Page 33 of Wicked Nightmare

This was home.

She started slow, the way she always did when she wanted to torture me. Just the head, her tongue circling, tasting, her lips barely closing around me. She knew what she was doing. She knew that starting slowly made me grip harder, push harder, lose control faster. It was a game she always won because she had more patience than me when it came to sex and we both knew it.

She worked her tongue along the underside, that move she did where she swirled the tip and then pulled back just enough to make me chase her mouth. I gripped the back of her head and pushed deeper. She took it without flinching, her throat opening for me, her hands bracing on my thighs. She gagged once, pulled back, spat on my cock, and took me deeper the second time. No hesitation. No pause. Just Lakey doing what Lakey did best, which was making me forget my own name.

"That's it, baby. Just like that."

She moaned around me and the vibration went straight through my cock and up my spine. Her hand came up to grip the base, stroking what her mouth couldn't reach, matching the rhythm of her head bobbing. Spit dripped down her chin, and she didn't bother wiping it. She never did. Lakey didn't do dainty. She did messy and thorough and committed, and the result was that my vision was already going white at the edges.

I looked down at her. At the blood still streaked across her shoulders. At the scars visible on her body. At this woman on her knees for me, not because I'd told her to but because she wanted to, because taking care of me was how she showed the thing she couldn't say in words that weren't wrapped in profanity and threats.

"Fuck, Lakey," I hissed, feeling the pressure building. "You're gonna make me—"

I pulled away abruptly, my breath coming in short pants. Lakey looked up at me, confusion and desire on her face.

"Cam?" she questioned, her voice breathy.

Without a word, I hauled her to her feet and bent her over the arm of the couch. She went willingly, her body folding over the cushion, her back arching, her ass pushing up toward me. She knew what was coming. She'd been waiting for it since the interrogation.

"Hold on tight, sweetheart," I murmured, positioning myself behind her. I ran my cock along her slit, feeling how wet she already was. Soaked. The violence always did this to her. The killing, the blood, the power. It wound her up until the only release that worked was me inside her.

I thrust into her hard and her scream bounced off every wall in the apartment. Raw, unrestrained, the kind of sound that would make our neighbors call the cops if they weren't already terrified of us. My hands gripped her hips, fingertips digging into her flesh as I set a punishing rhythm.

"Fuck, Cam!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "Don't stop!"

The sound of her desperation pushed me deeper, harder. I leaned over her, my chest pressed against her back, my mouth against her ear. "You're mine, Lakey. All mine."

She whimpered beneath me, her body trembling, her hands gripping the couch cushions so hard her knuckles went white. I could feel her tightening around me, her pussy clenching with every thrust, her body chasing the same edge I was racing toward.

I slowed down. She made a noise that was half sob, half snarl.

"Cam, I swear to God, if you stop—"

"Oh, my girl..." I pulled almost all the way out and held there, just the tip, watching her squirm. Watching her try to push back onto me and fail because my hands on her hips were stronger than her desperation. "Ask nicely."

"Fuck you."

"That's not nice." I pushed in an inch. Pulled back out.

"CAM."

"Try again."

"Please." The word came out strangled, furious, but she said it. My girl said please. I drove back into her so hard the couch scraped across the floor, and her scream turned into my name turned into sounds that weren't words anymore.

I fucked her with everything I had. Every thrust was an answer to something. To Skeeter's lies. To the list of names on our kitchen table. To the years of damage that lived in both our bodies and only went quiet when we were connected like this. I wasn't gentle. She didn't want gentle. Gentle was for people who hadn't earned the right to be rough with each other, and we'd earned it in blood and years and scars.

I neared the edge, and reached around to stroke her clit, determined to bring her over with me. "Come for me, baby.”

Her body went rigid, her back arched, and she shattered around me with a scream that probably disturbed Skeeter. Her release triggered mine and I buried myself as deep as I could go, my cock pulsing, spilling inside her while my hand gripped her hip hard enough to leave bruises that would bloom purple by morning.

Afterward, I pulled out and patted her pussy with a satisfied smirk. "Hold it in, doll," I commanded.

She rolled her eyes but clenched obediently, turning around to sit on the couch, sticking her legs in the air sarcastically. "You're such an asshole," she muttered, but there was no real heat in her words.

I chuckled, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "You love it."

She didn't deny it, just shot me a look that was exasperation and affection. Eventually she got bored and jumped up. She sauntered across the room and down the hall, her hips swaying with each step. Turning into our bedroom, drawers were pulled out as she rummaged around for fresh clothes. Within a couple of minutes, she walked back out, tossing me some pants and a black tee. I was mesmerized as she slipped into a black spaghetti strap top, her scars silver the dim light. No bra, of course. My girl knew how to keep me on edge.