Page 113 of Trailer Trash

Killian slams my chest against the cold granite of the kitchen island. My dress is yanked up. I lift on my forearms as I look over my shoulder. His knife slices through the elastic of my panties.

Wetness pours over my backside and slips between my cheeks, coating my most sensitive parts. The space is dark except for the blue moonlight streaming in from the balcony’s glass doors. Still, I catch the olive oil bottle in his hand.

Uh, no.

He’s going for it.

“I, I don’t know if I’m ready,” I blurt.

The plug’s widest part stretches me again before slipping free. My ass clenches around nothing, but Killian places the blunt head of his cock against the skin before I can recover.

“You screwed up tonight,” he murmurs, dark and low.

“Wha—What?”

“Who texted you? Because it wasn’t Keysha.”

“It was,” I counter, but my voice wobbles.

“And the flowers?”

“How did you—?” My mouth gapes open, trying to understand how he knew that. Maybe he did see them at the trailer.

My stomach sinks as guilt blankets my body.

Suddenly—

He presses in, but his length doesn’t advance. He smacks my ass — hard — scalding the skin.

“Arch your fucking back and take me.”

My arms tremble at my sides. There’s no warm-up. No please, or reassuring words. Nothing.

“I’m sorry... about the phone,” I sputter.

Another slap, harder.

“Ow!”

I push off the granite. His forearm presses against my spine, pushing my chest flat against the stone.

His weight lifts, just for a moment as he retrieves his wallet from his pants, which are tethered around his legs. A fistful of green bills flash in the light. He bunches them in a wad of crinkled cash. His hand grasps my throat, and he stuffs the paper into my mouth, filling it.

“Don’t fucking spit it out.”

That isn’t a request. It’s a dark command.

I can’t respond with my mouth full. I am frozen in shock.

His tip returns and pushes against the tight muscle. Firmer this time.

“Come on, Harlow,” he growls.

Smack!

Smack!

I cry out, but the money muffles my voice.