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I smirk as I pull two beers from the fridge. “There’s no landline. Or internet. We’re on our own little island out here.”
I crack a can of beer open and take a gulp as she comes to stand in the doorway.
“I need to call Cole. He’ll be worried.”
“Don’t stress. Hunter would’ve told him the plan.”
“What plan?” She pads forward, her feet devoid of socks. “You still haven’t told me anything.”
“I will. First—drink.” I hold a beer out in her direction. “We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”
She takes the can from me, her brow furrowed. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to avoid the conversation?”
I laugh, and the rushed movement of my chest produces a stab of pain through my ribs.
“Sebastian?” Her frown deepens and she steps closer, her concerned gaze flicking between my eyes. “Those bruises on your face aren’t the extent of your injuries, are they?”
The sharp stab turns into one motherfucker of a throb, her charade weighing down on me. I’d once thought she was a phenomenal woman. I guess I still do, just not in the admirable ways I’d once assumed.
“It’s okay.”
She steps closer, stopping toe to toe. “No, it’s not.” She grips the bottom of my shirt and tries to lift, only to have the tight material restrict around my stomach. Then she sets her sights on my buttons, frantically undoing them to stare at my chest.
“Jesus.” She clasps a hand over her mouth and steps back. “What did they do to you?”
I don’t avert my gaze from hers. My injuries aren’t going anywhere. But her affection soon will—the meticulous act.
“You need a doctor,” she demands.
“I’ve already told you, you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be fine.” I take a deep pull of alcohol and lean back against the counter.
She peers up at me, her eyes pleading. “Sebastian, please. Let me drive you to a hospital.”
I hear the truth through the lies—Let me drive you to civilization where I can find a phone.
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m worried about you.” Her hands raise to my face, her palms cupping my cheeks and the heavy stubble beneath. “And you’re scaring me. What happens if there’s internal bleeding? What do I do if you pass out?”
Resentment burns through my veins. I despise her bullshit concern. I fucking loathe it. I can’t even answer her without blowing what little hold I have on fury.
“Talk to me.” She leans in, her hips pressed against mine.
Her expression is sickening. The position of her thigh between my legs is a blatant strategy.
I hate it.
I hate this.
And, God, I wish I hated her.
But my dick hasn’t read the memo. I grow hard, my erection rubbing against her. Despite everything—mainly self-preservation and common fucking sense—my base desires run rampant.
I want to fuck her.
Fuck her over.
I lean close, my mouth a breath away from hers. “I’m not interested in talking.”
Her eyes widen. Her tongue snakes out to slowly moisten her lips. “You’re hurt…”
“I’m hungry,” I growl, my tone letting her know my appetite has nothing to do with food.
“Sebastian…”
I wait for her to continue. To confess. To fucking open her mouth and tell me what a lying, traitorous snake she is in an attempt to stop this moving any further.
The words never come.
She eyes me, those baby blues intense as she slowly leans in, approaching me like I’m a wild animal she shouldn’t want to touch. But she does touch. She brushes her mouth over mine, the co
She pulls me under her spell. Slaughtering me. Reclaiming me as her fucking puppet.
She’s had me hooked since we first met.
All this time I’ve been her pawn.
I smash my mouth against hers, parting her lips with my tongue to delve deep. I punish her with my kiss, detesting her with every swipe of co
She’s slow to react. I think she might pull away.
Then her hands find my chest, and she moans. Mewls. The needy sounds only increase my livid rage.
She pushes my jacket from my shoulders and rips at the buttons of my shirt. Her touch journeys over my injuries, gentle, caring. The delicate nature is a reminder to keep my head. To stay in control because she’s always on top of her game.
“I can’t wait to fuck you.” I speak into her mouth.
Her arms circle my back, those fingers searching until she finds my gun and begins to pull it from my waistband.
“Don’t.” I snatch the weapon from her grip.
She stares at me, wide-eyed. “I only wanted to get it out of the way.”
Like hell.
Does she really expect me to believe that?
Fuck.
Was she going to shoot me?
“Let me take care of it.” I push the weapon along the counter, out of reach, then walk us to the other side of the kitchen, pressing her into the drawers.
“I wouldn’t have fired it by accident,” she murmurs. “I know my way around a gun.”
“I don’t doubt it. But after this morning, it’s best if your fingerprints stay far away.”
She recoils, her lips parting for a brief moment before she slowly nods. “I will. I promise.”
I slam my mouth back on hers with punishing force as I wrench at my belt and lower my zipper. She’s all over my dick in seconds, stroking, squeezing, working the length through her angel soft skin.
We’re all hands and lips and tongues. Lust and deception and lies. It’s a storm of manipulation. A tsunami of wrong.
Flashbacks of the last few days pummel me. Stabbing me. Punishing unlike any other assault.
We’d had a co
“Turn around.” I can’t stand the fucking sight of her. I grab her shoulders, spin her, and bend her to my will. “Let me show my i
Those lies cut the deepest. All that bullshit about being sexually assaulted. There’s a reason I never found that information when I dug into her life. Everything she told me was fabricated. I’m starting to believe the whole fucking shooting was staged to bring us together so she could work her deceitful magic.
She’s splayed over the counter in seconds, her dress lifted above her ass, her thong shoved to her ankles.
I squeeze her thighs, making her squeal before I delve higher, skimming her traitorous pussy with my fingertips. She’s wet, dripping at the thought of undermining me.
Again.
I position my cock at her entrance and slam home. The jolt jars my ribs, the pain physical as well as emotional. I stand frozen, battling self-loathing while she grinds against me.
This isn’t a virtuous woman. I’d gobbled up that bullshit like a seafood buffet.
Nothing was real.
Not a damn thing.
She lied about everything, and the thought of her misleading me about contraception makes my blood turn cold. How do I know she’s not trying to get pregnant in another elaborate scheme to set me up?
Jesus. The last thing I want is a child spawned from this monster. The thought of my genes matched with those of a family bathed in sins and destruction… Fuck.
I slam into her. Over and over.
I loathe her, yet I can’t leave her alone.
I want to punish her, but I’m only torturing myself.
My dick quits. It taps out, unable to function through the mud in my head. And here I was thinking this situation couldn’t get any worse.