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Hooking my fingers under the waistband of my panties, I slowly drag them just a little bit lower. “Keep going?”
My question receives a jerky nod in response. Bringing my hands to my hips, I coast them up my stomach, brushing lightly over my tits before cupping them gently, obscuring them from his view. “You sure?”
“Luna,” my name on his lips is a groan and a plea and a command, all three wrapped in one word, like he can't decide between them. His next three words, however, are just one; a command, plain and simple, said with so much dominance and raw fucking power I damn near moan. “Keep fucking going.”
I don't. I'm playing with fire. I know I am, and I'm going to get so fucking burnt, but I can't help it. It's too easy, too fun, too rewarding to rile him up. Which is why I pour fucking gasoline on the flames, letting out a moan as I slip one hand between my legs. “Or what?”
“Or I'll take them off for you.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Because it's not. It's the opposite; it's the goal. I wore my least favorite—but still cute—pair of panties for this very occasion. I’m game, as long as he doesn't, like, rip my heels. I'm not sure if youcanrip a pair of stilettos but I feel like if anyone can do it, it's Jackson.
Even from a distance, his dark chuckle caresses my skin. “If I take them off, they stay off all night.”
“I'm not seeing the problem here.”
“If I take them off,” he repeats slowly as he closes the distance between us. Dragging his nose up my neck, across my jaw, along my cheek, he inhales deeply, letting out his breath on another low laugh.“I'vedone all the work. You think you get rewarded for being a brat?” Without letting me respond, he wraps his fingers around my throat, grip deliciously restricting. “Do what I say or you're gonna spend all night tied to my bed with my fingers and my tongue in that tight fucking pussy.”
“I'm still not-”
“But you won't come. No matter how much you beg or cry or plead, you won't come. Because I won't fucking let you.”
My mind eddies of all coherent thoughts. Well, almost all;where the fuck did this man come fromis a pretty prominent continuous chant. As isam I ever going to get over this man’s mouth?
It's a threat, a very real one, a painful punishment, yet fear is the opposite of what I feel. A snippet of a vision flashes through my mind, one of me spread-eagled on his bed, thrashing wildly, my legs spread wide with him in between them. Taking and taking and taking but never giving.
It shouldn't sound exciting. It shouldn't sound pleasurable. It shouldn't soak my fucking panties. But it does. And he knows it. His lips curl up in a wicked smile. “But you'd like that, wouldn't you?”
Any disagreement is futile. He sees right through me. He tilts my head back roughly, allowing him more access as he leaves slow, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, so close to…
A loud yell makes us jolt apart. My hands instinctively move to cover my chest while Jackson's relinquish their grip on me. Both our gazes fly to the door as a dull thud echoes through the house and more shouting breaks out.
“What was that?” Jackson doesn't answer my croaked question. Silently frowning, he moves to peer out the window. Whatever he sees has him swearing underneath his breath. Faster than I can process, he scoops my clothes off the floor and tosses them to me. “What's going on?”
Opening the door just enough for him to slip out, he pins me with a stern look. “Stay here,” he commands in that arguing-with-me-would-be-a-death-wish tone but it's not the same. It doesn't have that usual sensual ring to it. It’s stressed. Angry. Maybe a little panicked.
It's that little bit of panic that stops me from being annoyed when he thunders downstairs, leaving me mostly-naked and dripping wet in the middle of his room.
“What the fuck?” I murmur as I get dressed. In between trying and failing to ignore the incessant throbbing between my thighs and imagining the demise of whoever caused a fight at the most inopportune time, I only briefly contemplate doing as Jackson said and staying here.
Yeah, the whole ordering around thing is strictly reserved for the bedroom.
I’m halfway out the door when the shouting kicks up a decibel. A scream rings out amongst the clamor, and I freeze because that scream, and the desperate shrieks that follow?
They sound a whole lot like Amelia.
22
LUNA
Dylan fucking Wells.
Spineless son of a bitch. Spawn of Satan. A sad excuse for a man who very soon will be hobbling around campus missing his teeny tiny dick and his grape-sized balls.
I'm fucking fuming. Sitting on the guys' couch, watching my friend shiver and cry and blame herself yet again for that asshole's actions, I amfuming. I have been since the moment I stepped outside and found a rapidly growing crowd with a thrashing, crying redhead in the centre. I didn’t recognize the guys Amelia clawed at as she tried to get to a bleeding Nick but the piece of shit who gripped her by the back of her dress and tossed her aside like a fucking trash bag? I knew that was Dylan before I even saw his face.
I swear to God, if someone else hadn't beaten me to it, I would've flattened the fucker. Although, I think there might be a long line for that honor, and Nick is currently frothing at the mouth to be at the front.
It hurts to look at him. Like, physically hurts. The sight of his swollen eyes—trained on Amelia since Cass carried her through the door—and bruised skin is giving me a headache. The only solace in this situation is the fact Dylan crawled away with his tail between his legs looking just as beat up, courtesy of Cass, Nick,andAmelia. It would've been so inappropriate to start cheering and clapping when she nailed him straight in the jaw, but God, I wanted to so badly. And if the overwhelming shock of the situation hadn't had me glued to the spot, I probably would've.
