Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(4)

“Don’t make it hard, sweetheart.”

“I want to go.”

“You’ll go just as soon as I’ve given you what we both know you came here for.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t. Please, let me go home.”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He eased her away from him, hand still in her hair, then forced her to sit on the bed. “One of those girls that feels too guilty to admit what they want.”

“No—”

“So they find men like me, men who don’t f*ck around. Men who can tell exactly what it is they’re really after.” His hands went to his waist, freeing his belt buckle, then the button of his jeans. She made a break for it but he was on her in a blink, pinning her to the bed by her biceps.

“Make it easy, sweetheart. Your daddy or your priest or whoever you’re so scared of disappointing, they’re not here. Just you and me. Let yourself go.”

“I want to go home.” It was a plea, a prayer, a toothless wisp of a wish.

“You will. Just as soon as we both get what we need. You can’t tell me you don’t want this. Like I don’t see the way you look at me every goddamn week.” He shoved one knee between hers, then the other, and Laurel felt it—her body was priming, * slick and ready, hungry.

“I never meant to lead you on. I never said—”

“Fuck what you said.” He gave her a single shake, thumping her head and shoulders against the covers. He lowered his chest to hers. “I know what you want. You watch me fight.” He breathed the words right into her ear, every syllable damp and hot and explicit. “You watch my body and you wanna know what else I’m capable of.” He grabbed her hand, forced it low, pried her fingers apart and cupped her palm to his straining cock. “You want this, don’t you? The one part of me those greedy eyes don’t get to see.”

“Stop. Please. Please.” Her voice was small, frail, quavering, her words like matches flicked into a puddle of gasoline—one, two, three.

“I know you,” he sneered. “I know your type. You want a bad man like me, but you’re too scared to admit it. You want me to give you what you need?” He stroked her hand up and down his length, so hard the friction burned. “Play your little game, make it like I’m forcin’ you so you can pretend you don’t want it?”

“I don’t want it. I don’t. Please. I’m sorry.”

He put his free hand to her throat, pressing his thumb to the hollow just under her jaw. “Take me out.”

“I want to go—”

“Take me out,” he barked, pressing harder. “Maybe I’ll let you go, if you do. But find out what you’re missing first.”

He released her hand and she fumbled with his fly. The zipper stuck as she pulled it down.

“C’mon.”

“I’m trying.” She got the zipper open and he shoved his jeans to the tops of his thighs.

“Touch me.”

She was dying to but held back, waiting until a rough hand grabbed hers and clasped it to his erection. He seemed to sear her through the cotton, filling her palm, making her clench and heat, sex aching.

“Stroke it.”

She did, luxuriating even as her fist moved in staggered, frightened fits and starts. He never felt half as big as he did in moments like this, flesh like iron, like a weapon. His body seemed to mirror hers; she felt the damp patch each time her palm met his head and her mouth tingled, hungry for this. Hungry for an order she prayed she’d hear before long.

His hand grew impatient, forcing her motions rougher, faster. Laurel replied only in breaths—the reedy rush of air through her nostrils, lips pursed tight.

“This what you been needing?” he hissed.

“Please. I want to go.”

“Did you know I’d be this f*ckin’ big, sweetheart? Is this how you imagined it?”

“Please. Please.”

“Get your clothes off.”

She froze. His hand released hers but she didn’t move, lost in the role.

“Strip. Now.”

“I—”

“Strip.”

Again, she tried to escape. Tried to slip from under the prison of his legs and arms, but she got nowhere. A rough, broad palm covered her throat. He’d never choke her—he didn’t f*ck around with that shit, as he put it—but she knew to pretend he was. She went limp beneath him, eyes wide with terror.

“Strip. Don’t make me say it again.”

He released her neck and she reached down, wriggled her bottoms away as Flynn began tugging at her shirt. He peeled it over her arms and head, ignored her bra. He pulled his own shirt off next, and spoke to her as the cotton fell to the floor. “I’m gonna stand up, and you’re not gonna move a muscle. You understand?”

She nodded, unblinking. She watched that body with awe as he ditched his jeans and shorts, standing before her in the low light, cock long and thick and ready, gleaming at the crown.

“Good,” he said, cold eyes approving of her body or her obedience. “You let me and I’ll make this good for you. Fight me and you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

She held her tongue.

He clasped himself at the root. “This what you pictured, all those nights you came to watch me? You go home after and f*ck yourself, hopin’ I was even half this big?”