Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(58)

I shift my body beneath him until he slips out a bit before I buck my hips up, slamming into him so he fills me. He’s thick, and rock hard, but I’m so slick he just slides right in, like he was made to be inside me. His expression goes slack. I can practically see the pleasure flow through him. The man is rough around the edges, something so primal about him, but there’s something else there, something unexpected.

So much passion.

He moves then. He starts f*cking me, just like he said he would, slamming hard, one hand still on my throat, the other digging into my hip as he pins me beneath him. Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs as I gasp, and whimper, and moan...

“You like that?” he asks, his voice low, barely a murmur against my lips before he kisses me so hard it hurts. “You like giving me this beautiful *? Like me taking it hard? Beating it? Fucking it? Killing it?”

“Yes,” I whisper, chills coating me as I let out a shaky breath. “I love it.”

“Love it, do you?” he asks with a little laugh, nudging my head aside to kiss along my jawline. “Savage little thing, aren’t you? Is that what your Scarlet Letter stands for?”

“Not even close.”

He bites my chin, and I hiss, flinching, before he pulls back to look at me. His movements slow a bit, but he’s still hitting deep, hard, pain tickling my stomach with every thrust.

“Seductive,” he says. “Submissive.”

He’s just spewing out S-words, I know, but that last one grates a nerve. My cheek twitches, and I tense, nails digging into his skin as I rake my hands along his shoulder blades. His eyes widen, the corner of his mouth lifting. Amused.

“Don’t like that one, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

The hand on my throat shifts up a bit, fingers pressing into the skin, not cutting off the air to my lungs, but it makes me lightheaded. He increases his pace, pounding into me, the room filled with the sound of skin slapping, cries escaping my throat. My vision blurs, my entire body tingling, but I keep my eyes fixed on him out of pure principle. He expects me to fade. He thinks I’m going to float away. But f*ck him, if he thinks I’m submissive.

Fuck. Him.

I might love the way he makes me feel, but seriously, f*ck him.

“You want to hurt me, don’t you?” he asks as I claw his back so hard I have to be drawing blood. “Got a bit of a sadistic side, don’t you, Scarlet? You like to give it as much as you take it, want to f*ck up my face some more as I wreck this beautiful * of yours?”

He lets go of my throat, pulling away.

I don’t respond, because what can I say?

He forces my knees up to my chest, my legs over his shoulders as he shifts position, driving deeper, harder, faster. Oh god. His fingers find my clit, rubbing, stroking, and I can do nothing but make noise as he makes me come, over and over.

I don’t know how much I can take, and he’s not letting up. I’m soaked with sweat, my body trembling, muscles aching... even my fingers hurt from clutching his back. Eventually, he starts to slow down, hitting a few deep strokes. His face is nuzzled into my neck, teeth nipping at the skin as he grunts.

He stills then, lying down, not even trying to keep his weight off of me. Fuck, he’s heavy. I wrap my arms around him, too exhausted to fight it, and hear him muttering under his breath. “I feel like I could actually sleep tonight.”



Lorenzo does sleep, it turns out.

Me? Not so much.

For someone with a talent for zoning out, I can’t shut my mind off, lying next to him. I watch him sleep for a while, like a creep, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. Every time I move, he stirs a bit, and I feel guilty as hell, disturbing his slumber, so I just lay there in silence until I can’t take it any longer.

Carefully, I climb out of the bed, pulling my clothes on and tiptoeing out of the room before making my way downstairs. It’s still dark, but I can see where I’m going, in that space right before sunrise where the world is just starting to lighten.

I pause at the bottom of the staircase, my gaze drifting to the living room to the right of me, seeing someone standing in the doorway. A young guy, dressed in a black cable-knit sweater, wearing khakis and black boots. The younger brother, I’m guessing.

He shakes his head, staring into the living room. “Do I even want to know what happened to the couch?”

“It got a hole in it,” I say vaguely, not sure how much Lorenzo would share with him.

The guy startles at the sound of my voice, turning around. “You’re not Lorenzo.”

“Well, that’s something to be grateful for, huh?”

He seems to be about my age and looks just like Lorenzo… or well, how I imagine Lorenzo would look if the world hadn’t hurt him. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and kind of adorable, frankly. How he keeps any sort of innocence living in the same house as the menace upstairs, I don’t know, but I commend him for it.

Every moment I spend with the guy, I feel myself slipping further.

“I’m Leo,” he says, holding his hand out. “You are?”

“Morgan,” I say, shaking his hand lightly. Manners. Huh.

Someone’s apple fell far from the family tree.

“I’d ask how you know my brother, but well, I’m sure I probably don’t want to know.”