Page 53 of Desperate Crimes

The honesty is terrifying. Liberating.

“S-sometimes. But sometimes I use toys,” I admit, voice barely audible.

He groans. Deep. Rough. Possessive.

“Toys,” he repeats, his free hand sliding up to cradle my jaw, keeping me still in the dark.

He hasn’t kissed me yet. And I want him to. I want to see him when he does.

“Do you rub them on your clit?”

As he says the words, his thumb brushes my sensitive bud—just once.

My hips jerk. A cry escapes me.

I nod frantically, unable to speak.

His breath hitches. Then hardens.

“Or do you put them in here?” he growls, his voice jagged as he slides another finger inside me, pushing in beside the first.

The stretch makes me gasp.

My pussy clenches down hard, needing it—needing more.

I’m soaked. I can hear how wet I am. So can he.

He moves slowly, curling his fingers just right, dragging them against the spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach drop.

No one’s ever done this.

No one’s ever touched me like this.

I moan—soft and broken—and my hips rock into his hand on instinct, searching for friction, chasing something wild and endless building deep in my core.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, look at you. Rocking your greedy little cunt on my fingers like you were made for it.”

My head tips back, lips parted, panting.

I don’t care anymore.

Not about who I am.

Not about who he is.

Not about the darkness, or how we got here.

All I know is that I need more.

And he’s the only one who’s ever known how to give it to me.

I can feel it building—fast.

Tight. Intense.

That first wave of pleasure, cresting like a storm.

But then he leans in. His mouth brushes my ear.