Brutal Obsession (51)

Hmm.

The windows on my vehicle are tinted, making it impossible to see in unless you’re right up against the glass.

I’ve become a certified stalker.

But we’ve got limited time, and I need to make sure that she’s ready for what I need her to say. Coach Roake wants us to deny anything. The picture was a coincidence, the party was just a hockey house party, and someone else invited her. Her roommate, maybe, or another player.

They begin their walk home, and I drop the knife back to the cupholder. I put my vehicle in drive. I roll behind them, uncaring that I’ve raised the alarm bells in Violet’s head. She seems ready to bolt.

I smirk.

This scared version of her is new.

Is it because of what happened last night?

Willow finally clues in and looks around. She glances at my sedan, then faces forward again. Their pace increases.

Finally, we reach their apartment. I pull over, ready to jump out, but Violet is already stomping toward me.

I open the door and hop out.

She skids to a stop, her mouth dropping open.

Then… relief?

I tilt my head, confused as to why she’s relieved to discover me. A question for later, though, because she advances again and whacks my chest. Her pretty face is pale, her blue eyes boring into mine.

“You—” smack “asshole—” smack “you—” smack “make me—” smack “CRAZY!”

I have to resist the urge to laugh at her, instead snatching her wrists and pulling her close. Her gaze is wild, and she fights with surprising viciousness. Much better than last night when I caught her unaware.

I drag her with me as I open the back door of my car and force her inside it. I climb in after her and slam the door shut.

“What the fuck?” she demands.

So saucy.

“Say something.” She yanks at her wrists, which I have in one of my hands.

She’s delicate. I could break her bones if I squeezed hard enough.

I reach forward and grab the knife, flicking it open.

She goes still.

I look from it to her. She’s pressed against the far window, her arms extended in front of her. But she’s given up on getting her hands back. With my free hand, I drag the knife over her fingers.

Her tell is her shivers. When she’s found something that intrigues her, that scares her, that pushes her out of her comfort zone.

“Did Jack take your virginity?” I ask, still sliding the knife tip up and down. I’m making a little path over her knuckles, down the edge of her thumb, then back up. “Was he the one who fucked you first, or was it a high school boyfriend?”

Violet loves to give me nothing.

I tsk. “Even your silence tells me what you want to hide. I should know.”

Her eyes narrow.

I release her wrists and flick the knife down, cutting open her leggings on the inside of her thigh. The move is unexpected, and it nicks her skin, too. She gasps, but there’s nowhere for her to go. I’m the fucking wolf, hunting her down. Scenting her blood.

And it wells up so prettily on her pale skin.

“What was that for?” Her voice trembles.

I look up from it. “Not answering my question.”

She twists around and yanks at the door handle.

It doesn’t budge. That one’s tricky. It sticks sometimes. I crawl forward and remove her hand from the door, then kiss her knuckles. I shouldn’t. It feels wrong, like I’m plying her with affection. Something that might give her a sense that I care about her.

“Greyson,” she whispers. “Let me out.”

I shake my head and lean down, licking the strip of exposed skin on her inner thigh. Her blood hits my tongue, and my cock immediately hardens. Fuck. Her blood is warm and metallic, and I suck and bite at the shallow wound.

She groans.

Her hands slide into my hair, tugging me away, but I ignore it. I drag my teeth along her flesh, then lick. Suck. Repeat.

Her thigh shouldn’t be erotic.

Her blood shouldn’t make me hornier than a teenager.

I just fucked her last night, and I want to do it all over again. Savagely.

“Grey,” she says, louder.

Damn it, I like it when she calls me that.

I slip my hand into the hole in the leggings, up to her panty line. I run my finger along it, over the damp fabric, and rub her clit over the barrier. It’s not nearly as satisfying, but she shifts her hips all the same.

“You’re a little slut for me,” I tell her. “No one else will give you this rush.”

“Fuck off,” she snaps breathlessly.

No stop. I should’ve picked a more unique word for her. A safe word that won’t slip as easily from her lips.

But she hasn’t spoken it, even when I gave her the chance last night.

It solidifies a few things in my mind, but the main one is that she wants this. She’s a glutton. And I can keep pushing her until she breaks, or I do.

“Please,” she begs. “Jesus, just fucking touch me.”

I take in her pink cheeks, the heat that has flushed her exposed skin across her collarbones.

I look and watch and bring her right up to the edge of ecstasy, and then I withdraw.

It takes every last ounce of willpower to not rip her clothes off.

Instead, I shove the door open and lean back in the seat.