Page 24 of Primal

He drags one finger over me, savoring, then a second—testing, stroking—pinpointing every spot that makes me twitch or gasp.

Three fingers slip inside. I buck, and Dollar-Store doesn’t miss a beat.

“Slut.” He curls them. “Behave, and I’ll let you come.”

A whimper escapes—muffled, soaked in heat.

“You haven’t begged yet,” he murmurs, pumping in and out. “Maybe you’re not gagging for it, hmm?”

Asshole.

But his fingers never stop working.

Fireworks spark behind my eyes … beneath my skin. A sound claws up my throat—half-wail, half-sob.

“So wet already,” he mutters. “Too easy. I need you downright filthy before I even think about letting you come.”

My feet are cement. My breath AWOL. I shudder against the bark, caught between stubbornness and sex-starved spite.

A huff behind me. Zip. Cloth rustle.

Holy shit. Is he—

I drop my head, stealing a look—and there he is, framed in the narrow gap between my cheek and the tree, stroking himself through the open fly of his jeans.

He lines up behind me—warm and way too solid—his chin resting on the crown of my head.

Something else notches into place. A blunt, insistent tip. His cock, if the guttural groan is anything to go by. Hot. Stiff. Pulsing.

I buck my hips, eager to shove myself back on that thick, glorious—

But he shifts, just out of reach.

Why the hell isn’t he moving? One thrust and he’ll ruin me.

Fucking cocktease.

My face is on fire, my clit throbbing. Apparently, my body doesn’t give a single shit about common sense or ethics or someone being stabbed.

“MMMmmmMMMMMM.”

“What’s that? Begging already?”

Sweat slicks the back of my knees. Another spasm curls through me.

The tree presses hard where his hands grip my shoulders, pushing me down—a reminder who owns this moment.

Dollar-Store rocks into me, curt and relentless.

I grit my teeth. Who, why, or how—none of it matters. Just stop teasing and fucking go.

I reach back, groping blindly, fingers snagging on his hipbone. My grip is pathetic. Fever-shaky. And goddammit. Is that laughter rumbling in his chest? I dig my nails in.

He gives me a thigh in reply.

I hate this. Hate him. Hate how he can probably smell how much I love every filthy second.

“More,” he growls in that stupid filtered voice, knee wedged between my thighs. “Give me a little more, and I’ll end you in the sweetest fucking way.”