The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

FAYE

The house empty, Hayes’ words on the back burner of my mind, yoga mat stowed safely under my arm, I head to the living room in search for an escape. Yoga will get some blood flowing to my head, right? I just need some time to myself…to think. Every day, it’s like I’m getting closer to telling my brother the truth. Close, toeing the cusp, but never fully committing to sticking my foot in the deep end.

Kit and I haven’t really talked since the first night. Sometimes I’ll catch him glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Sometimes I’ll be the one watching, and he’ll catch me before I have the chance to turn away. If we brush past each other, there’s always some hand on some body part—whether it’s intentional or not. But despite all of this, we haven’t spent time alone together. My brain knows it’s for the best, but my desert-dry vagina protests. The only time I’m ever wet nowadays is when I’m in the shower. I need to channel this sexual frustration into something, otherwise I’ll fucking explode—little, sad pieces of Faye splattered on the walls.

The guys are at the rink right now, so I have the house to myself for the first time since I arrived. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. I don’t need to chant a calming mantra to myself to lower my blood pressure.

Or maybe I do, because when I round the corner to the living room, I run into a solid wall of muscle, making me practically spring back from the impact. There’s a hand on my arm as I blink back blurry constellations, and when I look down at whoever is gripping me, the corrosive touch makes so much more sense.

Kit’s large hand assaults my eyes, stark, blue-gray veins snaking over the ridge of his knuckles like vines. My mouth dries up when our gazes meet, my heart pumping wildly in my chest.

“You’re here,” I squeak, my yoga mat unfurling and dropping to the ground. “What are you doing here?”

So much for a Kit-free afternoon. I battle the anxiety cresting inside me, the close proximity of our bodies launching my lust into full throttle. He smells good. I mean, he always smells good, but something about a day’s worth of musk has a pulse throbbing down below—insatiable, insistent, inconvenient.

Kit’s megawatt grin showcases those pearly whites of his. “I live here.”

“I mean, why are you here? Why aren’t you with the guys?” I don’t mean to sound so brash, but this is really putting a kink in my plans. I can’t get anything done with a tempting, six-foot-five distraction like Kit.

He leans down to retrieve my mat. “I came to check on you. But I see you’re…busy?”

I snatch it from him with a lip curl. “I am, yes.” I march my way to the center of the room, sprawling out my little slice of paradise—a slice that he’s disturbed. He pads behind me, not bothering to keep a respectable distance between us.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, clicking the television on as I search for a quick YouTube yoga session. I didn’t think I’d be sweating this much. I haven’t even done any yoga yet.

“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you stopped to look me in the eyes?” he asks, the rugged rasp in his voice turning my core molten, each stretched and heavily played syllable a methodical endeavor to make me tick like a waiting time bomb.

To spite him, I flash him a glare that could put him six feet under. “I’m looking at you.”

“I didn’t know you did yoga.” His bourbon eyes give me a once-over, dropping to my tight-fitting leggings and crawling slowly up my body until he reaches the slight V of my cleavage.

“I do it when I’m stressed.”

“You’re stressed?” A frown weasels its way onto his lips, concern clouding his expression. His worry would be heartwarming if it wasn’t for the irritation prickling the back of my neck. He knows damn well why I’m stressed.

Squatting down to the mat, I start stretching my legs out to my sides, my tense muscles groaning, and I second-guess if I should switch my workout for a hot bubble bath instead. I haven’t done yoga in months, and if Kit’s going to sit on the sidelines and watch me, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of him.

I don’t answer him. My silence should be answer enough. Instead, I lean over my other extended leg, feeling a nice stretch in my side body.

“Is it because of Hayes?”

A slow blink. An are-you-stupid blink. More stretching. More silent chastising.

“It’s because of me,” he concludes, mouth in a grim line, arms crossed over his impressive chest.

After I work through the kinks in my legs—and pray not to get a cramp midway through my session—I plant my heels into the mat and rise into downward dog, the backs of my calves aching with a fiery burn. He’s still staring at me.

