Page 47 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Victor encourages Hael to move back with a lazy flick of his fingers. My ass is smarting, body wet with sweat and desperate for more. Hael smiles at me, his teeth white in the dark, but the expression is a bit macabre with the mask and the strange lighting.
There’s a tense moment there where I’m afraid that Vic might ask Hael to leave.
When he doesn’t, I breathe easy as Hael takes up a position on my other side.
“Oscar.”
That next name, falling from Victor’s mouth like a hot ember, makes me go completely still. I look back at the headboard, instead of at the lithe, inked monster crawling onto the bed behind me. The last two times we fucked—the only two times we fucked—he left me. Abandoned me. Ruined me.
I bite my lip.
Oscar trails his long fingers down my spine as I shiver.
“What’s the matter, Bernadette?” he asks, his voice like cognac, his pain hidden beneath a smooth exterior and a layer of ink. The son of a serial killer. That’s what he said, dropped that information in my lap and then fled the room like always. If he leaves tonight, I won’t forgive him again.
We say nothing to one another as he curves those long, pretty fingers of his around my hip, nails digging into my flesh just hard enough to hurt. He’s good at that, though, Oscar is. He can find the line between pleasure and pain and straddle it like he could command either side at will. His control seems limitless, but it’s not. It most definitely is not. I’ve seen him break. I’ve seen him shoot a man in the head. I just want to see him soften, if only for a split-second, if only for me.
I risk looking back again, finding Oscar’s long, lean body silhouetted against the TV screen. He’s almost startling to look at, seeing as he’s always buttoned-down tight in his suits. Right now, he seems unfettered, unchained, a piece of taboo meant only for me.
I can’t bear to look at him as he enters me, so I don’t. Instead, I glance over at Vic. He hasn’t moved, slouched against the pillows like a slothful king, an elbow propped on a bent knee, dark eyes glittering. He looks like an animal that’s lying in wait in the grass, using every ounce of patience they possess to keep from pouncing until the prey is close enough to kill with a single bite.
I close my eyes and let my head hang, anticipating the feel of Oscar’s fingers on my throat. He doesn’t disappoint, wrapping them around my neck and encouraging me to arch my back. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do this again, after Kali. But, I guess, like Aaron, I’m a glutton for punishment. As Oscar gives me a carefully calculated squeeze, a gasp of pleasure slips past my parted lips.
With his other hand, he guides himself into me, his piercings hitting different places than Hael’s did. My body loves it, too, and I find myself moaning and rocking with him, lifting my ass up so that his balls hit my clit with each forward movement.
The orgasm surprises both of us, I think, taking over me as I grab the headboard for support, exhilaration and euphoria pouring through me in equal measures. I’m being terrible tonight, wanton and sinful, and I love it. I love being bad. And I’m not ashamed.
“Liar,” Kali’s voice whispers in my head, but I ignore her. Oscar pauses only so long as it takes me to recover my breath, sliding his cock all the way in, and then all the way back out. Long, slow strokes. He kills me with those movements, granting my aching body exactly what it wants and taking it away again.
When his fingers twitch just a tad too tight, I know that he’s about to break. He starts to fuck me furiously then, driving me into the mattress as he holds onto my throat. His thumb teases my lower lip as he comes, adding to the mess we’re already making of this bed.
He stays where is for a few, precious, quiet seconds, and then moves to leave.
Just like I knew he would.
Vic lifts a single brow in my direction. It’s the only part of him that moves other than his smile, and that level of self-control, fuck, it’s miraculous to behold. It’s like he’s asking me how the fuck I’m going to wrangle this man that I’ve loved since he made me a paper dress in elementary school.
A man that I truly and utterly know nothing about.
I don’t know about the serial killer thing, and I don’t understand why his hair is blond at the roots but dyed black. I didn’t know about the foster home or his proclivity for knots. None of it. Because he kept his life carefully orchestrated and hidden away from me.
