back in a second.”
There’s no rhyme or reason why, but I want to clean her. To take care of her. To show her that as much as I’m a monster, a demon who should terrify her, I’m alsoherdemon.
She curls into herself, small and shaking as I head to the bathroom and grab a wash cloth, making sure the water is luke warm before making it wet enough and heading back to the bed. With steady hands, I wipe her up, taking care on her split lip, even as she stares at me with hatred in her eyes.
After a minute, she says, “I shouldn’t have done that.” Her voice is so soft I almost don’t hear it.
I smile. The kind of smile that splits a face in two.
“But you did,” I say. “And you’ll do it again.”
“Fuck you, Knox. Let me leave.”
She wants to leave, hmm?“Sure. I’ll go unlock the door.”
“Really?” Her eyes are glassy as she looks at me.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, I will let you walk out that door.”
True to my word, I leave her on the bed and go unlock the front door before going to put on a pot of coffee. I’ll give her just enough of a head start that she believes she will actually make it to Pine Ridge.
She’s gone before I finish my coffee.
The front door is wide open, swinging slightly in the wind, a hinge squealing with every gust.
I sip, slow. No need to rush. Let her get the illusion of distance, let her believe in her own escape. It’ll make what comes next that much sweeter.
When I step onto the porch, the world is glassy and bright with cold. Raising my arms above my head, I stretch, relishing in the way my back cracks.Mmmm, smells fresh out here.Headingback inside, I walk towards the bedroom, finding the small button in the back of the closet. The surveillance room.
The mask is there, hanging like a severed head on its hook. Half red, half black, horns curling back from the brow. The eyes are dead and blank and empty, a void to stare through. It’s cut off just below the nose. I run my thumb over the paint, the smooth rise of the horns. It fits perfectly when I slide it on, the leather straps tight behind my skull. Next, my knife, a gleaming strip of steel honed to a razor edge. The rope she found, coiled neat, ready to tie her hands in front of her.
I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.
The trees are still dripping from last night’s rain, small splatters on me as I take off jogging. It’s not long before I find the tracks her feet left when she slipped and crashed into a bush. I hear her before I see her—heavy, ragged breathing; the slap of feet on wet ground; the crash of brittle twigs. She’s moving fast, fueled by adrenaline and the terror of what we just did. I follow the trail, tracking the sound of her panic.