“This isn’t a free show,” I snip. “You wanna talk, you do yoga.”

“Whatever you say.”

I’m well aware Kit doesn’t have a mat to practice on. I’m also well aware he’s probably going to half-ass the poses. He situates himself directly behind me, and although I can’t see him, I know that he’s staring at my ass.

His voyeuristic gaze births butterflies, and for a second, I imagine the heavy weight of his dick against my butt, the sturdy meat of his thighs bumping against my own in a suction of sweat and cum, how his fingers would feast on my sides and stay there to leave bruises. His breath pluming on my back, his voice a husky whisper, his—

“Why are you mad at me?” Real Kit interferes with imaginary Kit.

Stupid real Kit.

I snort, leaning back as I switch into child’s pose. “I’m not mad,” I gruff before the mat absorbs my hushed grumbling. I try to focus on the curve of my spine, try to imagine a tether pulling me down into the ground, making me heavy.

“You sound mad.”

Three words you should never say to a woman. Ever.

Of course I’m mad. Horny plus stressed equals mad. And confused. And maybe hurt at how unfazed he is by this distance between us.

I lift my head up. “There’s not this much talking in yoga.”

“Tell me why you’re mad, and I’ll stop talking,” he negotiates, surprisingly following through with the pose being shown on the seventy-inch flatscreen. Granted, his child’s pose is more of a roadkill opossum, but at least he’s putting in effort. Hockey players are more flexible than I thought. Ugh. What I would’ve given to discover that a different way.

I know I was the one who set boundaries. I know I’ve been the one avoiding him. I just…I thought he would’ve at least tried to fight for me a little. Maybe it was easier for him to give up. But Kit’s stubborn. He gets what he wants. So when he just accepted us staying friends, it confused me. And that night after family dinner, he couldn’t even be in the same room as me.

After talking with my brother, I should be more stringent about our arrangement, right? Wrong. My guilt isn’t as strong as the emotions I feel for Kit. It’s bad, but it feels so good. I shouldn’t dream about sneaking around with one of my brother’s best friends. But that thrill of not getting caught…it sparks the tinder in my belly and grows into a raging inferno.

A warning growl low in my throat. “I told you, I’m not mad.” I’m about to lob my yoga mat at his big, fat head.

The peppy lady on the screen goes into cat-cow, her shrill voice drowned out by the nonargument argument we’re having. I mirror the pose, palms flat against the mat, my back cycling between a curve and an arch. And Kit is, of course, looking like an idiot doing a feminine—and slightly suggestive—pose with his big, burly body. I don’t doubt that his ass probably looks spectacular though.

“Faye, please…”

My anger comes to a boil, spewing out at full speed, lighting a ring of fire around us. Still on my hands and knees, determined for this cat-cow to snap, crackle, and pop me, I look back at him. “You want to know why I’m mad? You’re making it impossible for me to stay away from you. You’re always there, staring at me too long when you don’t think I notice, purposefully grabbing my waist to move past me in the kitchen.”

“You’re mad that I’m not staying hundreds of feet away from you?” Kit snarls, maintaining the same cat-cow pose, his cold exterior frosting over even further. The only difference is the stacks of tension crammed into his back and shoulders, muscles writhing beneath a tight compression shirt.

“I’m mad that you don’t seem very affected by any of it!”

“I chose to respect your decision and stay away from you. I didn’t want to complicate things for you. And after you chose to keep things platonic between us, I’ve been trying to deal with the fact that this is gonna be our norm.”

I whip my head around toward the screen to see what the next pose is, and to my horror, it’s a stretching exercise that requires two people. Two people, in close proximity.

I’m going to soldier on with this two-person pose, even if I want to claw Kit’s face off. This is my yoga time—precious and seemingly rare with the way everyone’s been helicoptering over me. Kit interrupted my time, and I shouldn’t have to pay for his blatant disrespect.

