Page 225 of Primal

Even the way he manhandles me is detached. Like I’m a job, not a joke he wants to unravel. No Dollar-Store-Dickhead energy whatsoever.

“You’re—ah—really committed to this whole silent killer thing, huh?” I blurt out as soon as his gloved palm leaves my mouth.

His other hand slides higher. My breath hitches—obligatory, not overwhelming.

Then he finds the exact spot that makes me jerk against him.

It should be hotter. It is hotter.

But when his mask grazes my jaw, all I can think is wrong angle. Wrong scent.

His knee slots between my legs.

“Not gonna talk to me first?” I pant.

He stops. Tilts his head—as if I’ve just asked him to explain quantum physics.

Then again, this isn’t a coffee date.

I should be melting. Moaning. Or at least enjoying the ride—because as Dollar-Store-Ghostface so kindly reminded me, I paid eight-hundred fucking bucks for this.

Instead, I’m cataloguing every mismatch—too quiet, too stiff, too clinical.

Even the heat feels secondhand.

“Have you seen my friend, Kristy?”

His knee drives higher between my thighs. His hand wraps around my throat again—quick, effortless, like he’s done this a hundred times before to prey who won’t shut up.

And that’s when he does it.

Not the usual grinding, groping, tree-humping routine.

Just the barely-there scrape of teeth through the mask’s mouth slit over my collarbone.

I squirm. Big mistake.

He wrenches my head back so fast my neck pops. That primal kick of fear finally floods my veins.

My hips shift—on a breath—but he catches it. His hand under my skirt creeps higher with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how little my protests matter right now. Bastard’s probably smirking under that mask.

A sound escapes me. Something hungry and high and embarrassing.

Okay.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe my body just needed time tuning in to this new frequency. Now that it’s gotten the memo, every nerve is on high alert.

Touch me.

Yes, right there.

My nipples tighten. The ache is back.

Keep going. Don’t stop.

Just when I’m ready to drown, he spins me around and pins me from behind. Grinds into me—like a goddamn mutt on a mission.

I plant my hands on the tree, but he wrenches my arms back, slamming me chest-first into the trunk. Now he’s pushing, rubbing—bark scraping my nipples raw. A gasp tears out of me. Holy. Shit. This is—