Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(81)

Still, I'm not afraid.

He’s trying his best to throw everything he has at me, get me to freak out, to run away.

But I won’t.

Oscar needs someone he can trust, someone he can unfurl in front of and not be afraid that they’ll run away. He truly thinks I’m going to abandon him; I’ll prove him wrong.

“You.” Oscar spits this last word out on the end of another sneer. “You undermine me most of all. Why can't you see that this isn't the life you were supposed to lead? I am not the prince in your dreams.”

“Do you remember the paper dress you made me in elementary school?” I whisper as Oscar squeezes just a little tighter, not even to cut off my words, but enough that my heart starts to pound in response. Run! my body screams, while my soul knows to stay put. “Or the apples you gave me every day in junior high?”

“Quiet.” Oscar puts a little more pressure on my neck, yet he never cuts off my flow of oxygen. “Just be quiet, Bernadette. Let me mourn the person you could've been if you'd left us all behind. We were more than happy to be your dark angels. Why did you have to come back to us? Once you've given yourself to the devil, you can never have your soul back.”

It's quite clear that he doesn't want me to say anything at all. Instead, I lay there with his lean body between my thighs, his dick precariously close to my wet heat.

Oscar adjusts himself, pushing the tip of his cock against me. My eyes squeeze shut as he pushes his way in, inch by inch. The pressure on my throat never ceases; he keeps it firm and steady, pinning me to the bed.

Once he's fully sheathed inside of me, he lets out a low groan, the very first human-like sound I've heard him make today. I open my eyes to see him above me, our bodies joined together, the tattoos on his lower belly peeking out at me. I want him naked; I want to see everything.

I'm doubtful that's going to happen today.

He wets his lips with his tongue and studies me carefully, relaxing his grip just enough on my throat so that I can talk.

“Since elementary school,” he says, quoting my words back to me. “What?”

“Oscar, stop,” I growl out, but then he squeezes my throat again, and I have to resist the urge to fight him. Instead, I do the opposite and relax my body completely. He lets up a bit. “Are you sure you can handle what it is that I want to say?”

Instead of responding, Oscar leans forward, putting more pressure on my throat and driving even deeper into me. Guilty pleasure spirals through me, but all of this, its anathema to my very nature. I was designed to fight, morphed from a little girl into a monster by a cruel, dark world. Submission is not my forte, so I decide that's not what this is. It's a trust-building exercise. Because even if I'm tied up and underneath him, Oscar is the weaker of the two of us right now—emotionally speaking.

His cock fits perfectly inside of me, like we were made to fit together. I'd rather die than tell him that, but it's true. Oscar keeps me firmly pinned beneath him, moving in and out of me with slow, deliberate strokes.

The look on his face though … I make no mistake that he's making love to me again.

His expression is dark and twisted as he leans down and tastes the very edge of my lips.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, licking the side of my face instead. “Maybe next time you consider following me, you'll ponder a bit on the consequences.”

I grit my teeth, but it's impossible to stay mad as he strokes the small ember in my belly into a raging inferno. In and out, methodical and wicked and timed just right to inflict maximum damage.

Oscar pauses briefly to reach up and unbutton his shirt. He leaves it on, the tie hanging between the parted edges, but at least I can see the endless swirl of color that blankets his muscular form. He has the most tattoos out of all the boys; it must've taken a lot of effort to get them all so quickly.

For someone who seemingly hates to be touched, I'm surprised that he's pierced and tatted the way he is. Even now, with his cock between my thighs, he's barely touching me. Which wasn't the case on the couch, was it?

His lower stomach muscles contract and release as he works himself in and out of me, holding me captive with his hand on my throat, my heart metaphorically trapped inside an iron grip. All he has to do is squeeze a bit harder and I'll bleed forever.

“Oscar,” I manage to choke out, his thumb sliding up the side of my neck, stroking me back to silence. My eyes are half-lidded, my nipples peaked to diamond points, my skin speckled with sweat. I rock my hips up and forward, meeting one of Oscar's thrusts.

Like a fragile piece of glass, he shatters and starts to move faster, fucking me into the mattress with a greedy frenzy that says that maybe he isn't human. He is, however, a goddamn beast. My lips part and my head tilts back in his pillows, my pelvis working to meet his, our bodies slamming together hard and fast and wild. There's so much wetness between them; the movements are nice and slick.

I still can't talk, and his hand is still wrapped around my throat when he comes, doubling over with a guttural groan and several hard thrusts that I lift my hips to meet. He spills himself inside of me, body bent over, dark hair hanging over his sweaty forehead. He takes several minutes to catch his breath and then pulls out of me.

As soon as he releases my throat, I suck in two beautiful lungfuls of oxygen, panting to catch my breath and slow my pulse.