“Why are you making me seem like the bad guy?” I hiss, yanking him over to me with a strength I didn’t know I possessed, gesturing to the pose on the screen with a stabbing arm. Growling like a caged animal, Kit scoots over to me, taking up the majority of the mat.

“You’re not the bad guy,” he gets out through clenched teeth.

The nearly impossible pose—and definitely not one for beginners—involves two people sitting on their butts, extending their legs upwards to form a V shape, with their arms interlocked on the outside for extra balance. Given Kit’s and my height difference, this may look more like a malformed N.

I grab Kit’s wrist hard enough to bruise, start to get into position, and wait for him to use that walnut-sized brain of his to mirror me. His limbs are like putty, flailing all about, as if every hockey warmup he’s ever done has been erased from his memory. I’d be lying if I said his struggle didn’t bring me immense joy.

When he finally manages to somehow contort his body to look like mine, we hold the pose for two minutes, staring into each other’s eyes, hands on forearms. His legs dwarf mine, making them rise at different levels, and our backs aren’t completely straight, but I’m surprised we could replicate the pose at all. Indignation shreds an acidic hole in my gut. Look at him—oblivious, unaffected. He’s thriving, while I’m dying inside.

“Aren’t I, though? I’m the one who ended things. I’m the one who’s regretting it. I’m the one who’s suffering.”

Kit’s grasp wavers. “You think you’re the only one suffering?”

My core is on fire (and not in the good way). I seesaw for balance, letting my sexual frustration fuel me, refusing to surrender for a second time.

“Yes! Yes, because you seem super cool with just being friends.”

His tone is a knife’s edge of rage so sharp it could wound me. “I’m not ‘super cool’ with just being friends, Faye. I fucking hate being your friend. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to control myself around you—how hard it’s been not to jack off to the thought of you. Just the other night, I had a boner the size of Texas because you weren’t wearing any pants.”

My cheeks warm. “That’s why you ran out on me?

Kit’s legs begin to shake, and I can see his abs contract through his shirt, though he finds his balance rather quickly. “Jesus. Yes,” he admits quietly, embarrassment evident in the flush of his collarbone.

“So, what? We’re just gonna keep our distance for the rest of the summer? Act like we’re not even friends?”

“I don’t think you’re ready to be more than friends.”

I hate the power Kit has over me. He’s got my heart in a stranglehold, and he’s not planning on letting go any time soon. I’m a grown woman. I can’t let some hockey player bring me to my knees. I choose when to get on my knees, and for whom.

“Fuck you,” I spit, dropping the pose. I don’t have time to deal with this conversation.

My arms shoot out behind me to support myself, but instead of falling backwards like me, Kit leaps forward onto his knees, right between my spread legs, his arms bracketing my sides.

“Fuck me?” His mouth hovers near mine, our breaths a kiss away from unreturnable, the bulge in his pants grazing the inside of my thigh. I have nowhere to run, to hide. His lips are poison, his tongue forked, everything about him spelling DANGER in big, bold letters. One hit off him and I’m an addict for life.

My heart freefalls into my stomach. “You don’t want this,” I whisper.

“I don’t remember what it feels like to not want this.”

I barely know what happens next; it’s all a blur. One minute, I’m in control of my body. And the next, my lips are attacking his, the taste of him transporting me back to the hotel room. Our mouths move in synchrony—a dance guided by lovesick hearts—teeth taking turns grazing and pulling. His kiss strokes the desire seated inside me, and when he cups the side of my cheek, I thaw for him. His tongue weaves around mine, then flicks out to my bottom lip, where he paints the skin with saliva. I swallow, needing more, starved to the point where the hollow ache of not having him can ruin me beyond repair.

Sensing my desperation, the loving caress of his calloused palm gets traded for a harsh tug of my hair, and when he yanks my head back, he laves the soft give of my throat, branding me with a hickey. I squirm and mewl, my nails clawing his shirt, wanting so badly to destroy every barrier between us until we’re skin to skin, heart to heart. I only put a thong on to help conceal my panty lines, and I’m now realizing it was a terrible idea because the gusset isn’t anywhere large enough to hold my arousal. I can feel my wetness coating the inside of my thighs.

