The faster I run, the more excited I get, and the more I wish—no,hope—that he’ll beat me bloodied with the stick before fucking me hard and making me feel something real for once.
Wait?
Fuck me?
Yeah, I’ve lost it.
The thought has more laughter spilling from my lips. I must have a concussion. Why else would I be this enthralled by a masked psychopath with an erection chasing me like a bloodthirsty lunatic? This is the stuff of horror movies, and I’m here for it.
I throw a glance behind me, seeing him getting closer.
Shit…
Darting inside the nearest lecture hall, I slam the door shut, ramming my shoulder against it, but I’m not fast enough, and the wood crashes against his hockey stick.
Jesus fuck… I grunt, shoving harder against the stick, then spin around, my eyes darting across the empty hall. The only other exit is across the room.
When the door pushes against my back, I make a rash decision to dash for the rows of raised seats.
I fly up the steps, throwing myself into one of the rows, jumping over the back of seats, ascending higher and higher. I’mweak, and my attacker laughs, knocking the hockey stick against the furniture.
“Where are you going?” he shouts as I scale a bench, and the sound of his voice sends me crashing to the dirty floor between two rows.
I wince in pain, clutching my elbow. Fuck me, that hurt! My chest shakes with silent laughter. How the hell did I find myself trapped in a lecture hall by a fucking madman whose cock I’ve sucked?
Grabbing hold of the nearest seat, I pull myself up, grimacing as pain jabs at my skull. I’ll feel fantastic tomorrow.
I breathe through gritted teeth, my eyes tracking his every move while I try to gain control of my body. There are two more rows behind me. If I’m quick, I might reach the doors at the top.
When he’s at the end of my row, I swallow down a spike of exhilaration, watching him approach. Dark eyes peer at me through his mask. He takes his sweet time, one booted step in front of the other, his black jeans straining against his muscular legs.
Kneeling on the floor with my injured elbow clasped tightly against my heaving chest, I bare my bloodied teeth while trying my damn hardest not to stare at his thick bulge. But fuck me; I can see the outline of his hard dick. I’m an injured animal, playing dead at the feet of his attacker. Something about that turns me the hell on.
Not only that… Something about my attacker reminds me of Cole. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it’s there in the tense sway of his broad shoulders and that searing gaze.
My heart thuds harder in response, and I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy of my tormented stepbrother being my late-night stalker. How far would I let him descend into the dark night with me before steering him back into the light where he belongs? Or would I take him hostage, dragging him farther intothe shadows? He’s too good for a soul like me and too fucking pure, but that’s what makes him so irresistible. I want a taste.
As the hockey stick slides beneath my chin and tilts it up, I stare into the gleaming eyes behind the mask, and for one moment, it’s Cole who stares back at me—conflicted, aroused, fucked up.
A smile plays at the corner of my lips, my heart finding a steady rhythm as I dig my fingers into my palms. The thing about injured animals who play dead is that they don’t stay down for long. It’s a ruse—a game of ‘pretend’ to buy time.
I launch myself at his ankles, taking him by surprise and sending him crashing to the floor. He throws his arms out, but it’s too late—his breath gets knocked from his lungs.
Hurling myself on top of him, I try to grab his mask, fighting with his flailing arms and wriggling body. We roll in the small row like tumbleweeds, knocking against the seats, grunting and cursing, flinging punches until we’re both sweaty and out of breath.
When I start to succumb to my injuries, the weaker of us, I jump up and try to launch myself over the back of the row, but my attacker grabs hold of my ankle and hauls me down.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m on my back, and he’s hovering over me with the hockey stick pressed against my esophagus. This is it. I can’t fight anymore. I’m too weak and dizzy, coughing and spluttering beneath the unyielding pressure on my throat. I attempt to shove the stick away, grunting from the effort. My attempts are pathetic. Kicking my legs out on the floor, my hips buck.
“I can feel how hard you are,” he taunts, his voice getting lost in the music, but I hear the hunger behind those cruel words. He rolls his hips, grinding his thick dick against mine, and I whimper, unsure if I want to fight him as he thrusts into me again.
“Say it,” he urges, obliterating my defenses with his next crash wave against my throbbing length.
Our cocks rub together through our pants. I part my legs, inviting him closer, and we stare into each other’s eyes.
Who are you?
