Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(75)

I expect her to scoff, maybe laugh, but she plucks the thing right from my grasp and takes a bite, mumbling, “Starving.”

Well damn. I hand her the Capri Sun. She sucks the rest of it down as she finishes the sandwich.

Pulling my shirt off, I toss it across the room. I miss the hamper, of course, but it doesn’t matter. General vicinity. Scarlet watches me, tossing the empty pouch in the trashcan near my bed. She makes it. Doesn’t even look.

I shake my head.

“So,” she says, “I’ve got a problem.”

“No shit.”

She purses her lips. “I have no clothes.”

“That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

I grab the towel, slowly pulling it away, taking it off and tossing it aside, again near the hamper. Scarlet doesn’t move as my gaze trails her body.

I’ve seen this woman naked a few times now, but beyond the obvious, like those gorgeous perky tits, I’ve never really looked. You know what I’m saying? But I see it now, every inch of her petite body. Strong legs. Wide hips. Slim waist. My fingertips trail her collarbones before running down her chest, brushing across those pert nipples.

Scars pepper her skin. They’re not blatant, little marks here and there, healed burns and cuts, the most noticeable scar below her belly button, dangerously close to the Promised Land.

“Do I pass inspection?” she asks. “Or are there some violations I need to work on?”

Glancing up, I meet her gaze. “You can work on that mouth of yours.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s running a little rough. Nothing a face-f*cking can’t fix, though.”

Her eyes widen. “Big words for a guy who drinks Capri Sun.”

I try to keep a straight face, but I crack at that, letting out a laugh. “Got me there.”

Grinning, she does some bullshit little bow before turning, like she thinks she’s going to walk away from me. Yeah, right.

Before she can take even a step, I wrap my arms around her from behind, dragging her to the bed. I don’t climb in it, just shoving her down on the edge of it, her top half pressed into the mattress, my left hand planted firmly on her back, along her spine. I lean over top of her, my mouth near her ear as I say, “We’ll see how much shit you’re still taking when I’m through.”

Kicking her legs apart, forcing her wide open, my right hand slips down, stroking her bare *. There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing tender. I rub hard, not f*cking around. It’s mere seconds before she’s drenched, soft moans escaping that she’s trying to hold back. She doesn’t want me to see how turned on she is by this.

I slide two fingers into her, going slow at first, before I start really f*cking her with them. Her eyes close as she fists the comforter, letting out a whimper. She’s trying so hard to be still, to not react, but pleasure is the most difficult thing to mask. You can bottle up your feelings and suck up your tears, put on a brave face instead of showing fear, but when that spine-tingling euphoria rolls through your system, there’s no denying it.

Bodies are traitors.

They wave red flags.

And those slick juices coating my hand tell me everything. The way her thighs tremble, her back arching, her knuckles white with tension as she clings to the bed, holding on tight. Goose bumps coat her arms, the fine hairs bristling, her cheeks flushed, lips parting, throat flexing as she swallows, but her mouth is so damn dry it does nothing. Her voice is raw, strained from trying to force back noises, so much so that it sounds like she’s growling, like she just wants to annihilate me, rip me to f*cking pieces. I’ve got her eating straight out of my palm, but she’s the kind to bite the hand that feeds her.

Fighting and f*cking.

Fucking and fighting.

Emotions heighten sensations. We all know that. But she can’t let herself be happy, she can’t let that guard down, so she gets real goddamn angry. It fuels the fire inside of her until she’s shooting off sparks.

So yeah, I don’t need her to tell me how she’s feeling, but f*ck if I’m not still going to ask.

“That feel good?” I ask, my other hand sliding away from her back, around the curve of her ass, settling between her thighs. I start rubbing her clit again, and it throws my rhythm off, but not so much that I don’t make it work. Fucking. Stroking. In, out, around, and around... “You love it, huh? Love to have that beautiful * played with, to have it worshiped, getting f*cked just right.”

She groans.

Her breathing is labored, the tension in her body growing as she shifts her hips, writhing. She’s damn close to orgasm.

“Open your eyes,” I say. “Look at me.”

She obliges, turning her head more, her eyes meeting mine. I stare at her, saying nothing else, and she stares right back, unyielding. I keep doing what I’m doing, watching her unravel and come apart right in my hands.

Fuck.

Orgasm tears through her, muscles pulsating, her entire body shaking as her mouth falls open and a cry of pleasure escapes. It’s beautiful, the way her face contorts, her eyes trying to close again, eyelids fluttering, but she keeps her gaze trained on mine. I ride her through it until she relaxes, the hand from her clit moving back to her ass as I pull my fingers out of her and pop them right in my mouth.

She makes a guttural noise.