“Is this what you want, Princess? For me to eat you out right here, where anyone can walk in and catch us?” Kit’s voice rumbles in my ears, shakes my foundation, and he uses one large hand to part my legs as wide as possible. He emits a tortured groan at the sight of the damp spot on my pants.

“You like the idea of being watched, don’t you? You’re a fucking whore for it.”

My entire body quivers as need races to the surface, ready to explode like pressure in a well-shaken can. And the second Kit’s hand strokes over my clothed pussy, I detonate, tearing down the walls I’ve reinforced to guard my heart, blowing them to smithereens. I buck my hips into his palm.

“Be a good girl,” he growls, taking a single finger and tracing my clit. “Use your words.”

“Your hand. Inside me. Please,” I gasp out brokenly, my spine writhing in pleasure as he tends to the outer lips.

His sturdy hands come up to slowly roll down my leggings, leg by leg, taking his time to watch the way I unravel for him. Once he gets me out of those circulation-cutting death pants, there’s no pretense or light teasing when he plunges two fingers in, the squelch of my arousal the only sound to be heard over pants and labored breaths.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. And it’s all for me. That painful throb in your pretty cunt, the gush on your legs, that’s all mine, Faye.”

Kit spirals his fingers around, flutters them against my swollen walls, experiments with a fast and slow pace as he studies the contortion of my face, my greedy moans, the way I rut my hips for more friction. He helps me wrap my legs around his torso, bringing me so impossibly close to him that he’d be balls deep inside me if his cock was out. I can feel his thickening length, and no matter how hard he tries to keep a straight face, rapture nearly pulls his grimace into a grin.

His thumb circles my drenched flaps, and he drags his nail in a figure-eight, evoking waves of tingles that crash through me, like the rippling of water after a stone has been dropped into its depths. My legs shake uncontrollably, and the pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful. With no pillow or mattress to grip onto, my fists find tufts of carpet, though it hardly anchors me. I’m floating higher and higher into the sky, with no intention of finding my footing on Earth.

Kit brings his digits to his sensual mouth, opens, and sucks, not caring to silence the loud noises pouring out of him. I don’t miss the uncharacteristic whimper in the back of his throat as he slurps up my juices. He looks like the epitome of perfection, smells like masculinity in its rawest form. I can’t believe this is finally happening. I’ve waited so long for this moment, and it’s better than any melatonin-laced dream version of him I could’ve conjured up.

He kisses me after quenching his thirst, and the salty taste of my own arousal on my tongue has blinding sparks of electricity hurtling through my veins. My orgasm is so close. I want—need—to feel that release. I need it more than I need my next breath of air.

“Do you want to drench my fingers, Princess? Do you want me to make you come so hard you can’t see straight?” Kit asks, that teasing tone of his condescending in a way that makes my belly clench.

His fingers have stopped their torturous circles, their girth alone enough pressure to get me there if I move with precision. Even with half-lidded eyes, I can tell that me getting off is getting him off. His painfully erect dick is practically bursting at the seams, and pre-cum stains his crotch, calling my attention to the not-so-discreet flex of his upper muscles.

“Yes, Kit,” I cry out.

“Fuck me.” He throws his head back and his eyes fall closed, his throat working upon my admission. I bask in his vulnerability, not sure when I’ll see it again, trying to commit it to memory. When he comes to, he reapplies his mask and challenges me. “Beg for it.”

That pulse in my vagina hasn’t stopped as fire tumbleweeds through every inch of me, scorching me from the inside out. “What?”

“Beg for it,” he demands again, this time withdrawing his fingers to drive the point home.

I internally scream at the loss of contact, the loss of fullness. I don’t beg. I’m above begging. But am I? Because Kit’s fingers felt like heaven inside me. I need him. More. “Please…” My voice is quiet, so quiet the sound of a pin dropping would be louder.

