Page 54 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

I ’m barely at the foot of the bed when I’m snatched from behind, and I yelp, kicking out behind me, connecting with Trips’ thigh.

“Fuck,” he shouts, and I twist, slipping free and snaking under his grasp. But he catches me again easily, throwing me onto the bed. I go with the momentum, scrambling to my knees halfway across, aiming for the other side, but he snatches my ankle, dragging me back.

“Stay still,” he says, the jingle telling me he’s fighting with both me and his pants.

I use his distraction to free the neatly tucked bedding, shoving it under me, making space.

Then I roll, facing him as he kicks off his pants and boxer briefs, his grip on my ankle not loosening.

I throw my free heel in his direction, getting him in the chest before he claims that ankle, too.

Trying to navigate the next move, I chuck first one, then a second pillow at his head, and he lets go of my ankles, giving me a chance to scramble across the bed, my legs slipping under the blankets I loosened.

Then he’s in the bed with me, both of us twisting and shimmying, Trips grunting with every glancing blow I land as we slide farther down the bed, the blankets making it up past our waists.

He pins my wrists to one side with one of his huge hands, and when I struggle, I know they’re stuck. His other arm bands around my knees, yanking them over one shoulder. His knees bracket my hips, and I tug against his iron grip.

“No,” I yell, keeping eye contact, needing him to see that I’m fine even if I’m pretending I’m not.

He blinks twice, his eyes sad, then shifts me and lunges forward, his grunt and my yelp mixing.

His hard cock presses against my folds, but with more care than I’d have thought, he seats himself so he can rub against me, but not enter me.

The blankets and the way he manhandled my legs keep anything from being seen.

He rocks against me, and a few tears fall from my eyes, the mess of emotions in me needing an outlet. From pleasure and care, to violence and adrenaline, to subterfuge and gentleness. Too much, too fast.

But the tears sell it, so I don’t stop them.

Instead, they turn into gasping sobs as Trips rides the slickness we created in the closet.

Each nudge of his cock over my oversensitive clit causes a zing of pleasure, adding to the confusion inside me.

This isn’t what I wanted. Not like this.

But it still feels so good, so right, and despite everything, some tiny part of me wishes he’d slip and plunge inside, filling me up the way my clenching muscles are begging for.

We stay caught in this strange purgatory, his brows low over his eyes, my gasping cries loud in the room, the pleasure building with every pass of his body against mine.

And when a second orgasm builds, I hold on to it, wanting it even when it feels like a betrayal to some part of me, of us, what could have been, what should have been.

His hips lose their steady rhythm, each pass faster, pressing harder against me, both of us wanting more, needing more, but taking less.

And when he spasms against me, hot cum showering over my thighs and cunt, it throws me over the edge too, a weeping orgasm full of physical pleasure and emotional pain.

But built on trust that I never thought I would have with the man before me.

We stay frozen in this tableau, this mockery and show, until both of our breaths have evened out, a few tears still streaking down my cheeks.

He shuffles back, releasing my legs first, then my wrists, neither one of us sure if I should flee or not.

Undecided, I just lay there, staring across the room like a broken doll, letting the tears fall.

He tucks the blankets over us both, and after a moment’s hesitation, he tugs my back to his chest, his arm draped around my waist.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and I blink back my tears, forcing myself to stroke his arm. To let him know that I’m okay, even if I can’t say it out loud.

My tears keep falling, but they don’t scare me.

Because some of them are tears of relief. Of revelation.

I always believed my tears were my weakness.

All the terrible things I’ve survived, I’ve cried for every one of them, and nothing ever changed. They might make the bad go away for a moment, a day, a week, a month. But the bad kept coming back, no matter how hard I cried.

But for the first time, my tears are a weapon.

And I’m going to wield them like the master I know I am.