Page 14 of The Stalker (Ashburne Chronicles #2)

Trapped

B ianka

The earth is cold and a little damp beneath me, wet leaves clinging to my cheek, the smell of dirt and pine filling my lungs as I gasp for air. His weight crushes me into the ground, solid and immovable, every muscle in my body screaming as I twist beneath him.

But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t let me go.

His chest presses to my back and his hips pin mine to the ground. His hand is clamped tight around my wrists, forcing them into the dirt above my head. And no matter how hard I pull, how I thrash, he’s stronger.

Stronger, and relentless.

“Griffin, please!” My voice cracks, breaking on his name.

His breath is hot against my neck, his lips dragging across my skin like fire. “Say it again,” he growls, the sound vibrating through me. “Say my name.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, biting down hard on my lip to keep the word inside. But my body betrays me. My hips buck against him, an instinct I can’t smother, and the hard press of his thick cock grinds into me through our clothes.

A strangled whimper slips from my throat, and he hears it. Of course he hears it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, low and dark, his tongue tracing the edge of my scar. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Your body knows the truth.”

“No,” I choke, shaking my head furiously in denial, tears burning my eyes. “I don’t...”

“You do.” His teeth scrape over my shoulder, biting down just enough to make me cry out. “You’ve wanted this since we were teenagers. You wanted me then, and you want me now.”

I sob, the sound torn from deep in my chest. And the worst part, the part that makes me want to die right here in the dirt, is that he’s right.

Griffin has always been the man I fantasized about alone at night.

I did want him then and I do want him now.

But I can’t give in to that. I won’t allow myself to dream of something more than the life I am living.

But even as my wrists throb under his grip, even as fear shreds through me, there’s heat burning low in my belly, spreading between my thighs, shameful and hot.

I hate it.

I hate him.

But I hate myself more.

His body shifts, sliding lower against mine, his thigh nudging between my legs. My breath stutters as the pressure sparks through me, sharp and undeniable. I clench my thighs tight, desperate to smother the need, but it only traps him closer.

He groans, deep and satisfied, grinding harder. “Fuck, Bianka. Feel how perfect you are against me. You can fight me with your mouth all you want, but this,” his thigh presses against my covered pussy, deliberate, brutal, “this can’t lie.”

“Stop!” I scream, but the sound is broken and weak, my hips betray me again, rocking against his jeans-covered thigh and wishing it was something else.

His chuckle is low and cruel, layered with something not entirely his own. “Thomas was right. You were always meant to be mine.”

My blood runs cold. Thomas.

That name that came to me from nowhere. The shadow in his eyes. The voice that wasn’t his. It’s real. I wasn’t imagining it. There’s something else inside him.

“Get out of him!” I cry, thrashing with renewed desperation. “Leave him alone!”

But Griffin only growls, his mouth hot against my ear. “He’s not in control. I am. And I’m never letting you go.”

My strength fades quickly, and my struggles weaken. His grip doesn’t loosen, not for a second, and every grind of his body against mine strips away at my fight, replacing it with something darker, heavier, and more terrifying in its truth.

Because I don’t want him to stop.

God help me, I don’t want him to stop.