His head drops, his dark hair cascading down to frame his face. “You know that’s not what I want.”

“Please, Kit. Please fuck me with your fingers,” I beg, surprised at how loud my voice is now, how desperate.

“There she is. There’s my girl.” His fingers spear back inside me, determined to complete their mission, curving at an angle right near my G-spot. He’s taunting me, torturing me, seeing how far he can leave me teetering on the edge before I hit my breaking point.

My walls spasm around him, pleading for more. I’d blush at my body’s reaction if I wasn’t so distracted.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Sucks, teases with his teeth, soothes the newly formed bite. “God, I love your fucking pussy. So pretty, so pink, so greedy for my fingers. You’ve been such a good girl, Princess. How about I give you something bigger to work with?”

My eyes widen at the realization. His huge cock. His huge cock that will most definitely split me in half.

“Kit…”

His fingers stall inside me, and I know he’ll still make me come with whichever appendage of his I choose. “Only if you consent, Faye.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not thinking about the consequences of my actions. I’m leading with my heart instead of my head. “It’s not that. You’re so…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he replies. “You set the pace.”

Stop thinking, Faye. This is what you’ve always wanted.

Am I ready for this? What if I freak out on him?

Leap. He’ll catch you. You know he will.

I don’t want all my sexual experiences to be synonymous with the rape. I want to be able to enjoy sex again. I want to be able to lose myself in someone without the fear that they might not give that part of me back. I want to lose myself in Kit.

I want his hands to be the ones I remember on my body.

I only manage to nod because words elude me. That challenging tilt of his head, along with the devilish glint in his eyes, are long gone. All that remains is softness, understanding, and a smile that I always come home to.

Pants and underwear abandoned, he picks me up and carries me effortlessly to the bedroom. He gently sets me down on the mattress, hands supporting the small of my back, his tactile touch drawing a guttural groan from deep within my throat. The polarizing difference of my soft body against his hard one makes me lightheaded. Once I’m situated, he rolls his pants down, letting his aching cock spring free. It’s as long and thick as I’ve imagined it—red from neglect, littered with veins, the head soaked with a bead of pre-cum—accompanied by two large, dangling balls smattered with wiry hair. I salivate just looking at his dick, wanting to know how it feels when it hits the back of my throat.

When his shirt comes off, I’m met by the billboard-worthy sight of Kit Langley. A razor-sharp jawline and cheekbones that could cut me, inked sleeves on bronze skin that tell stories of the past, an acreage of abs, burgeoning biceps, and thighs that flaunt a strict workout regime. His long, dark lashes match the fullness of his finger-swept hair, the bridge of his nose slightly crooked from a few too many breaks, plump, collagen lips bordering prominent incisors and perfect, straight teeth. He’s so handsome it physically pains me.

I must’ve been gawking for at least a good minute, because judging by the impatient curl of his lip, I need to take my own shirt off before he comes over and rips it down the middle.

The second I’m naked, he positions himself over me, and that night comes flashing back to me. The painful way he held my face against the mattress, the body-rocking thrusts, the tears spilling down my cheeks when he took me harder.

I petrify, my mental and physical brakes engaging. In the moment, I forget that I’m with Kit. I’m transported back to that grungy hotel mattress, waiting for the pain to seize me.

“Hey, hey. We don’t have to go any farther,” Kit whispers, rearing back from me to give me space.

Fear steeps into every inch of me, but the sound of his voice guides me back to the present like a kerosene lantern in a room of complete darkness, projecting a safe path for me. His smell enriches the surrounding air, the feathery touch of his hand providing me with the comfort I’ve grown to know and love.

“I want to. I…I’m sorry. I’m okay. I just panicked for a second.”

Concern weighs his brow down. “Are you sure? I don’t want this to be stressful for you.”

