Page 31 of Willing Prey

TWENTY-SIX

Claire

He moves across the bed, making the mattress shift beneath me. Between his legs, his cock juts proudly, rock hard and glistening with my arousal. I pant and watch him stretch out on the other side of the bed.

“Tell your pussy break time’s over,” he says as he slides down until he’s flat on his back. “Put her on my face.”

I gape at him. He turns his head, his look expectant.

“I’m too heavy for that.” I’m not being self-deprecating or fishing for compliments.

I know I’m heavy. Solid. Sturdy. At this point in my life, it’s a part of me, as much as my eye color or height.

But I’m not sure if he realizes how heavy I am, because I can’t think he’d want me positioned over his head if he did.

“Sit on my goddamn face before I bend you over the bed again.” His voice is even, but there’s steel in his gaze.

“Being bent over the bed isn’t the threat you think it is,” I mutter. My legs are jelly, my crawl more of a wobble as I move toward him. I feel self-conscious as I move to straddle his head, his hands steering me so that I’m facing the headboard.

It’s awkward, swinging my leg up and over him.

I panic when my knees slip on the sheets, picturing myself falling pussy-first onto Shane’s face, a tragic, nose-breaking, crash-landing situation.

Somehow, I catch myself, lowering in a movement that isn’t graceful, but at least isn’t violent.

He makes a pleased sound beneath me, his breath hot.

Slick and seeking, his tongue teases my clit before he thrusts it inside me.

Holy fuck.

He fucks me with his tongue, and I can’t keep from squirming. The heat, and his lips, and oh fuck , the things he’s doing with his tongue. It’s good, too good. I might get lost in it and smother him. I don’t want us to end up as a cautionary tale in a sex-ed course.

He says something, but it’s muffled. I rise slightly, but not far. His hands on my hips make sure of that.

“What?” I ask.

“I said, sit and ride, Claire. Fuck my face.”

“I don’t want to hu—”

“Sit and ride. Now.”

He yanks me back down, and this time, he doesn’t fuck me with his tongue.

He attacks my clit with purpose, teasing it until my thighs are clamping around his head.

I’m so close to coming. My fingers are wrapped around the headboard, digging into the leather.

I’m right there, a breath away from world-rocking bliss.

Teetering the edge of ecstasy. He pulls back from my clit, giving me slow, sensual licks everywhere but where I want them.

What the fuck?

“What you were doing,” I gasp. “That was perfect.”

Shane gives me another slow lick, then grabs my hips, grinding me on his mouth. As he drags me roughly across his face, he focuses on my clit again, making me whimper. The message is clear. Fuck his face if I want to come.

Sliding my knees farther apart, I let more of my weight rest on him. I’m rewarded with his tongue on my clit. A smack on my hip says what his mouth is too busy to say.

Ride.

I do. Slowly at first, with gentle, cautious rocks.

As he continues to suck and tongue my clit, I lose my inhibitions, my movements growing rougher.

The harder I ride, the more he gives me.

I’m not worried about crushing him anymore.

I’m not worried about anything except coming.

The last orgasm hit me suddenly, but this one is slow.

It grows more intense as I writhe on his face.

My thighs spasm; my head falls back. He works me all the way through it, pulling me harder onto him.

When I’m done, reduced to panting, I look over my shoulder. His cock looks painfully hard, flushed and needy. Moving off him, I go to reach for it, wanting to soothe its obvious neglect. I don’t make it. I’m flipped, the world spinning around me.

On my back, I stare up at Shane. He gazes down at me, lips shiny with my arousal, looking fiercely pleased with himself again.

His cock nudges my entrance, and I try to maneuver myself onto it.

He stays just out of reach. Straining up, I pull on his neck and catch his lips with mine, a barely there kiss that sends the butterflies in my stomach soaring.

“Greedy little deer,” he murmurs, dropping his head to capture my mouth in earnest. I want to tell him he has no idea how greedy I am, but then he’s inside me.

The universe shrinks, nothing existing beyond him and what he’s doing to my body.

I’m ready for him, two orgasms priming me for a third.

It won’t take much. I go to rub my clit.

Without pulling his mouth from mine, Shane grabs my hand, then the other one when I make a try with it.

I protest, but he swallows it down. His fingers are threaded with mine, pressing a hand to either side of my head as he fucks me with steady, unwavering thrusts.

At the top of each thrust, he grinds on me, moving his body to press my clit instead.

Fuck.

Rocking my hips to meet his movements, I can’t keep from crying out against his mouth as he picks up the pace.

Every thrust feels like it might be the one that pushes me into a third orgasm.

His movements grow rougher as he nears his climax, the metronome-steady rhythm turning frantic.

He’s still kissing me, but he’s panting into my mouth now too.

That’s what I need to get me there, the feeling of him starting to come unwound.

His fingers tighten on mine, gripping me so hard I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

Shane, in complete control, is hot. But this Shane, feral, desperate to come, fucking me like the house could fall around us and he wouldn’t be able to stop, is hotter.

I come for the third time, shuddering into an orgasm that steals my breath.

My legs tighten around his body, pulling him close, my hands straining in his grip.

I need to touch him, feel him. Drag my nails down his back, thread my fingers through his hair.

But all I can do is come, and come, and come, jerking and trembling beneath him.

My cognitive function returns just as he releases with a groan, clenching my hands tighter and tighter as a tremor rolls through him.

