Page 24 of Wicked Nightmare

"You gonna stare at it or you gonna do something about it?"

His jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Make me."

He dropped to his knees between my legs and shoved my thighs apart with both hands. I gasped as the cold air hit me, my pussy exposed and aching, and then his mouth was on me, and I stopped thinking about anything at all.

His tongue was flat and hot against my clit, licking in slow, deliberate strokes that made my toes curl against the hardwood. He knew exactly how I liked it. He'd spent years learning the map of my body, every nerve, every trigger, every spot that made me shake.

"Cam, fuck, right there." My fingers found his hair and pulled, hard enough that his scalp must have burned, but he didn't flinch. He groaned against me instead, the vibration sending a shock through my core that made my back arch off the floor.

He slid two fingers inside me while his tongue kept working, curling them upward in that motion he'd perfected years ago, the one that made my vision blur and my legs shake. I rode his hand shamelessly, grinding against his mouth, chasing the orgasm that was building at the base of my spine.

"You taste so fucking good, baby." He pulled back just long enough to say it, his chin wet, his eyes dark, and then he was back, sucking my clit between his lips while his fingers fucked me in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

He stopped.

I almost screamed. My hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in. "Cameron, I swear to God—"

"Patience." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, his cock jutting toward me, thick and hard and glistening. He stroked himself once, slow, looking down at me spread out on the floor of a dead man's living room with my leggings around one ankle and my chest heaving.

"You look good like this," he said. "Covered in blood. Wet for me. On the floor of the house of the man who hurt you."

"Then fuck me on it."

He didn't make me ask twice. He dropped back down, grabbed my hips, and thrust inside me in one hard stroke that punched the air out of my lungs. I screamed. Not the pretty, performative scream that some girls do. The raw, guttural sound that happens when your body gets exactly what it's been starving for, and it hurts and it's perfect and you don't want it to stop.

He didn't stop. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me still as he fucked me with a brutality that matched the violence still buzzing through both of us. Ed's blood was drying on my shirt. Cam's hands were leaving new marks on my skin. The hardwood scraped against my back with every thrust. I'd have friction burns tomorrow and I didn't give a single fuck.

"Shit, Lakey, you're so tight." His voice was strained, his breathing ragged, his body shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Don't hold back." I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. "I don't want it gentle. Give me everything."

Something shifted behind his eyes. The part of Cam that held back, the part that remembered I was small and he was huge and that the line between pain and damage was thinner than most people thought, that part went quiet. What replaced it was the version of him that existed only for me. The one that fucked without apology, without restraint, without the constant calculation of how much force was too much.

He pulled out until just the tip remained, then slammed back in so hard my teeth clacked together. Again. Again. Each thrust driving me across the floor, the friction on my back stinging, my head inching closer to Ed's chair with every impact.

"Harder." I dug my nails into his shoulders. "Cam, harder."

"You sure?" His voice was wrecked. His arms were trembling.

"Did I stutter?"

He snarled and shifted his angle, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder, folding me in half. The new position hit something deeper, something that made my entire body light up, and I clawed at his back hard enough to draw blood through his shirt. The sound he made when my nails broke skin was not human. It was primal, animal, the noise of something that had been caged too long and was finally loose.

"That's it, baby." His voice was rough, fucked raw with want. "Take it. Take all of it."

"More. I want more." I was greedy. I was always greedy with him. No amount of Cam was ever enough. I could have him inside me for hours and still feel the ache of wanting when he pulled out. He was the only addiction I'd never tried to quit.

He fucked me harder, each thrust shoving me across the floor until my head was dangerously close to Ed's chair and I could smell the copper of his blood mixing with the scent of us, sweat and sex and the metallic tang that was becoming the soundtrack of our lives.

"Cam, I'm close, fuck, I'm so close—"

"Not yet." He pulled out. I actually whimpered, the emptiness unbearable after being so full. He flipped me onto my stomach and pulled my hips up, entering me from behind in a single thrust that made me bite into my own forearm to keep from screaming loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

His hand found the back of my neck, pressing me down into the floor, my cheek against the cold wood. His other hand reached around and found my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucked me from behind with the kind of force that would have terrified anyone who didn't understand us.