Page 87 of Tormented
It scares the ever-loving hell out of me to admit that. This trip has done nothing but cement how I really feel about the arrogant asshole, and in some way I wonder how much more King knew about me than even I did? I’m convinced our selfless president set this up so I had no choice but to come face-to-face with reality.
There’s beauty in Sawyer’s destruction, and I’m attracted to it like the aftermath of a car crash; you know you shouldn’t look, but you just can’t help yourself . . . .
The damn door doesn’t have a lock, which leaves me at his mercy, much to my unease. I drop my cut-offs and peel the tank off in record time, discarding my underwear on the way across the small room to the shower. Muted sounds of the TV filter through the wall as I crank the taps on. Thank God. If he’s distracted, then hopefully he really was joking.
Still, the thought of him coming through that door and taking what he wants . . . . I stare at the panel, buck naked, almost willing him to act on his threat. Why does the thought of his hands rough around my neck as he shoves me up against the side of the shower have me so wet?
I shouldn’t want that. After everything I underwent as a kid, the last thing I should want is a man being forceful with me. But it’s not just any man . . . it’s Sawyer. Only him. Thinking about one of the other guys at the club doing the same thing . . . it just doesn’t get the same response—even the good-looking ones, like Dog, or my guilty pleasure, Hooch. Nope, just Sawyer.
I step in the shower and lather up with the complimentary soap, gaze trained to the pale blue door the entire time. The water cascades over my shoulders, running in rivulets off my hardened nipples. I’m wasting time, well and truly clean, hanging out in the shower in the hopes he wasn’t lying.
It has to have been more than five minutes by now. And yet, he hasn’t come in. Because he’s doing what he does best: fucking with your head.
I’m so fucking gullible. But still so fucking horny. Realizing I’ve been played doesn’t do a damn thing to ease this new ache in my gut. Might as well sort it myself then. My hand travels south, my back finding the wall under the showerhead. It’s been so long since I’ve let Hooch touch me in this way. Fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve done it myself. My eyes drift closed on images of Sawyer stripping, of his huge cock standing proud when he woke yesterday, his naked body when I slipped into his room. I give in, circling my clit with two fingers, my muscles pulsing in anticipation of the release.
His eyes.
The way he looked at me as I worked on the Ford.
His smirk.
And the gravel tones of his voice when he calls me Abbey-girl.
Holy fuck. I slip my fingers inside my swollen cunt, heel of my hand rubbing over my clit as I pump in and out. I’m so close, so wound, so tight . . . .
“You started without me?”
So busted.