Page 29 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)

I slide my hands over her warm, silky skin, feeling the softness beneath my fingertips.

She feels like velvet but is ready to be fucking ruined.

As my palms glide down to her ass, I grip it firmly, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips.

I pull back, letting her feel the brief absence before delivering a sharp slap, the sound cracking through the night, mingling with her moans.

“More…” she breathes, pushing back against me, as if pleading for more than just my touch.

I groan, the sounds spilling from my throat hotter than the fire in the pit of my stomach.

The need to taste her, to claim her, overwhelms me as she writhes under my hold.

I know this isn’t just about the physical—it's about the chaos swimming around us, the problems we’ve brushed aside, and the danger that lingers in the shadows, waiting and watching.

I lean over her, brushing my lips softly against her ear.

“You feel so good, so fucking perfect. But I need you to tell me you want this. I need to hear it,” I murmur, my voice sultry and urging.

She glances back at me, her expression a storm of desire and hesitation. I can almost see the gears turning in her head as the fight for control wavers against the rise of temptation.

“I want you,” she breathes out, the confession laced with urgency, and it sends a thrill coursing through me, igniting every nerve ending I have. “I want this, Carter. Right here. Right now.”

That’s all the encouragement I need. I quickly position myself, my hand still pressed firmly against the small of her back to keep her pinned against the bike while my other hand slides under her hoodie, finding the edge of her shirt and pulling it up, exposing her perfect, tattooed back.

I can’t help but press my lips to her skin, trailing kisses down her spine over the bruises, savoring the way her body responds, arching towards me and begging for more.

Every brush of my lips, every whispered breath against her skin, deepens my fucking hunger, and I lose myself in the taste of her.

“Carter, yes,” she whispers breathlessly as if sensing my built-up hesitation. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

That’s my cue—no more thinking. I use my foot to kick her legs open, shoving her harder against the bike.

With a low growl of desire escaping my lips, I thrust into her, filling her pussy in a single stroke.

She gasps, a sound that’s both surprising and needy, and it edges me on even more.

The world around us fades—every car passing by, every sound of the city becoming a distant echo as I focus solely on her.

She thrusts back against me, matching my rhythm, and it feels like a dance of fire and desperation.

“Harder,” she demands, her voice urgent and filled with a hunger of her own.

I oblige, my hands gripping her waist as I fuck her exactly how I want.

She coaxes me on, urging me to claim every inch of her.

Every thrust shatters the thin veneer of restraint we might have had, tearing down the walls built around our vulnerabilities.

All I know is her warmth, her body—how beautifully we fit together, every sound escaping her lips fueling my obsession for her.

And with each thrust, I can’t help but wonder if this moment is the calm before a storm—when the dawn breaks, will the world rush back in, crashing over us with its bright, unforgiving light?

My hand finds her throat, and I squeeze it, pounding into her. Her moans continue, growing louder with each thrust as her soaking wet pussy clenches around me, writhing beneath me as she runs out of breath.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps, her fragmented breaths blending into the night air, and it reverberates in my chest like a promise, a command, something I can’t ignore.

I slam into her, pushing her further into the iron frame of the motorcycle as my grip tightens around her throat.

The thrill of control—the raw power I feel over her senses—drags me deeper into exhilaration.

There’s nothing like this, nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and I know I’m addicted to the high of her.

“More… Carter…” She continues to plead, and with each desperate whim, I comply, drowning in her dripping pussy.

The unmistakable sounds of a city that never sleeps fade further into insignificance, falling into a rhythm that mirrors our skin slapping together in the dead of night.

Somewhere detached from reality, her voice pushes me to my limit, each plea kindling the fire raging within.

She pushes herself back against me, and that subtle movement sends fucking shockwaves through my body, making my muscles ache as my cock rips her apart, my balls smacking against her ass.

My grip on her neck loosens slightly, just enough to allow her to breathe but not enough to distance myself from the intoxicating weight I have over her.

