Page 26 of Devious Obsession
I tear my face away and stumble back, holding my hand up. “Can you not be psycho?”
“You fight me and I like it,” he answers. “It makes me want to hurt you.”
Fear and a sudden burst of desire wind through me. The combination urges me to do something. To run, to flee. There’s nowhere to go. Not here anyway, with Steele between me and the door.
“Why do you want to hurt me?”
He eyes me. “This isn’t normal. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
He hums. And then he opens his phone and shows me the photo he took. Of my exposed breasts, the cum across my skin. “I thought of sharing this around, but I’m too selfish for it. I don’t want anyone else to see your breasts. I don’t want them to see any of your skin, because they’ll think of your hard little nipples. They’ll think about palming your tits, pinching those nipples they can’t stop staring at, rolling them between their fingers and tugging until you scream.”
“No one’s thinking about my breasts.” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, trying desperately to hide my body’s reaction to his words. “It’s not like I can control what other people think anyway. People should just mind their own business.”
His eyes are dark. He’s brimming with energy, and my gaze roves over him. Dark jeans, socks. He must’ve kicked off his shoes somewhere, made himself right at home. White t-shirt that fits his chiseled body to perfection. The tattoos on his arm stand out, a flower on his biceps, a wolf on his upper forearm, a pine tree forest that finishes near his wrist. That’s not to mention the linework that peeks out from the collar of his shirt. The ones on his chest that I haven’t seen yet.
My mouth waters.
“Punishment,” Steele suddenly says.
I snap to attention, my lips parting. “What? Why?”
He shakes his head. “Not now. If I catch someone looking at you like they want to fuck you—”
“No one is going to look at me like that,” I snap. “Because I’m invisible. Because I’m not as pretty—”
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Steele answers.
The volume shocks me into silence.
He shakes his head, muttering something. About a bad idea, maybe, I don’t know. But then he lunges for me.
I squeal and try to dodge him, but it does nothing. He drives me into the floor like he’s a freaking linebacker and pins me down. He straddles my hips and sits up, staring down at me with an intense expression.
He grips the front of my shirt, at the collar. His knuckles brush my throat. He winks—and then theripsound fills the room.
My shirt tears in half, and I stare up at him in shock. His fingers go to my bra, to the front hook—small prayers for a front-closing bra—and undoes it like he’s undone a million of them.
My breasts spill out.
He immediately cups them. My nipples are already hard, and he pinches them just like he described. The pain is nothing compared to the ache between my legs. If anything, it enhances it.
“Why?” I grit out, squirming under him.
“Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re sin. Because you’re a distraction. And I’ve never hated anyone more than you,” he confesses. He leans forward and presses his lips to my chest.
I suck in a breath. And I think of him. I think of my past. My parents—my mother. His father’s threats. It’s all confessions caught in my throat, but I don’t want to tell him any of it. So instead, I unbuckle his pants. I push them down just enough to free his cock and wrap my fingers around it, tugging sharply.
He groans, his lips still on my skin. Lips, teeth, tongue.
I stroke him faster, letting my nails dig into his skin. Hoping it hurts him just a little.
Or a lot.
“I hate you, too,” I breathe.
“No, you don’t,” he accuses. “You don’t hate me nearly enough yet.”
