Page 38

Oh, shit. Is this actually happening?

He doesn’t ask for permission. He moves with a calm, unyielding authority, his fingers hooking into the hem of my soaked sweater all while his eyes stay locked on mine.

“You’re getting out of this wet shirt at least. You’ll catch pneumonia,” he murmurs against my skin, his tone making it abundantly clear he isn’t taking no for an answer.

“Ryder, stop—” I protest, trying to pull back, but my hands are heavy, my body traitorously slow to fight him off.

I want to get undressed. God help me, my skin burns with desire.

My damp sweater is heavy and suffocating against my chest. But the terror in my gut keeps my limbs frozen.

I don’t trust him.

And worse, I don’t trust that if I let him peel my shirt off—if I let his bare hands touch my skin again—I’ll have a single ounce of strength left to stop him from taking whatever he wants.

I hold my gaze steady, suspicion etched deeply across my face, determined not to appear eager or reveal how desperately my body craves his touch.

Ryder doesn’t care about my internal war. He pulls the wet sweater over my head, tossing it aside into the dark, leaving me sitting in the flickering firelight in my pink lace bra and jeans.

His shadowed, ominous gaze sweeps over my exposed skin, drinking in the sight of my breasts, rising and falling with rapid, shallow gasps, the golden warmth of my torso glowing in the amber firelight.

Slowly, his rough hand reaches out. He lifts a wet curl from my shoulder, letting the damp strand slide slowly through his calloused fingers, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of my collarbone, and I remember how that blade felt as he dragged it over that same spot.

I cross my ankles to hide the fact that I’m squeezing my thighs together to relieve the built-up pressure.

His deep, sinister pupils hold me captive as he bends down, an unsettling, absolute promise in the depths of his possessive gaze.

“I’m going to fuck you before the night is over, Harmony. And probably very soon.” There’s a twisted, intense certainty in his voice that sets my entire world on fire.

Twelve

Beg, Pretty Girl

RYDER

11:45 PM

The sharp, stinging slap echoes through the cavernous barn like a gunshot.

My head snaps to the side, the violent force of her palm leaving a searing, hot imprint across my cheek.

I slide my tongue along the inside of my mouth, expecting the metallic taste of blood, but there’s nothing there.

I don’t mind the pain.

In fact, a dark, primal surge of pleasure causes my dick to pulsate.

I love her violence. I like the wild, untamed fury emanating from her eyes, the dangerous edge that proves she isn’t some helpless victim.

Turning my head gradually toward her, a slow, wicked grin spreads across my face.

Harmony’s face crinkles up, her lips curl back, and her brows furrow. It’s pure, visceral disgust at my reaction. She must notice the wild glee in my eyes; a wordless, corrupt beckoning for more torment.

Her butterscotch eyes blaze with fury as she draws her right arm back, fist clenched, ready to strike again.

She isn’t fast enough. Before her hand can swing forward, I move like a striking viper.

My fingers find the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist, closing around her pulse point with a firm grip.