“Tell me what you fucking want,” I growl, each word laced with possession, demanding to hear her voice.

“I want you,” she gasps, her eyes closing tightly like she’s trying to trap this moment in her mind forever. “I want you in every way.”

The fierceness of her statement electrifies me as I push into her pussy again, releasing a growl from the depths of my chest as her wetness coats my cock like a blanket.

Just the idea of owning Whitney, claiming every part of her as mine, fills the cracks in my soul.

And fuck, it feels good. I feel her climax coming, the crescendo of her pleasure screaming to be released, her pussy tightening around me in a vise grip.

I keep fucking her, slamming her ribs harder against the bike each time.

She rises on her toes in her Vans, pushing her ass out for more, and so I go even deeper, feeling her thighs quivering against mine as they meet with each thrust.

“Carter, I’m close!” She moans, her voice breaking as desperate whimpers escape her pink, pouty lips.

She’s stumbling toward the edge, and all I want to do is fucking push her over it, let her fall into the darkness with me. With a primal roar of need, I slam into her one last time, feeling the heat of ecstasy surge through our bodies.

“Give it to me, baby. Fuck. Let go for me,” I urge, clenching my jaw, my focus only on her ass as it bounces and the way her pussy greedily swallows my cock with each stroke.

“Oh fuck, yes!” She cries as she tips over, her body quaking against me, every muscle tightening in a wave of pleasure that’s so damn overwhelming.

As her orgasm crashes, her pussy soaking me, I follow right behind her, my release breaking free.

I fill her with my cum, leaning in and sinking my teeth into her shoulder as my body tenses and spasms against hers, both so fucking vulnerable for all of the city to see.

I steady myself, my breath mingling with hers, feeling fragile and exposed in the aftermath.

But beneath the surface of bliss linger those questions.

Reality comes rushing back like a runaway train.

What happens when the sun rises? When I can no longer drown out the monsters in my head?

I pull back from her, gently lifting her shaking body off the random motorcycle, helping her to stand on her feet. She turns to face me, her expression a blend of bliss and shame. The warmth of her body lingers in the air between us.

“Carter,” she begins, her voice low and tentative, cracking just a little, and my heart drops. “Take me home.”

I search her eyes for reassurance, but the fear I see eventually quenches the fire we just ignited, reminding me of King’s shadow looming so closely.

My mind races with the possible repercussions of what just happened—the conflict it brings, the very real consequences of crossing lines that shouldn’t have been fucking crossed.

“Whitney, I—”

“No. Just… give me a damn minute.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but the determined fire remains, flickering stubbornly against what must feel like waves of uncertainty crashing upon her.

Anxiety churns in my gut as I reach for her, my fingers brushing against her arm, any stillness between us turning electric.

She exhales slowly while we walk into her apartment complex, trying to steady herself as the tremors of her orgasm still pulse in the air.

But I see it—the fear, the worry—and it mimics my own.

We both know the price of this recklessness, and that anything can threaten to rip us apart.

“Let’s go inside,” she finally breathes, a glimpse of control returning, and I follow her lead, both of us stepping past the broken barrier we just built.

But as we walk the path ahead, the question still bothers me—can we mend the pieces before they’re shattered into oblivion? The chaos is alive and kicking, and together, we’ll need to face whatever demons come to meet us when the truth is revealed.

We lay in her bed on top of the blankets, her head nestled in the crook of my arm with her body fitting perfectly against mine. She's too quiet, and it's starting to freak me the fuck out. Her eyes are wide as she scans the darkness, searching for the man who watches her every move.

"He's not going to hurt you," I assure her, kissing her forehead.

I don't usually get moments like this with her because of Cade and his dominating personality. So holding her in the dead of night feels amazing, but it also feels a bit foreign too.

"That's what he says," she whispers, fear no longer lacing her voice.

"I fucking mean it, Whitney. Dustin won't fucking hurt your ass, especially when I'm here." I roll on top of her, grabbing her chin for her to look at me.

