The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(84)

“Answer me, Hunter. Why were you ignoring me?” I asked, going faster, watching as his eyes rolled backwards in agony and pleasure. He still didn’t answer, so I stopped midway, withdrawing my hand and folding my arms over my chest. His eyes widened.

“Jesus fuck, Sailor! What did you want me to do? Kiss you? Make out with you in public? That’d throw us out of fuck-buddies purgatory, which is exactly where we’re supposed to be. I have a shit-ton of money on the line. You’ve got your career. This shit’s almost over. Why kill the fun now?”

Fuck buddies.

The way his mouth formed the word—the mere existence of the word in his mouth—made every inch of my skin blossom with violent goosebumps. Fuck. Buddies. That’s all we were. Friends who had sex with each other.

Hunter wanted us to remain nothing, and I? I wanted everything.

Sensing he wasn’t going to get a verbal answer, Hunter twisted his hand between us, dipped it under my dress, and shoved my panties down to my knees. I shivered when I realized how wet and ruined my panties were, especially in the middle of our fight.

“Let me make you feel better,” he whispered into my mouth, kissing me once again. Slow. So slow. Designed to seduce.

“They might catch us,” I whispered.

“Let them. That’ll show them how much attention I give you.” He leaned forward and got rid of my panties, pulling them all the way down. I kicked them aside, still in my Vans. Hunter pushed me flat against the wall.

“Spread your legs for me,” he ordered.

“You’re not the boss of m…”

“Swear to God, Sailor, I will fuck your mouth so hard you’ll lose teeth if you disobey.”

I nudged my knees apart, opening myself in front of him. He crouched on his knees in his suit, using his thumbs to open the lips between my legs. He put his lips close to me, inhaled, then blew what I knew was a fresh, minty exhale inside me, peppered with a chocolate-y, M&M’s smell.

I quivered, my hands flying to his shoulders. “Do it again,” I moaned.

He blew into me again, and I clenched against the air, begging for more.

“Tell me.” Hunter spread me wider with his thumbs, and I felt the pressure, the slight pain down there as he stretched me. “Do you really think you can say no to me?”

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t like my answer. I just stared at him defiantly, even as he was close to giving me an orgasm while hardly touching me. Hunter Fitzpatrick is a dangerous habit, I thought. I should be glad to quit him.

He blew into me again, his eyes on mine.

My hands moved from his shoulders to his hair, tugging at the soft, silky strands.

“More.”

He plunged two fingers into me, curling them upwards to hit my G-spot, the sound of my wetness around him filling the air, and began to thrust. Slowly. So slowly I thought I was going to die. His eyes didn’t leave mine as he did it, his expression grave.

“Faster,” I croaked.

He shook his head.

“This is a punishing orgasm, not a rewarding one, Sailor. You should’ve thought about that before you had the idea of breaking this off.”

I collapsed down along the wall, keeping his head between my legs and wiggling my butt on the floor, trying to quicken the pace myself, but he wouldn’t let me. Hunter flattened one of his hands against my lower stomach, pinning me in place.

I moaned. “I want more.”

“Specify,” he nearly barked.

There was a commotion in the scene playing on the big screen that hid us. Brad Pitt and Edward Norton were not happy campers. I thought we were safe from being found.

“Have sex with me.” I swallowed my shame.

“Bzzzz,” he said. “Wrong terminology. Now say it like a proper twenty-first century chick.”

“Fuck me,” I whispered, looking down.

He quickened his pace, knowing I was close. “Louder.”

“Fuck me.” I raised my voice.

“Can’t hear you,” he sing-songed.

“Fuck m—” I began to yell, but before I could, he was on top of me, unfastening his belt and shoving himself into me. He went in bareback—the first time we’d done it without a condom—and my eyes bulged at the sensation of his hot, silky flesh inside me. I groaned into his shoulder, clutching his back as he began to move.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I was glad we’d had that conversation. The one about STDs. It wasn’t official or anything—Hunter had complained about his father forcing him into being tested when he moved back to Boston—but still, it was nice to know chlamydia was not in my near future.

He pumped fast—feral, jerky, and completely out of rhythm. Hunter had a few moves I’d become accustomed to. There was what I called the stripper move, where he would plow in and out in one, smooth, wave-like movement, like in soft porn movies. Then he had the frat-boy move, where he nailed me to whatever surface we were lying on and pumped into me in fast, deep, punishing thrusts. This was neither of those things. Tonight he entered me like he thought I was going to evaporate into air any moment and he needed to find his release before that happened.

I felt like he was slicing me, breaking me even more, and I decided to fight back. I clawed my raw fingernails from his shoulder to his chest, pushing him away, but not really.

“I hate you,” I muttered, and he replied by shutting me up with a filthy kiss full of tongue and teeth.