Her only reply was a gasp as that powerful hand grabbed her again, clamping tight to her forearm. “Stand up.”
She didn’t have much choice; he all but yanked her to her feet. He was six-three and change and she was nine inches shorter, and in moments like this he seemed to loom a mile above her, godlike and terrifying.
Not a god. A monster.
“Kiss me.” He said it quietly, not tenderly.
She whispered, “Okay.”
His free arm circled her shoulder and he wound her long hair around his fist. Laurel shivered. That sensation did something to her, something not every rough act did. Some submissive women loved getting spanked, or held down, or blindfolded. Whatever the fuck it said about her, Laurel liked getting her hair pulled. Just feeling his hand tighten had her wishing for the pressure, the promise of domination.
He forced her chin up with a sharp yank, stared hard into her eyes with his cold ones before bringing his mouth down to hers.
It was less a kiss than an assault, but there was heat in it, too, her excitement spurred not by the smooth execution of the act but from knowing what was coming, what this promised. And knowing that Flynn was burning up inside his skin, out-of-his-mind aroused, and all because of her. The gifts she gave him weren’t wrapped in satin. They were harsh and strange and not for the faint of heart. But what they did to him made her feel as powerful as the woman she played felt helpless.
She pushed at his chest with her forearms, tried to wrest her mouth away, only to feel the bite of his fist in her hair. When he spoke, his lips moved against her cheek, breath hot.
“Don’t make it hard, sweetheart.”
“I want to go.”
“You’ll go just as soon as I’ve given you what we both know you came here for.”
“I don’t want that. I don’t. Please, let me go home.”
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He eased her away from him, hand still in her hair, then forced her to sit on the bed. “One of those girls that feels too guilty to admit what they want.”
“No—”
“So they find men like me, men who don’t fuck around. Men who can tell exactly what it is they’re really after.” His hands went to his waist, freeing his belt buckle, then the button of his jeans. She made a break for it but he was on her in a blink, pinning her to the bed by her biceps.
“Make it easy, sweetheart. Your daddy or your priest or whoever you’re so scared of disappointing, they’re not here. Just you and me. Let yourself go.”
“I want to go home.” It was a plea, a prayer, a toothless wisp of a wish.
“You will. Just as soon as we both get what we need. You can’t tell me you don’t want this. Like I don’t see the way you look at me every goddamn week.” He shoved one knee between hers, then the other, and Laurel felt it—her body was priming, pussy slick and ready, hungry.
“I never meant to lead you on. I never said—”
“Fuck what you said.” He gave her a single shake, thumping her head and shoulders against the covers. He lowered his chest to hers. “I know what you want. You watch me fight.” He breathed the words right into her ear, every syllable damp and hot and explicit. “You watch my body and you wanna know what else I’m capable of.” He grabbed her hand, forced it low, pried her fingers apart and cupped her palm to his straining cock. “You want this, don’t you? The one part of me those greedy eyes don’t get to see.”
“Stop. Please. Please.” Her voice was small, frail, quavering, her words like matches flicked into a puddle of gasoline—one, two, three.
“I know you,” he sneered. “I know your type. You want a bad man like me, but you’re too scared to admit it. You want me to give you what you need?” He stroked her hand up and down his length, so hard the friction burned. “Play your little game, make it like I’m forcin’ you so you can pretend you don’t want it?”
“I don’t want it. I don’t. Please. I’m sorry.”
He put his free hand to her throat, pressing his thumb to the hollow just under her jaw. “Take me out.”
“I want to go—”
“Take me out,” he barked, pressing harder. “Maybe I’ll let you go, if you do. But find out what you’re missing first.”
He released her hand and she fumbled with his fly. The zipper stuck as she pulled it down.
“C’mon.”
“I’m trying.” She got the zipper open and he shoved his jeans to the tops of his thighs.
“Touch me.”
She was dying to but held back, waiting until a rough hand grabbed hers and clasped it to his erection. He seemed to sear her through the cotton, filling her palm, making her clench and heat, sex aching.
“Stroke it.”
She did, luxuriating even as her fist moved in staggered, frightened fits and starts. He never felt half as big as he did in moments like this, flesh like iron, like a weapon. His body seemed to mirror hers; she felt the damp patch each time her palm met his head and her mouth tingled, hungry for this. Hungry for an order she prayed she’d hear before long.