Page 57 of Run Rabbit Run

He doesn't move with passion. He moves with a type of precision, hitting the exact spot he knows will break me.

"See how you take it?" he asks, his voice a low hum. "Such a responsive little thing."

I try to dissociate, to imagine I'm back in the woods, tracking a deer through the brush, but the pressure on my throat pulls me back.

He tightens his grip, cutting off the air just as he drives his fingers deeper.

The world narrows to the sensation of his hand choking me and his fingers stretching me open.

I'm sobbing now; quiet, broken sounds that he ignores.

"You love being owned, don't you, Wren?"

I shake my head, a frantic movement against his palm.

"Your body doesn't lie," he counters.

He begins to pump his fingers faster, a rhythmic, punishing pace.

My walls clamp down on him, squeezing tight, betraying every ounce of my will.

I feel the tension building, a coil winding tighter and tighter in my pelvis.

I fight it.

I try to freeze, to go numb, to deny him the satisfaction of my response.

But he knows exactly how to trigger the collapse.

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving me empty and aching.

I let out a whimpering sound, a plea for the friction to return.

I hate myself for the sound.

"Patience," he whispers, his blue eyes devoid of warmth.

He reaches for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding like a gunshot in the silence.

He frees his cock, thick and rigid, and presses the head of it against my clit.

He doesn't enter me.

He just rubs the length of it against my swollen folds, teasing the edge of a peak I don't want.

"You're so wet, Wren. You're practically dripping for me."

He uses his free hand to grip my jaw, forcing me to look at him while he grinds himself against me.

The friction is electric, a cruel contrast to the coldness of his gaze.

I feel my thighs tremble, my muscles twitching with a need that feels like a sickness.

"Tell me you want it," he commands, though his voice remains a soft, clinical drone.

I clamp my teeth shut, refusing to give him the words.

He doesn't get angry. He simply tightens his grip on my throat again.