He’s not going to hurt you, Faye. He’s going to be with you every step of the way. You deserve this. You deserve to feel safe in your own body. And you’ve wanted this for so long. You’ve wanted him.

“I’m sure. I’m safe. I trust you, Kit.”

He ponders me for a minute, maybe waiting for me to take my statement back, but when I don’t, he tentatively leans back over me. I don’t miss the roil of his muscles or the nervous tug in his throat, though.

His lips travel the lines of my abdomen, an intimate march toward imminent pleasure, and they make their way up to the swells of my small breasts, worshipping the very flesh with a lap of his tongue. My head lolls back as I arch into his chest, begging for him to suck my nipples, use them as playthings for his teeth, bruise me where only I can see.

I can feel the heavy steel of his cock against my thigh, and the close proximity has my pussy fluttering. As if he can read my mind, Kit’s mouth engulfs my nipple eagerly, pulling at the puckered bud between his teeth, flicking his tongue back and forth. My hips instinctively snap up, and my hand tethers itself in his hair, pulling it with the same power his lips are exacting over me.

My breath comes to a screeching halt. “I want you…now.”

With a satisfied noise, he pops off my breast to rifle through the drawer in his nightstand, practically moving at the speed of light. When he acquires an XXL condom, he gives me front row seats to a lascivious show, slowly rolling it down his twitching length. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. The torturous waiting has my lower stomach cramping. Once he’s covered, he crawls over the bed, that monster between his legs dragging along the sheets.

“Which position, Princess?”

“Missionary,” I decide, pleading to whichever gods are listening right now that I don’t die from the size of him.

He situates me until my head is against the pillow and I’m in a comfortable position, and then he boxes me in with his body, one hand braced against the wall.

Kit uses his other hand to part my legs, fingers etching crescent moons in the meat of my thighs. “Can’t wait until I’m sliding into this gorgeous cunt. Can’t wait to paint your tits with my cum, write my name in it so you remember who the fuck you belong to.”

Even despite my nerves, I’m still as wet as the Pacific Ocean. The anticipation is killing me, my thighs are quaking, sweat is falling into my eyes, and I’m sucking in my belly, waiting for the brunt of him to hit me.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs.

“Gentle.”

“I’ve got you,” is all he says.

I don’t have time to master my fear before he plunges slowly into me. My vagina fights the initial breach, pain spidering out from the intrusion, and my breath hitches as he stills. I don’t think he’s even a quarter of the way in.

“Are you okay?” Worry worms its way into his tone, and his grip on my leg softens.

I grind my molars. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

With a pause, he continues, sliding in all at once to lessen the pain. My pussy stretches, creating a low ache in my abdomen, but the sharp, stabbing pain is replaced with a warm, hardly noticeable pressure. As my body relaxes around him, he drives a little deeper until his ball sack rests against my clit.

Slowly, he starts at a rhythmic pace, my body rocking with each thrust. I’m afraid to move too much, so I let him guide, basking in the fullness of him.

“Oh, God,” I murmur, feeling his dick bully my core. It feels as if my entire body has incinerated into flakes of ash, the heat from his touch leaving thermal prints all over me. Hot tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

An animalistic growl pervades the room. “Fuck, Faye. You’re so tight. You feel so good. I was made for your perfect cunt.”

He was made for me. Like I was the one who existed before him.

His strokes are precise, methodical, but I need the rush of rough, passionate sex. I need to prove to myself that I’m not going to let my fear of sex keep me from experiencing it with Kit. I know he’s holding back. I want the real him—raw, primal, unfiltered. This whole time he’s been treating me like a fragile flower.

“Can you go harder?” I ask.

“You want me to go harder?”

I bob my head. “I think so.”

“Princess, I don’t—”

“I want you to have your way with me, Kit. I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow. I want you to fuck me senseless, punish me for all the times I’ve had a smart mouth, indulge in every fantasy you’ve ever had.”

I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth.

“Jesus Christ. You’re sure?” A pornographic groan, forged from unspoken yearning.

“I need you right now. The real you. I need to feel you.”

