Page 10 of Monstrous Urges
He flicks his wrist and cuts the lace.
My breathing becomes ragged as he drags the tip across the mound of my sex, slipping it under the other side near my hip. Another flick of his wrist, and my panties drop away entirely.
The whole world fades away as he sets the knife aside and lets his huge hand boldly run over my bare hip. He drags his fingers up and down my thigh before his hand slides to my stomach. His fingers splay out as his hand begins to slide lower.
And lower.
And lower.
His fingertips are a fraction of an inch from touching me.
That’s when reality kicks in. The haze of dangerous lust and demented pleasure clears enough for my brain to focus for a nanosecond.
What the fuck are you doing?
I want him to keep going. But at the same time, I know if he does, and if he touches me—with his bare fingers, not a knife, this will have moved to a new level.
This will stop being a fucked-up fantasy, and I’ll have crossed the line into real depravity. Because if he touches me, it won’t stop until I’m actually letting a stranger from the internet fuck me in the woods.
And somehow, that breaks the haze. Suddenly, professional Taylor—hot-shot lawyer Taylor with the corner office, regulated schedule, responsibilities, and rational thoughts, is back in charge.
Taylor, who’s in bed by nine. Taylor, who has a brutal cardio routine at the crack of dawn tomorrow followed by a full day of meetings.
Taylor, who barely even dates and who would never in a million fucking years drive to the woods at night to let a psychopath fuck her in the dirt with a knife in his hand and a mask on his face.
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” he growls. “And this messy little pussy is already dripping at the thought of my fat cock pumping it full of my cum.” His hand around my throat splays out again, his thumb stretching up over my jaw to drag across my quivering lower lip. “I think after I’ve fucked your sweet little cunt,” he murmurs, “I’ll have you clean my cock with those pretty lips before I take your ass?—”
“Vault.”
It’s like stopping the tattoo gun when it’s hovering over your skin. That last gasping second of clarity before fantasy becomes a reality you can never take back.
The second I blurt out the word, and he freezes with his fingertips a hair’s breadth away from touching my clit, I wish I hadn’t said it.
Don’t listen to me. Ignore that. Do it anyway. Do whatever you want.
Fuck me.
Hurt me.
The man stills, kneeling behind me, looming over me with one hand around my throat and the other splayed out almost touching my pussy, my thighs spread wide, my shirt ripped open.
“You disappoint me,” he growls quietly.
His hands drop so rapidly that I flinch and his arms unwind from around my body. He stands without a word, and I feel a hollow, cold sensation creep over me as I pull my ripped blouse over my bare breasts and turn.
He’s already walking away.
“Wait!”
The man pauses. His head turns, showing me that fearsome devil mask and the cold, captivating glint in one of his eyes in profile.
“Wait, I?—”
“Too late,” he rasps darkly. “I don’t do second chances. But feel free to stay in the woods and see what else might come for you.”
Without another word, he turns and walks away, vanishing into the shadows like a wraith and leaving me gasping on my knees.
What the fuck just happened?