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And he just said he’s going to make me come.

“Do it,” I snarl at him, like I’m goading him on to kill me, not fuck me. The mask looms overhead, reflecting my flushed face back at me.

“Patience,” he says, and it drives me wild, the way his voice changes when he’s wearing the mask. The way his entire being changes.

And there’s no denying to myself how much I like it, given the moisture pooling between my thighs.

Victor runs his hand over my chest, moving down to cup and squeeze at one of my bare breasts. I gasp and squirm against the bed, desperate for my own release. When he tweaks my nipple, electricity shoots through me, and I jolt against the bed.

“You like that,” he murmurs, moving over to do the same to the other breast.

I don’t answer him. He knows damn well that I do.

He rearranges himself so he’s straddling me, pinning me to the bed while he plays roughly with both of my tits. I try to sit up, try to fight him again. He laughs, the sound ominous in the mask.

“That’s what you like,” he rasps. “Fighting me.”

I glare at him. He’s right, of course, but I’m not going to admit to it.

“What I like,” I snap, “is to be fucked. But someone messed that up.”

“Please.” He scrapes his nails over my pebbled nipples, making me groan with pleasure. “I’m a Hunter. I could fuck you right now if I wanted.”

And then he tilts his hips, and I feel it: the unmistakable ridge of his erection, as hard as it was five minutes ago when I had it slotted inside my throat.

I had no idea that was possible. Neither Chloe nor Abi ever saw fit to tell me, and for a moment, I start to realize the appeal.

Just for a moment.

“Then fuck me,” I snap.

“Make me,” he counters.

I strain against him, trying to sit up, to flip him onto his back. It doesn’t work. He presses his weight into me, burying me into the thin, flimsy hotel mattress, his hands still squeezing my breasts.

“Not yet,” he says softly. Coldly. A little shiver of fear runs down my spine.

It just heightens my arousal.

“You’re an asshole.”

His response to that is to pull his cock out again, position it in the valley between my breasts, and fuck me that way. I scream in frustration and try to buck him off, even though I honestly kind of like it—the teasing, the denial, the rod of heat sliding between my tits. He laughs at my attempts, and I realize how fucking strong he is, and how much he let me win when we were tussling in the cabin last night.

“Asshole!” I shriek, digging my hands into his thighs. He rises up on his knees, his cock pointing toward my face, and I lift myself and catch his cockhead between my teeth.

Gently, of course. I don’t bite down, although I think about it. I think about the taste of copper on my tongue.

Victor sucks air in through his teeth and laughs, a low rumbling coming from deep in his chest.

“If you do that,” he says mockingly. “Then I really can’t fuck you.”

I suck on his cockhead, relishing the salty-sweet taste of precum again. Then I drop my head back and try to flip myself up. It doesn’t work. Victor catches me, grabs me at the hips, and then, so quickly I can barely register what’s happening, drags me around so I’m on my belly, my face pressed into the hotel pillows.

“If you’re going to use your mouth against me,” he growls, the smooth rubber of the mask cool against my cheek, “I’ll have to neutralize that threat, won’t I?”

I screech and squirm. Everything about this—his roughness, his threats, my inability to truly fight back—has me wetter than I’ve ever been in my life.

“That’s better,” he breathes, arranging himself on top of me so that his cock slides between my legs. I moan and thrust back on him, like I can drag him inside my hot, aching cunt. It doesn’t work.