Something inside Kit snaps. His grip is tighter than ever, squeezing, suffocating, but I somehow want him closer, embedded under my skin until no amount of shaking can dislodge him.

“Turn around. Bite the headboard,” he growls.

He slides out of me as his cock unsuctions from my heat, our mixed arousal glossing his length and wetting the sheets beneath us. I don’t ask questions. I don’t contemplate. When I go to move, he spanks my ass, the loud noise ricocheting in the small space. I let out a shaky exhale as the stinging refuses to subside, but the thought of his handprint on my butt makes me giddy.

I turn my head back as far as it’ll go before subjecting my teeth to a new dental plan. “Why do I—”

“It’ll muffle the screams. We can’t afford any more noise complaints.”

I scoff. “I don’t scream.”

He sweeps my hair away from my face, pressing his mouth against the shell of my ear, his breath making the hairs on my neck rise. “You will when I’m inside of you.”

Heat coils in my stomach, my anxiety escalating to a crescendo that drowns out the sharp intakes of air and the buzz in my brain. I tentatively bend over and attach my teeth to the wood of the headboard. My teeth feel brittle already. If Kit’s going to be penetrating me with his massive dong, they’ll crack. But I do as he says in hopes of reaping the benefits.

Kit gives me a silent warning as he squeezes the flesh on my lower back before lining himself up with my wet entrance. This time, there is no careful intrusion, no compassion—he slams his dick inside me. Upon the first head-spinning entry, white-hot flames of passion waltz around the charcoal underbelly of a slow-burning pyre. It takes me a few seconds to adjust to his size, thankful that my sexcapade from earlier has provided me with enough natural lube to lessen the pain. His hand snakes up to massage my tit, his lithe fingers tweaking my nipple before he begins to pump hard and fast inside me.

A string of moan-gasps assails the wood, and I sync up with his timed strokes, my pussy bearing back down on him, milking his ever-growing erection. Wet noises bubble up from our sweaty, interconnected bodies. He weighs my breast in one palm, and he rumbles his delight at my submission, the way I bathe his distended cock in gushes of cum.

“I fucking love how you squeeze my dick,” he praises, his hand migrating to my ass to give it another spank. “You’re so responsive. Every little touch, lick, kiss. God, you’re intoxicating.”

When he relentlessly plows into me again, he hits a spot that makes my vision gray and my head fill with cotton. Shock after shock unravels in my gut, and even with the barricade in my mouth, I still let out an embarrassingly loud cry. My teeth dig in deep enough to leave shallow bite marks, a lance of discomfort shooting through my gums.

I unlatch myself from the headboard. “Kit, I’m going to come!”

“Let go, Princess.” He’s panting, breathless, so utterly euphoric that it makes his voice sound far away. “Come all over my cock. Wrap me in your scent. I want to watch your cum leak out of you, want to lick every last drop of you off my sheets.”

My walls squeeze his length as his thrusts become sloppier, more urgent. He shunts his dick harder, deeper, until I can feel his bulge in my cervix. I’ve grown used to the pressure now, and I chase it like a cocaine fiend. For some semblance of control, he feeds his hands through my hair, wraps it around his knuckles, and pulls so harshly that my neck suffers from minor whiplash. A typhoon of unadulterated pleasure waits for the moment to wreak havoc, to spur my desire into action.

We’re a conglomeration of love bites, longing, and lost souls, a mixture of components that shouldn’t work but do. Kit Langley has a roadmap to my heart, has marked the pitstops and calculated the time it’ll take to get to my very center, to burst through every DO NOT ENTER sign warning wandering vagrants.

“You’re mine, Faye. Do you hear that? This pretty, pink pussy, this fuckable ass, that perfect, swinging pair of tits, those flawless legs of yours. Everything about you—mine.”

His words jolt me awake faster than the strongest smelling salts. “I’m yours,” I breathe.

He reaches his hand around my torso and slaps the hood of my clit. “I’m so obsessed with you, do you know that? This is what you do to me.”