I see the doubt, the hope, and the bruises I noticed earlier after her talk with King. Rage floods my veins, and it takes everything in me not to demand she tell me what happened. I tried anyway, and it didn’t work.

"Carter, it's not me you have to worry about keeping safe; it's you." She looks me in the eye without blinking, giving me an uneasy chill.

"What the hell does that even mean?" I ask, trying to entertain the situation.

"It means I think you and Cade need to get out of Mayhem and go somewhere as far away as you can."

"Whitney, you can't be fucking serious," I reply, the weight of her words crashing against me like a tidal wave. The thought of leaving everything—the chaos, the danger, the grip of fate over us—feels unimaginable. "Why the fuck would we even go?"

She bites her lip, another flash of fear dancing in her eyes, and I can tell she's grappling with something monumental, something beyond just our crazy, reckless time together.

"I don't know, Carter. But what if King isn't just angry? What if he's...? He already…” Her voice wavers, and she stops, frustration and fear swirling in her gaze.

“Already what?” I press, but I can feel the tension in the air, heavy and suffocating.

The moment hangs there like a noose draped around our necks, waiting for the smallest movement to make it tighten.

“...already hurt me,” she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper, and that revelation cuts me clean to the core. “He's already hurt me.”

I want to scream, to claw at the feeling of helplessness tightening my chest.

"Did he fucking hit you?" The question escapes my lips before I can even think through my response, but the thought of anyone putting a hand on her—especially King—creates a storm raging within me.

She nods slightly, shame creeping across her features. My blood boils, fury igniting the rage I’ve kept locked away for far too long.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. “You should’ve told me! How could you let him touch you like that?”

“He drugged me. And because I didn’t want you to get involved!

” She insists, her voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation.

“You don’t know what King is capable of, Carter.

You’re playing with fucking fire by even thinking of confronting him!

He’s unpredictable and very dangerous. You could get hurt worse than how he hurt me. ”

I take a breath, trying to calm the turmoil rising within me, making my throat feel like it's closing. It isn’t just about me anymore—it’s about the pieces breaking apart in the hands of a man hanging over us like a storm cloud over our lives.

"Maybe I don’t care about myself anymore," I say, the venom in my voice shocking even me, but it’s the truth.

“Carter,” she breathes, reaching for my face, the tenderness in her touch grounding me amidst the chaos. “You don’t understand—"

“No, you don’t fucking understand!” I exclaim, anger pulling at the edges of my reason. “We can’t live in fear forever! We’re more than this… this, this fucking cage! We deserve our own lives, Whitney! We deserve freedom from men like King.”

She stares at me, her eyes shimmering brightly with unwelcome tears. The vulnerability in her expression makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.

"And what if not walking away means losing everything that you've built—we've built?”

"Then we'll build something else—together," I declare resolutely, forcing her to meet my gaze, sneaking in a breath of hope along with my despair as I glide my thumb over her bottom lip.

“Carter.” Her tone shifts, a rare softness layered beneath the urgency, and I can see the flicker of doubt dancing at the corners of her smile. “What if we can't?”

"Why not? Look at all we have right now—what we just did." I gently caress her cheek, leaning closer. "It’s a spark, and sparks ignite fires. I want it to burn bright—we can make it burn bright."

The silence stretches as her gaze travels back to the shadows moving in the corners of the dark room, those haunting shades bringing back memories neither of us are ready to confront.

The sadness in her eyes tells me that reality isn’t that simple, and my heart aches knowing a shift is coming whether we want it to or not.

A knot forms in my throat, a choking acknowledgment that her fears aren’t unfounded.

Whitney’s grip tightens on my chin, her fingers trembling against my skin.

“What if he comes for you again? I can’t stand the thought of you being a target.”

“Carter… You're the target,” she says, exhaling heavily, her voice steadying with determination. King is planning something.”

“Whitney…” I murmur, my heart racing, teetering on the thin line of fear and desire. "What do you mean?”

“He knows about you and Red, and he isn't fucking happy, Carter.”