Page 53 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Bohnes could fuck me all the way across the forest floor, just send the two of us rolling and sliding through the debris. My fingernails do the same as my feet, digging into the dirt as I try to find purchase beneath his undulating, pounding thrusts.
“Say my name,” he whispers, his voice slithering into my skull, digging needles into my psyche and making me wonder how crazy I must really be to have accepted this guy as not only my first, but also as something more than that. An experiment. My initial foray into sexuality. Of all the men I might’ve chosen, why this one?
He feels like a terrible mistake.
That makes me like him more, rather than less, further proving to me that this was a dumb idea all around.
“Kellin.” It scrapes out of my throat on the end of a gasp. “Bohnes.”
He chuckles again, rolling us over and putting me on top. I feel dizzy for a moment there, my dark hair falling in thick waves over my breasts and spreading across his chest like a disease as I dig my dirty fingernails into his skin.
I lift my body up along the length of his shaft as he stares into my eyes with unnerving intensity, watching me as I slam back down into him as hard as he slammed into me. Keeping myself braced with my fingernails on his chest, I slide up and down, frantically rocking my pelvis into his to get my clitoris at the same time.
“Harder,” Bohnes tells me, pressing his hands over mine. “Make me bleed, Scarlett Force.”
I grit my teeth and then I rake my nails down his pale chest, leaving red welts that start to bleed in places as he locks his hands on my hips. His pelvis rises up to meet my downward thrusts, and then we’re melding together in this glorious messy twist.
Bohnes rolls me over again, growling at me as he bites my lower lip.
“Scratch me up, Scarlett. Tear me to pieces.”
I do as he asks, scraping my nails down his back as our bodies thrust and writhe together. It’s probably a horrific thing to witness, as if we’re barely human anymore. We may as well be mindless animals.
I tear my nails over his skin, again and again and again, until he’s actively bleeding, and I almost feel bad about all of it until he comes with this deep, guttural sound that vibrates me to my very core.
It’s the sound of him, the feral moans he’s making, and the way he presses himself so hard against me that my ass digs into the dirt that really gets me. When Bohnes palms my breast and pinches my nipple in a mercilessly powerful grip, I fall over the edge.
“Oh yeah, come on me, Scarlett,” he pants out, rocking his pelvis against mine, grinding his hips against my clit as the spasms take over my entire body. I lose myself for a minute there. The pleasure hits me so hard that I almost forget who I am, who I’m with, and what exactly it is that I’m doing here.
The comedown is brutal.
When Bohnes sits up and pulls out of me, I’m lying there and finally feeling the cool breeze against my overheated skin. I’m dotted with beads of sweat, every square inch of me. My dress is still wrapped around my middle, my heels deep in the dirt, legs spread wide.
I can’t even move.
Bohnes slumps back onto his ass, not bothering to tuck his wet, flaccid cock into his pants. Instead, he digs out another cigarette and lights up. He offers it to me, but I can’t move. I’m just comatose on my back, staring up at the leaves above us.
“Where’s the party at?” I finally ask, forcing my shaking body to sit up. I yank the dress up first, putting the girls back where they belong in the tight fabric. Bohnes watches me the entire time, smoking his cigarette with one knee propped up, an arm thrown casually across it. I can see blood dripping down his chest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“The speakeasy,” he says, stabbing his smoke out in the dirt and then rising to his feet. He tucks his junk away as I manage to find my own feet, stumbling just a little in my heels. He catches me by the elbow and then immediately releases me, as if he didn’t mean to do that.
“The speakeasy?” I query back, thinking of the old building near downtown Springfield, just outside the technical boundaries of the Prescott neighborhood. It’s been there since, well, the 1920s when prohibition was in effect, serving illegal alcohol in a cozy basement setting.
I’ve seen old black-and-white pictures of the place when it was in its heyday, and it makes me long for some sort of romanticized version of mobsters in Fords and Cadillacs and Rolls Royce Phantoms, moonshine dripping from their lips.
