Page 4 of Willing Prey

THREE

Claire

Shane stops on the front lawn, the porch light’s glow throwing sinister shadows around his body.

With a violent jerk, he flips me onto my back, settling himself over my hips.

There’s a fluidity to his movements, an unexpected elegance that makes me think of a cat, a panther.

But the look on his face can’t be called anything but wolfish.

Blood drips from his nose, running down his chin.

His hair goes in all directions, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

He looks wild. Feral. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bared his teeth, growled at me.

Arching my back, I struggle to unbalance him.

I almost snatch his shirt, but he dodges me.

When he captures both of my wrists in one of his hands as easily as I catch my hair to put it in a ponytail, I realize this is it.

In the future, I’ll need to stay out of his reach because I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away once he has me.

One of Shane’s hands pins my wrists over my head. The other roams down my body to rest at the top of my boy shorts.

“Do you need your safe word?” It’s a growl of a question, so breathless it stuns me.

I take a moment to react. “No.” My voice is equally ragged. The last thing I want right now is a safe word. If my employment for the next thirty days weren’t contingent on me being as challenging to subdue as possible, I’d beg him to fuck me until I forget every word I know.

“Good.”

Shane slips his hand inside my underwear, cupping my pussy. He inhales hard, muttering something I can’t understand beneath his breath. It’s all I can do not to hump his hand. I’m dripping. The warmth of his hand has me desperate. I need friction. Need him to press a little bit harder.

“You’re wet.” He spits the words like he’s surprised or maybe offended. I don’t know how to respond.

“You like this.” Almost accusatory, his dark eyes flick to mine. If they were intense in the house, they’re terrifying now. The eyes of a predator that finally has its prey where it wants it. A predator seconds away from its next meal—a meal that would love to be eaten.

Stay in the game.

Fight.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” I hiss back, thrusting my hips up, trying to tuck one of my legs underneath me for leverage.

Shane’s too heavy. Without warning, he plunges two thick fingers inside me.

Thoughts of fighting slip further away as he grinds the heel of his palm against my clit.

I don’t want to get away. I want to get closer.

But I shouldn’t. I can’t. I wiggle and thrash, hoping he thinks I’m trying to escape.

Oh no, help, not the sexy lumberjack lawyer.

Not his magic fingers. Ahhhhh.

My pussy clings to him, clenching with a neediness that’s undoing my efforts to fend him off.

I will my body to relax, to quit acting like it would pull him all the way inside me if it could.

My efforts are unsuccessful. Shane doesn’t speak, only pumps into me harder.

He doesn’t have to say anything. There’s nothing he could say to me that would embarrass me more than my needy pussy is right now.

Slick sounds give away what my mouth won’t. My body begs for more, even as my jaw stays clamped. I strain against his hold. He finds a rhythm that threatens to break my brain. I can’t think straight, can’t remember why I’d ever consider fighting this pleasure.

My movements no longer resemble anything close to resistance.

I’m tilting my hips, riding his fingers, grinding against his palm.

Shane’s teeth sink into his lower lip. His eyes are hooded as he stares between my legs, watching his long fingers destroy my will to fight him.

My boy shorts are around my ankles. I’m lost to ecstasy, teetering on the edge of my orgasm. It’s going to be earth-shattering.

In an exhale, pleasure vanishes. He jerks his hand from between my legs. I can’t process what’s happened, all I know is I hate it. It’s robbery. Cruel. Inhumane. Frustration and need fill the space his fingers just occupied. Hunger begs to be sated.

Bastard.

I swallow a frustrated cry. His face is stern, and I hold his gaze, pretending my pussy isn’t spasming desperately, aching for something that isn’t there.

The exquisite pang of being edged hums through my lower body.

I’m no longer struggling, but I’ve never felt more like prey.

He lifts the fingers that were just inside me to his face.

They glisten with arousal, shining in the porch light.

My pussy clenches as he slips them into his mouth.

Eyes closed, he savors me, sucking his fingers clean.

I stare. I want them back inside me. Emptiness I never knew existed is now all I can think about.

An unbearable need spirals through me. For one wild second, I consider lunging for him.

Grabbing his wrist and shoving his fingers back where they belong.

This is torture. This is what I need the safe word for.

Forget too much. Can I use the safe word for not enough?

If I say wanderlust , will he make me come?

As soon as the thought enters my head, I chase it out. Money. Think about the money. Not the way he curled his fingers like he was petting—

Shane shifts off me, rising to his feet.

Even as it’s happening, I can’t quite believe it.

He’s going to abandon me here, wanting and needy on his lawn.

The heat between my legs feels like it might spread.

Run like a wildfire until I’m nothing but ashes.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t offer to help me to my feet.

Sitting up, I tug my shirt back down, brushing grass and dirt off my legs as I watch him leave.

He belongs in an action movie. It would suit him. He looks like he’s walking away from an explosion. As if he just set off a bomb, and now he’s moving on to bigger and better adventures. Considering I feel like I’ve been reduced to rubble, it makes sense.

