Page 57 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
Completely unfettered.
He might be a master of knots, but thus far, the only person he’s truly managed to truss up is himself, trapped in a web of emotional rope. It sloughs off as he kisses me, urging me back until he’s fully crouched over the casket, a uniquely beautiful monster.
“Fuck,” he growls, pulling back slightly and looking up at the ceiling, like he’s checking for security cameras. There’s a chance that some are hidden in the room, but unlikely. That sort of tech costs money and, like I said, Prescott. We use paper and pencils and textbooks from 1999. “Get on your hands and knees.”
“Hands and knees?” I query with a quirked brow, but Oscar ignores me, reaching out and grabbing me by the hips. He flips me over as I let out a small sound of surprise. Holy fuck. One of those deft, inked hands of his sneaks around and unbuttons my jeans before he yanks them over my hips and ass, leaving them to bunch around my thighs.
There isn’t a ton of room inside the casket, but there doesn’t have to be. Just enough for him to kneel behind me, flicking the button on his slacks open as he grabs me by the hair and pulls my head back.
There’s no lead-up to the violent thrusting of his hips, just a brief pressure as my body stretches to accommodate his. Oscar’s pelvis slams into my ass, his cock hitting the end of me as I curl my hand over the edge of the casket, digging my pretty new nails into the side of it.
Like I told Stacey’s second, that girl Vera, I handle all this dick with a wet pussy and a smile.
A wicked curve takes over my lips, and I let out a deep, throaty chuckle that has Oscar digging his fingers into my hips. He slams into me hard, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room. It isn’t difficult to tell by the sound of it that I’m fucking soaked between the thighs. Thankfully, the bleeding has stopped. It’s all desire keeping my monster’s cock slick as he thrusts into me.
“Something funny?” he purrs as he leans over me, bracing one hand over the top of mine. With his other, he keeps hold of my hip.
“Nothing at all,” I promise as he works his hips against me. For somebody who’s still relatively inexperienced in the world of sex, he seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just a master of all the cardinal sins, working darkness into me with the sharp friction of his body inside of mine. “Keep going.”
“Yes, your majesty,” he growls out, grabbing a handful of my hair again and powering into me over and over and over. Pleasure courses through me in unstoppable waves, my thighs trapped together by my jeans, making him feel even bigger, making me seem even tighter.
Using my left hand for leverage, I start to push back against him, meeting each one of his thrusts with a movement of my own. Shit, I don’t even try to hide the throaty moans escaping my painted lips. Today’s color: Broke-ass Bitch. It’s the shade of obsessive love and irrational desire, caught somewhere between gray and purple. I swipe my tongue over it as Oscar fucks me in a pink-lined casket in some broke-ass funeral home in the worst neighborhood in town.
I come so hard that I actually bite my lip and make it bleed, my body shuddering and spasming as I struggle to stay upright. My inner muscles clench around Oscar’s inked cock, his piercings stroking me and making me purr like a kitty cat.
The orgasm rips through me and I collapse, my cheek pressed against the soft interior of the coffin as Oscar uses my body however he pleases. He fucks me until his hands clench so hard around my hips that I bite down on the pink cushion beneath my head. Oscar spills himself inside of me with a long, satisfying groan and then collapses on top of me.
We stay like that for several minutes, panting, catching our breath, readjusting to reality. Because when you get fucked like that, it’s as if nothing else in the entire world matters but for the joining of your souls.
Eventually, Oscar stands up, fixes his slacks, and then offers out a hand. This time, I take it, letting him pull me out of the world of the dead and right back into the nightmare of the living. He yanks me close, much closer than I expected, and actually holds me there for a moment, looking down and into my face.
“I don’t understand it all,” he says with a slight shake of his head, reaching up a hand to rub at the side of his face. There’s a smudge on his glasses right now, an actual smudge. And if you know Oscar Montauk, you know that he doesn’t allow simple human error like smudges on his fucking glasses. It’s monumental, that smudge. Life-changing, really. “Why you like me, that is. Or any of us.” He cups the side of my face with his pretty inked fingers and my eyes close of their own accord. I lean into his touch with a small sigh, feeling the proof of his obsession trickle out of me. “You could’ve been a model … or something.”
