Page 113 of Gravehouse

Asher drags his teeth along my jaw. “Did it feel like this?”

I shake my head, my thoughts coming loose. “Didn’t… didn’t feel like this.”

“Like what?” He pauses, and the absence of his touch is its own torture.

I grab his wrist and press his hand over my pussy.

Asher stills, swallowing before dragging that cocky smirk back into place.

Fuck my pride at this point.

I thrust my hips into his palm, demanding the friction, forcing him to sink those heavy fucking fingers inside me.

He lets out a rough sound, catching my clit with his thumb and pressing hard enough to literally buckle my knees.

His lips brush my ear. “Tell me.”

“Like I’m on fire,” I admit, the confession purring out of me. “Like I might die if you stop.”

The color vanishes from Asher’s eyes before he kisses me. “Good,” he growls against my lips. “Saves me wasting a bullet.”

This is fucking dangerous. So bad.

He steps back, looking me over with deliberate slowness.

“Turn around,” he says, barely holding on. “Hands on the wall.”

My palms land where he told them to. Every nerve in my body runs hot, feeding the one thing it has always needed.Him.

But Asher takes his sweet fucking time, winding me up like a toy. Warmth gathers at my back while he stays close enough for me to feel each breath, his skin never quite meeting mine.

“You know,” he drawls, every syllable grazing the nape of my neck. “I should make you wait. Teach you a lesson about running off and letting other men put their hands on you.”

His finger follows a lazy path down my back, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. “But I’m not feeling particularly patient tonight, and since you’ve seen me with Camille, I’d say we’re even...”

“Not even fucking close,” I snarl, but the words cut off as Asher slams his large hand over my mouth, his body crushing me harder into the wall.

“If you were smart,” his mouth at my ear, and I curl my fingers, “you wouldn’t fucking push me right now.”

He slides his hand to my breast, finger and thumb rolling my nipple until I arch.

Keeping his other hand over my mouth, he holds me there. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them. Understood?”

I nod against his calloused palm.

He trails his fingers over my stomach, dipping lower. “How many men have you killed, Venom?”

The question catches me off guard, but not enough to pull me out of the torment of his touch.

“Too many...” I mumble into his palm as his hand slides between my thighs and finds my clit.

“Good girl.”

I gasp when the heel of his thumb grinds down, pressure driving my hips forward to meet him.

“And how many have you fucked?”

Why the fuck is he asking me this.