· · ·

Back in my room, I take another shower. The bathroom door hangs crooked on its hinges, unable to fully close.

Several deep, jagged cracks run with the grain, and a strip of wood connected to the locking mechanism dangles—evidence of how much force Shane used to get in.

The shower wall’s smoked glass can’t keep my eyes from drifting to the carnage as I rewash myself, resisting the urge to sate the craving Shane stirred.

I’m not sure what’s stopping me from taking matters into my own hands. Pride? Spite?

Spite would track.

He probably assumes I’ll be desperate, have no choice but to masturbate myself to sleep.

The idea of him gloating at my neediness keeps me strong, my hands in the safe zone above my waist as I walk out of the bathroom.

This time, I’m truly alone in the bedroom, and I pretend I’m not a teensy bit disappointed.

If I’d walked into the bedroom to see him sitting in the shadows again, I wouldn’t have minded.

Really wouldn’t have minded if he had his cock out, stroking it.

Those big fingers that were inside me would be wrapped around his shaft, his forearm flexing as he jerked himself faster and faster, so aroused by chasing me that he—

Enough.

Time for me to match his level of self-control.

I don’t know Shane well, but I can recognize a power play when I see one.

That’s what tonight was. A demonstration that while I may have a safe word, my consent is the only thing I control here.

Waiting in my room, chasing me, bringing me to the brink of climax, and then walking away?

That’s an impressive level of restraint.

I don’t like it. I do feel a begrudging level of respect for his composure, though.

Embarrassment at my own neediness makes me determined to be stronger next time, to hold firm as well as he does, or at least come close.

I need some sort of psychological sex strategy.

Shane Underwood isn’t just trying to fuck my body; he’s trying to fuck with my head.

Why is that so hot?

It shouldn’t be. Fresh off a divorce, it should have me shredding the contract and heading down to the Waffle House to beg for an application.

Yet somehow, Shane’s mind fuckery is pushing all my buttons in the best—and worst—way.

Sliding into bed, I will my body to calm down.

Even the cool sheets don’t ease the heat coursing through me.

The end of my marriage was sexless. I’d started to think that maybe I could live without orgasms that include another person. I was wrong. So, so wrong.

Think about unsexy things.

Right now, I could make tax filing sexy.

I’ve never experimented with orgasm deprivation before.

Already I suspect it might not be for me.

Simplicity is beautiful. Consenting parties are turned on, and those who want to come, come.

Why complicate things when they could be straightforward?

Philosophizing about edging is not helping, but there’s an aphorism here if I can just find it.

Maybe Everything’s a hammer because I wish I were being nailed ?

Not great.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark.

Is Sydney throwing me a lifeline? A distraction from my horny misery?

I’m overeager, snatching it up, which makes seeing Cheating Piece of Shit on the screen even more frustrating.

Hitting the button on the side, I send the call to voicemail since I can’t send it to hell.

The last year of our marriage, I didn’t exist. The incredible invisible woman—nothing I did caught Keith’s attention.

Even during the divorce proceedings, he contacted me as minimally as possible.

But now that the ink on the certificate has aged six months, he’s been reaching out.

A text every couple of days, and this is the fourth call.

I had answered the first call on reflex, foolishly assuming an emergency, as if he might have mistakenly dialed me instead of 911.

Nope. It was a how are you doing, let’s try to be friends even though I fucked you over call.

I told him my friend roster was full and hung up.

Since then, his communication efforts go ignored and unanswered. We’re divorced. We’re done.

The little voice in my head is an asshole.

It tries to convince me that if I’d been sexier, smarter, younger, some sort of “er,” the affair never would have happened.

I know it’s bullshit, no matter how loud it is.

If Keith wasn’t happy, he should have fucking said something.

It might have hurt my feelings, but we would have figured it out.

I can’t meet a need I don’t know exists.

About five years into our marriage, Keith wanted more variety in our sex life. I’d been as vanilla as could be—not even one sprinkle—but was game to experiment. Primal play, specifically predator-and-prey games, clicked in a way I didn’t anticipate.

My whole life, I’ve been sweet . A people pleaser who comes when called and rolls over when someone shows their teeth.

Always taking the high road but never the bait, doing a good job but not so good that other people—men—feel bad.

I’ve spent decades caging the part of me that wants to prove my teeth are sharper.

The part that wants to bite the bait, and the hand of whoever’s dangling it.

The woods are where that part gets to be as feral as it wants.

A text pops up on my phone above the missed call and voicemail notifications.

Cheating Piece of Shit: I miss you.

Swiping away the notification, I’m grateful that at least Keith’s call, and now text, are dousing my horniness.

A second text appears.

Cheating Piece of Shit: I’ve been thinking about us.

And I’ve been thinking about fucking your boss.

The thought shouldn’t be so satisfying, but it is. Maybe I’m not that sweet.