Page 13 of The Ruthless Note

It’s like her ears are blocked.

So I use my own unique methods of compliance.

Thrusting forward, I grind against her.

Our hips meet in an explosive rock.

I grit my teeth as the friction turns me into a human frying pan.

Her eyes grow wider when she feels all of me pressing against her skirt. I see her throat bob in fear, but her voice is steady when she says, “Is that how you want to play it, Dutch? You couldn’t have any version of me, so you’re going to take what you want?”

Her taunting crashes through my patience. I pin her arms above her head, my fingers burning everywhere I touch. Her breath hits my cheek in hot, staccato beats.

“ShouldI break you, Brahms? Right here, right now?” I move my hand against her thigh, traveling up and under her flirty little Redwood Prep skirt. The fabric brushes against the back of my knuckles. Her inner thighs are sticky.

I slide my fingers into the mess she made and then remove my hand from her skirt. Keeping my eyes on her to make sure she’s watching, I stick my pointer in my mouth and flick my tongue over my finger. Her taste is like magic and I close my eyes, moaning lightly.

A whimper escapes her lips, and it sends my blood spiking hotter.

The attraction between us is still flaming, burning,alive. But so is the hatred. And it creates a dangerous, volatile mixture that threatens to tear us both apart from the inside.

“Bastard,” she moans.

That only prompts me to explore her thighs again. The feel of her soft skin pushes me right off the cliff into insanity. I grab a fistful of her skirt, needing it off her body. Needing more of her skin on mine.

“Are you the only one allowed to play games, Brahms?” I whisper in her ear. “We’re playing my game now.”

Her eyes snap with fury. She lifts her leg, intending to knee me where it’ll count. But I see her from a mile away and catch her leg by the ankles. One worn black pump slips off her foot as I yank her leg even higher, draw her thigh against my waist and spread her open.

Heat on heat.

I press in.

My need is violent. Monstrous. Insatiable.

I can barely see, can barely hear except for the roar in my pants, a brutal chant urging me to do only one thing—peel her panties to the side andobliterate her.

Brahms moans in pleasure and then looks shocked that the sound came from her.

A red flush stains her cheeks. Her voice trembles. “Getoff.”

She tries to worm free, but my hand is a steel band on both her wrists and my upper body is pinning her in place.

There’s no escaping this.

No escaping me.

“You managed to survive like the rat you are, Brahms,” I hiss, trying to ignore my own throbbing desire. “But this isn’t over. As long as you’re in Redwood, I’m going to make your life a living hell.” I seal the words with a punishing stroke of my hips that sends her head crashing into the wall.

Her breath escapes on a gasp.

Her nostrils flare.

She digs her fingers into my shoulder, her head thrown back and her eyes closed.

Just then, voices come from below us. Footsteps pound on the stairs. Students are walking this way.

Brahms lifts her head. She hears them too. Panic fills her eyes immediately. “Dutch, let me go.”