A stranger who shouldn’t see me like this.
“Didn’t you beg me to fuck your cunt last night? Something about not wanting to die a virgin?” He thrusts again and again until stars erupt behind my lids. “I might be in the mood to do that. Right here. I will claim you like an animal in the middle of the night and no one will see you becoming all dirty and messy.”
I whimper and tremble. “I’ll scream.”
His sadistic chuckle fills the air. “By all means, scream. No one will hear you and you’ll only get my dick hard.”
He’s right.
They won’t.
Not only is this his property, but we’ve wandered so far away from the mansion that I can’t even hear the music anymore.
He’s planned this.
From getting me in this part of the forest to impersonating Landon. He planned everything.
And I fell right into his trap.
I’m helpless with no way out except for taking the lash of his fingers. The controlled in and out. The erotic sound against my forced wetness.
All of it.
I screw my eyes shut when a stabbing pleasure hits my womb and the orgasm is about to flood me again. I wait and I wait.
And I wait…
But he’s gone.
His fingers have pulled out of me, his knee no longer pins me in place, and my hair is free of his savage hold.
My pussy clenches like it did a second ago when I was about to come. Only now, that stimulation has vanished, leaving a dull ache between my legs.
Slowly, too slowly, I lift my head and stare behind me to find Jeremy standing in the middle of the night, blending with it, becoming an eerie part of it.
He’s wearing the black trousers and white shirt I saw earlier. No jacket.
Black ink swirls and cords along his taut muscles as he crosses his arms, disappearing beneath the short sleeves of his shirt.
Due to the lack of light, I can’t tell what the tattoos are about, but they add a hint of mysterious danger.
He’s watching me, but he might as well be looking through me.
It didn’t take him long to flip my world upside down, to unlock a part of me even I was scared of, but he doesn’t look affected in the least.
His face is hard, cold, detached.
A true devil of the night.
There’s no light in his gray eyes and they could easily blend in with our somber surroundings.
Dispassionate. Unforgiving.
If I didn’t know this guy, I would say he’s mad about something. But then again, he always appears to be angry at the world and disapproving of the people in it.
“Why…?” My trembling word trails off. I don’t recognize the hoarseness in my voice and I hate the weakness in it.
“Why what?” He slides his gaze over the length of me.
I clumsily pull up my jeans and scoot my arse until my back hits a tree. His impassive expression doesn’t falter, but he doesn’t look away from me, not even for a moment.
“It shouldn’t have been you,” I whisper.
“Let me guess, it was supposed to be Landon?”
I don’t say anything, but he doesn’t need me to.
He lifts his glistening fingers under the moon and I wish I could dig a hole and die in it. “Landon isn’t the one you begged to fuck you while you soaked his fingers as you came apart, now, is he?”
“I…would’ve never gone along with it if I’d known it was you.” My words are an attempt to regain my dignity—or what remains of it, but I immediately think it was a mistake.
Jeremy’s eyes darken and his whole body stiffens. I’ve always seen him as cold and merciless, but this is the first time I’ve witnessed this savage part of him.
It’s like he’s on a mission to destroy anything in his path.
“And yet you didn’t use your safe word.”
My lips part. He’s right. I…didn’t.
“I…forgot about it,” I say, refusing to think it’s because of something else.
“I think you didn’t. Deep down, you didn’t want me to stop. You looked awfully disappointed when I did.”
“That’s not true!”
He reaches me in two steps and I try to crawl back, but I only end up pressed further against the tree as he stands in front of me and wraps his fingers around my jaw.
His touch is callous, untrained. He’s a beast of a man, a savage who probably doesn’t know how to touch anything without the ruthless energy that emanates off him in waves.
I brace myself for whatever violent threats or acts he’ll commit, but he hauls me to a standing position then releases me. “Follow me.”
“To where?” I stare at the stiff muscles of his back through his shirt.
“Do you know the way back to the house?”
“No.”
“Then walk.”
Oh.
I don’t know why a part of me thought he’d leave me in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself.
Once again, I wait for the panic attack that doesn’t come.
But I know I screwed up tonight.
I didn’t only trespass on private property. I might have trespassed into the devil’s lair.
My thoughts are confirmed when he stares at me over his shoulder, his eyes still in tune with the night, tapering and shimmering with that mystic darkness. If anything, they appear more unhinged. “Come back when you’re ready to be fucked properly.”
6
JEREMY
I don’t believe in people.
They’re fickle, prone to mistakes, and have no clue what the fuck they’re doing most of the time.
They’re useless, tasteless, and shouldn’t pollute the air with their breaths.
This disdain I have for people has been inherent in me ever since I grew out of my child phase and gradually found out what the world is all about.
I also don’t believe in the strikes system. People don’t get two or three chances with me. One mistake and they’re out.
For good.
Anyone who crosses the line once will do it again if given the chance. It’s forbidden fruit, delayed gratification, and sought-after glorification. If they get one taste, they’ll be compelled to have another.
Then another.
And another.
Until they’re reduced to animals chasing their basic needs.
Giving them a chance to get close to the line, let alone cross it, is the personification of foolishness.
My zero-tolerance policy might paint me as cold-blooded and heartless, but that’s better than being labeled soft.
I’ve seen what that does to people. How caring too much can tear someone open from the inside out. I had no control over it back then—couldn’t stop it or prevent it from happening.
But I’m older now, wiser, harder, and I vowed to never let a variation of those circumstances repeat.
Ever.
The fact that I’m standing in a pool of blood—mine and someone else’s—is a manifestation of the person I’ve become to get to this stage in my life.
The guy in my grip is barely breathing, his eyes are swollen shut and his face is covered with mucus and blood from how much I’ve punched him. This fucker thought he could ambush me on my afternoon ride. He also hit me with a barb-wired baseball bat, knocking me off my Ducati Panigale, but that was the extent of it.