He closes his eyes as pleasure takes him, but only for a second.

Then he holds my gaze as he finishes, eyes going from wild to gentle as the tension in his body ebbs.

He collapses, sweaty chest on my breasts, head in the crook of my neck.

I’m still caught in the unexpected intimacy of witnessing his transition from feral to tame.

I don’t realize what I’m doing until it’s too late.

My body acts on an instinct that feels as natural as my shaky inhales.

I kiss the side of his head, nuzzling my nose into his hair to smell him before I can stop myself. It’s intimate. Familiar. Too far.

Shit.

I tense, wondering if he noticed. Shane presses up on an elbow, taking my far hand. He brings it to his lips, kissing the back of it. He seems relaxed, content, unaware of my slipup. Freeing my hands, he rolls off me to sit on the side of the bed.

Being in his bedroom feels awkward in an instant, whatever closeness we experienced vanishing in a way that makes me want to scream for it to come back.

Do I leave now? Sitting up, I mirror his movements on the other side of the bed, scanning the floor for my clothes.

I rise, planning on gathering them up, but his voice stops me.

“Shower before bed?” He’s already moving across the room. He says it like an invitation, but I can’t tell for sure.

“Yeah,” I say, hoping for a context clue.

“I only have shampoo,” he says from inside the bathroom. “Do I need to run to your room and get your things?”

A little jolt of pleasure hits me. Okay, I’m showering in here. Does that mean I’m sleeping in here?

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

“Shampoo’s fine,” I say, rising from the bed. “Unless it’s one of those bodywash-and-shampoo combo abominations.”

He pops his head out of the bathroom, eyes wide.

I stare at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s basically dish soap.”

“And I’m clean enough to eat off.” He grins like he’s proud of the line. “I’ll get your stuff. Do you need anything else?”

Good god, that dimple.

I try not to smile back like a fool. Not at the joke, but at the fact that it seems like he wants me to sleep in here. Still, I have to be certain, because I’m way too good at misreading signals.

“I’m sleeping in here?”

“No, in the hallway. Yes, in here.”

“Sorry, I just didn’t want to assume…” I shake my head at him. “I’ll get my stuff. Let me throw on some clothes in case Margot’s still around and brave enough to come upstairs.”

“Check my phone. She texts when she leaves for the day. Code’s zero-seven-one-nine-nine.” Shane tells me the passcode to his phone like he’s telling me the weather. Keith constantly changed his, always “forgetting” to give it to me, even though he had mine.

“Aren’t you scared I’ll see your sexts?” I try to sound playful, but even to my own ears, my voice is brittle.

He scoffs, missing the catch in my voice. “Funny.”

He ducks back into the bathroom. I tap the code in.

He has two notifications, and when I click into his messages, there’s a text from Margot.

I don’t scroll through his messages, but I do look at the names on the screen.

That’s not snooping. It’s only snooping if I scroll down.

All the names are male, except for a Shannon, which could go either way.

The first few words of the message are visible beneath the name, making it clear it’s a conversation about work.

Closing the home screen, I call to him, “She’s gone. Be right back.”

“Hurry.”

I do, smiling all the way to my room.

Our shower is surprisingly sweet. Shane washes my hair with my products but insists on lathering me from head to toe in his barbaric bodywash-and-shampoo solution. It smells good, though. Smells like him. He’s fidgety during the shower, and as we dry off, warning me that he “isn’t a cuddler.”

Once we’re wrapped in darkness, tucked beneath his plush duvet, I feel the mattress shift as he turns to me.

Unspoken words hang heavy in the air. I want to grab them and give them a voice, make some kind of bold hint, or even come right out and ask, Do you like me as more than prey?

Or am I reading this way wrong? but I don’t.

Shane wanted the contract so he could avoid emotional entanglement.

Addressing what happens tomorrow is on him. Otherwise, I’m being unprofessional.

Shane’s inhale is deep, as if he’s fortifying himself.

“I was doing some reading.”

Unexpected, but okay.

I make an affirming sound.

“And I learned how important aftercare is.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t see its significance earlier, and I’m sorry if my ignorance hurt you.”

Oh.

As far as apologies go, it’s a very nice one. Formal, but he sounds sincere. Still, I’d trade it for answers without thinking twice.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I wait to see what he says next, but he doesn’t say anything. I keep waiting. As I’m about to cave and break the silence, I hear a soft noise, so faint I almost miss it.

A snore.

A motherfucking snore.

Seriously?

I’m waiting impatiently for him to collect his thoughts while he’s in dreamland.

Shane twitches violently in his sleep, as if he’s found an error in whatever spreadsheet he’s filling out in his dreams.

Tomorrow morning, then.

He’ll have to say something tomorrow morning.

Another twitch, and then his arm flings over me, landing heavy on the duvet. Maybe I was in the guest room for my own safety. He grunts, a displeased sound.

You thumped me.

I should be the one complaining.

The arm on top of me moves so suddenly I flinch.

Before I realize what’s happening, I’m being dragged, pulled across the mattress, the duvet bunching and coming with me.

I—and a large portion of the duvet—are trapped in Shane’s arms. A leg— how is his leg even outside the covers?

—hooks over mine. I’ve been manhandled into a sloppy bedding burrito.

He sighs in his sleep, an unmistakable sound of contentment.

While this isn’t the conversation I’d hoped we’d have in bed, his sleep-grabbiness is endearing.

Doesn’t cuddle, my ass.