Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(36)

“I’m not touching you,” she says, and it pulls at something in me, because I know that she will touch me, and it’ll be better than f*cking her.

“You lost before it started,” I say. “Hands only.”

She’s the one tied up. She’s the one captive, and I’m hard as a rock. I can have any hole of hers I want, and she can’t do a damn thing. Instead I take the hole of my own creation, the space between her palms. I reach down and show her what I’m looking for, just to show her. First I slide my two fingers inside, as if her clasped hands are a cunt I have to prepare.

She gasps when I touch her like that. Imagining my cock there. Maybe she’s even thought about it, but probably not quite like this.

I look down at her, running my fingertips gently between her palms. It’s a sensitive place, her hands and mine. Warm with our shared heat. But nothing compared to how my dick will feel.

“You’re not just going to touch me, got it? You’re going to take me out and jerk me off,” I tell her. “And then you’ll thank me.”

For not f*cking her. She should be grateful. It was what I’d planned to do. It won’t kill me to f*ck her, but it’s this I really want.

“Take me out. Do it nice.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. And it’s like that electric line from class is still connecting us because I can feel her caving in to me, now—I recognize it with a rush of emotions I can’t define. She moves her hands down to my pants. I watch as her nimble fingers undo my button, and then my zipper.

“Nicely,” she says.

“What?” I ask, heart pounding.

“Do it nicely. The word is nicely, motherf*cker.”

Oh, Jesus. She’s pulling me out and I almost come right there. Her wrists are flush against each other, but she can still squeeze me in both hands and push down to my root and that’s what she does. A grunt escapes me.

She closes both fists around me and begins to jerk me off for real. It’s a little too fast, even considering how turned on I am. That’s how much she wants this over with. I understand that—God, I understand that too well. The way she’s moving fast reminds me of other hands. Greedy, grasping hands.

I grab her wrists. “Take your time.”

Her gaze meets mine. “I hate you,” she says between clenched teeth, but she’s slowing now, stroking while she watches me. It feels good when I focus on her face, when I stay in the present instead of the past. It helps to hear her voice too.

“Yeah, give me more of that sweet talk.”

“Fuck you,” she says, her hands moving in nice, solid strokes. I watch her lips, and I think about leaning down and kissing her, but it would be too much. Too sweet.

“More,” I grunt. Shadows from my past are constantly stalking me, and never more than when someone else’s hands are on me. I need something to ground me here, in this shitty motel room, with the pretty teacher we all imagined f*cking. “Talk more.”

“Why don’t you go find someone who actually wants you?”

It’s so f*cked up, but her words are doing it for me. I kind of love her being this hard ass, this bitch, while she’s making me feel so f*cking good. So I push her. “I think you love how I feel. You love this—admit it.”

Her hands tighten, and I shudder with pain and pleasure and a sudden reluctance. I want to jackhammer inside her and I want to draw a line in the sand that will keep me from her.

I want to hurt her and I want to protect her. Break her and shield her.

Determination fills her eyes, and my dick gets that much harder. “Why do you want me to slow down?” she taunts. “A little desperate from all that time in prison? A little dry?”

“Fuck,” I say, teeth clenched tight because her hands are moving even faster. “Yeah.” She’s racing me to the finish line, and she’s winning.

“Or did you get some action after all?” she says, her voice full of venom. “In your cell? In the showers?”

God, the kitten has claws. She’s using them, and I’m on the edge. She’s cutting me open. I can’t even say the right answer. No, I’ve never f*cked a guy. I’ve never been f*cked. Because it’s not true, and she’d be able to see that. Though I was never f*cked in prison.

She sees all of me, everything. She sees my weakest points, and she attacks them.

“Get yours back.” My voice comes out so thick she probably can’t even understand me. “Make me hurt, baby. Get me back.”

For all the times I hurt her, insulted her. For all the times I’ll do those things in the future.

And she does, tugging on my cock like there’s no tomorrow. It hurts but it feels too damn good to stop. I watch her little hands work furiously, full of anger and desperation. My balls pull tight into my body. It feels like an explosion at the bottom of my spine, and all the lava comes pouring out of my dick.

At the last second, I grab the wet towel off her and use it to catch my come. It would have gone in her face, in her hair. It would have gone in her eyes and made a statement about who was in charge here. But by catching it in a towel instead, I’ve made a different statement. The opposite one.

She doesn’t seem to see the move as weakness though, which is a good thing. I sigh with relief—four f*cking years of relief—as I tuck myself away. She looks just as pissed off as when I started, maybe more, but that’s better. At least she’s not wide-eyed and huddled in a shower, staring vacantly into space. I know what that means in a person. As long as she keeps fighting me, she’ll survive.