Page 11 of Huntsman

Somehow it seems fitting that I’m betraying my hardcore values—betraying myself—for this man. From the moment I first laid eyes on him two years ago, I’ve broken rules for him.

Lucifer’s fall from grace, if you believe in that kind of thing, has nothing on mine.

My tumble started a long time before finding him in the woods surrounding my cabin.

So why stop the plunge now? Especially when there’s only the two of us here and one won’t see morning.

“What do I get out of it?” I ask, letting my voice harden as I slowly lower and shift backward until my pussy glides over the obscenely large length and width of his cock.

Fire races up and down my spine, and I don’t try and contain my groan. He feels too good. Too necessary.

That groan slides into a gasp when he rolls his hips, thrusting against me. For a moment, I’m riding all that power, that strength, that… pure sex. It’s empowering, intoxicating.

And in that instant, with his dick grinding against my pussy, I’m drunk.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my knife nearly sliding from my grasp.

Blinking, I refocus on his too-angular, bold face and find that hooded gaze on me.

And for the first time in years, I battle the urge to fidget, to avoid, to… hide. Which doesn’t make sense. People see what I intend, what I project. Only one person could peer beneath the mask, and she’s been gone nine years. Yet I haven’t forgotten the feeling of being seen.

And I don’t like it.

“Is that your final answer?” I ask, harsher than I meant. “You’d rather give me a good, hard fuck than information about Abena?” My lip curls in disgust, but honestly, I’m kind of impressed by his loyalty.

Isn’t going to stop me from trying to break him though.

Who are you kidding? This isn’t about interrogation anymore.

I want to cuss my bitchy inner voice out. But I can’t. Not when it’s right.

At some point, this stopped being about grilling him and punishment and more about pleasure. His. Mine.

Ours.

I inch up his shirt, reveal a gorgeous, tightly muscled body riddled with scars. Given our time together, I’m eyeing them through a new gaze now.

“Tell me, Huntsman.” I continue to poke the predator, staring into his eyes even though it’s like peering into the deadly radiance of the sun. “You’d rather be my whore than hers?”

If he could rip free of those chains, I’d be a dead woman.

It’s in the subzero blast from his gaze. The damn-near-savage pull of his lips back from his teeth. The strain of his arms and body underneath me. He wants at me, and not to fuck.

To annihilate.

He could try.

And like others before him, he’d fail.

But, fuck, it would be fun.

Smiling, I whip out my hand and slice a thin cut above his pierced nipple. A second later, I bow over his chest and suck hardon the wound and the small, taut light brown crest. His animalistic growl rumbles against my mouth, my breasts, my belly. Giving him my own hum in return, I draw harder on his flesh, clamping my teeth over the silver barbell and rubbing my wet, swollen sex over the steely length shoving against the front of his pants.

Exquisite pleasure rolls through me like a thunderstorm, and I grind harder, writhe wilder.

The jangle of the manacles breaches the haze fogging my head, and after giving his nipple and cut one last long, indulgent lick, I lift my head, slide my tongue over my lips.

Well, now.