To emphasize his point, he flexes his dick inside me, servicing that twenty-four-seven craving I have for him. The ridges of his shaft catch on my velvet walls, the tight clutch of my cunt palpitating around his girth. Jesus. He feels so good. I want this for the rest of my life. My orgasm lingers on the horizon in a bright haze, powerful enough to bring me to my knees if I were standing, so catastrophic that it’ll probably wipe out my speech and conscious thinking.

Fast and aggressive, Kit fucks me like we’re never going to see each other again. I claw at the headboard, my orgasm building, scaling me, until a kaleidoscope of extravagant hues torches my eyelids. My whole body goes slack as my vagina throbs in a rhythm, and I come all over Kit’s dick with a keening wail.

His pace falters for a split second, but it’s so short-lived that it’s barely noticeable. “Such a good fucking girl.”

He’s close. I know he is. And as much as I love the feeling of him inside me, I want him to mark me outside of the condom. Since I don’t have an IUD, I think of the next best thing, because no way in hell am I putting my future in the hands of a tiny little pill.

“Come on my face,” I say.

Kit stills inside me mid-pump, which has to take some kind of superman levels of self-control. “What?”

“Do you seriously need me to elaborate?”

“Shit. Fuck. No.”

I feel him pull out of me hastily, the warmth of his body tapering in the cool atmosphere. Although he’s only a few inches away, it feels like an ocean separates us—one too tumultuous to cross. He takes a second to compose himself, to catch his breath, and I slide to the edge of the bed where he stands, his inflated cock in his hand.

“Are you sure?” he asks, giving his length a firm rub.

I lean back on my palms, my breasts jiggling from the movement. “Kit, I’ve never been surer of anything.”

He mutters something under his breath, and then the latex is off in one fluid motion, discarded somewhere on the floor to be dealt with later. The contour of his muscles tense in the ochre sunlight of the afternoon, his hungry gaze roving over me, memorizing me, as if he’s seeing the real me for the first time.

With a one-finger touch, he guides my chin down, positioning himself to get the best angle—which shouldn’t be hard given I’m right at the height of his hips.

My mouth waters like it’s a goddamn Pavlovian response, desperate to taste him. He pumps himself hard and fast into his fist, and he roars through his orgasm in one final thrust, the first splash of cum hitting my right cheek and webbing down the side of my face. Then stream after hot stream splatters my nose, runs into my mouth, and dribbles down my neck in runnels. The entire room is bathed in his smell as ropes of his arousal slide down the tops of my tits, mixing with the sweat already there.

And when his groans subside and the heat on my skin cools just a bit, I open my eyes to find his muscular, glistening body heaving from the exertion, limp cock hanging against the inside of his thigh in contentment. He’s looking at me like there’s no one else on this planet that’s worth gracing with his gaze, like I’m the answer to every desire and question he’s ever had.

He then takes his pointer finger and presses it gently against my sternum, tracing an obscure shape into the thin glaze of cum on my breasts. “You’re incredible, Faye Hollings.”

I can’t believe I just asked him to do that. I’m not a crazy person in the bedroom, at least, not before the rape. Vanilla is safe, good, reliable. But this—everything with Kit—tests the boundaries I’ve set for myself and obliterates them completely.

I dazedly look down at whatever it is that he decided to write on my chest, and I can just faintly make out the shape of a K.

“Really?”

“I’m a man of my word,” he replies smugly, sucking the excess seed off his finger before plying me with a crop of kisses. His mouth envelops mine, as do the words of praise he whispers into the slim canyon of space between us.

In that moment, the expiration date I put on our summer fling begins to fade. I don’t want Kit for the summer. I don’t want to sneak around with him for the rest of my life. I want him forever, out in the open, guilt-free. The taste of him, the scent of him, the essence of him—it’s mine. Not shared by my trauma or my past. It’s mine, right here and now, in the present, and maybe in every parallel universe.