Page 19 of Primal

I should go back. My survival kit’s in there—water, lube, that protein bar I’d kill for right now, and oh yeah, the condoms. Not that I need them (I’ve got an IUD, and everyone here should be medically cleared). But options mean control.

And let’s face it, Mr. Dollar-Store-Ghostface screamed options.

Even with his ridiculous mask and that horror-porn voice filter. Should’ve been laughable.

But the things he said arrowed straight to my clit.

The way he manhandled me? God. Hard chest. Harder cock. Knee wedged between my thighs like he’d studied me in another life.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t paw like some frat boy hopped up on beer and ego. No—he touched me like he had time. Like he already knew exactly how to make me fall apart.

Then he turned me loose with that half-growled ‘Run.’

And like an idiot, I did.

Damn him.

Damn me for liking it.

I turn back—or at least, in what I hope is the right direction—mentally rehearsing what I’ll say if I bump into him again.

‘Eat a cactus, you glow-in-the-dark Ghostface wannabe.’

‘Hope your mask gives you a rash, you knife-happy edgelord.’

‘I’ve had scarier encounters with a fucking rat at Chuck E. Cheese.’

Leaves crunch underfoot.

I spin, heart jackhammering—and there he is. Mr. Ghostface.

I cross my arms. “Wow. A returning villain. How original.”

He lunges. Crowds me backward.

Next thing I know, I’m trapped—again. His muscular thighs bracket mine with zero give, like he was born to pin girls to trees.

Not him.

This Ghostface is bigger. Broader. And his mask? Custom molded, not a single frayed edge in sight. Professional-grade predator.

He clamps one gloved hand over my mouth, his other yanking me flush against him.

Oh.

No modulated taunts. No teasing. Just hard muscle and impatient hands. So different from the way Dollar-Store Ghostface made me work for it.

This guy? He’s all business.

And business is booming.

His arm bands around me like a fucking vise, hauling me against him so fast my denim skirt rides up to felony heights. My tank top rucks up under my hoodie, bare skin meeting his jeans—rough against my thighs, all heat and unwashed fabric and God, is that a knife holster or is he—

I gasp behind his palm.

He doesn’t loosen his hold. Just breathes me in—like what a serious predator would do.

And yet.