Page 50 of Bastard

Without warning, he pulls away, spins me around, and lifts me up onto the pool ledge. My boy shorts are practically ripped from my body before he shoulders his way between my thighs. “If that T-shirt isn’t a fucking memory for you, the next time you wear it, it will be. I’m about to feast on you like you did that chicken dish. And after you come, I’m going to finger you to climax again.”

My mouth parts in an O.

“Hook your legs over my shoulders.”

I lean back to balance myself and do as I’m told.

He dips his head, and then licks me from the back all the way to my clit.

“¡Ay!” I cry out.

He repeats the movement, licking me the same way over and over until my eyes roll back in my head.

“I love how you taste. Always did. Always ...”

Will,my thoughts finish.

His mouth settles over me, warm and wet, then without a hint of reservation, his tongue drives inside.

I rock my hips and push myself into his face.

He pulls back—always so controlling. His teeth ever so lightly nip my clit. “That’s my greedy girl.”

I make a noise that sounds like a growl, then boldly grab hold of him by his man bun and direct his mouth and tongue back to where I need them.

“Make me come, you bastard.”

He grunts, but does what I ask. Fucking me with his tongue with a skill of a man experienced in pleasuring a woman. I hate the idea as much as I love it.

My body begins to quiver as my pleasure grows until I can’t take anymore and burst. I’m still shaking when he lifts me into his arms and carries me over to a pool chair. I’m tossed onto it and bounce three times, before he crawls over me and forces his fingers back inside me. “This time, you say my name.”

He fingers me aggressively, ruthlessly, which makes me wild with need. I don’t dare wonder why he doesn’t fuck me or demand I suck him bone dry. If this bastard’s goal is to repeatedly bring me to orgasm, who am I to protest? This is sex. This is him proving how possessive he can be. Say his name? This isn’t intimacy. This isn’t us making love.

Our eyes lock as his thumb circles my clit. No shame. No mercy.

“Say it.”

“Bastard.”

His eyes narrow.

Yet my body doesn’t care about this power play, and I suddenly feel myself giving in to the stolen pleasure he’s creating.

“Look at you. So responsive. So beautiful. How easily you make a man do foolish things.”

“You initiated this,” I gasp. “This is your doing.”

“My undoing,” he mutters, though I barely hear him as a second climax rips through me. “Say my name,” he growls.

“Hayden. Fuck you, Hayden.”

My orgasm is fierce, angry. He continues fingering me well into its aftermath.

I lay still, physically and emotionally spent. Yet he continues to touch me, his fingertips tracing invisible lines over my skin. My collar bone. Breast. Hip. Stomach. It takes several seconds to realize his hand has paused on my scars.

“Are there more?” No emotion. No sign he understands why this was done ... his men, his call.

I draw his hand up and over my heart. “Here.”