Page 65 of Crush
“What the hell were you doing in here?” Thorne’s fury lands in droplets against my lips. “Who the fuck gave you license to pretend to be queen?”
“You did,” I squeak out, my airway compressed in his grip. “When you took care of Aurora.”
Thorne squints, studying me harder, and I swear amusement flashes across those moonlit eyes. “You think by getting rid of Aurora, I’ve left space for you? You’re fucking wrong, little pretty. How about I shave your head, too?”
I manage a small laugh, but my pulse flails against his thumb. “You wouldn’t. You’re obsessed with my hair. You like to yank on it, tangle it in your fingers, force my head up to open my throat so I can swallow your thick cock.”
His lips twitch, maybe fighting off a smile, but then his grip tightens. “I won’t miss your tainted mouth. Like I want to stick my dick where Zeke has. You’re damaged goods, little pretty. Not my problem anymore because I plan on tossing you out as trash once I’ve finished up with you in here. Tell me what you found in my father’s study.”
How easy it is for him to gloss over our vicious insults and get to the heart of the matter.
“You—truly—believe that?” I wheeze. Spots leap into my vision, but they don’t obscure his severe carnal expression bearing down on my form. “That I—actually—slept with Zeke?”
Thorne presses his chest into mine, his dick a hard, imposing length along my belly. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Liar.” I curve my back, molding my breasts against his chest, the pressure turning into pain that zings with the tightness against my throat. “I’m not his whore. I’m yours. That’s—what you want. Isn’t it?”
The last thing Thorne expects or wants is for me to own the title and offer it up as a prize. As much as he refuses to admit it, I’m getting to know this boy and understand his buttons. I can feel along the length of him for hidden compartments, much like I can with computers or old desks.
Never mind that I’m just as turned on as he is.
Thorne’s fingers press against my neck, testing for pressure points. “Go on. Beg me to stop.”
Keeping my lips in a firm line, I push against his hand, tightening his hold.
“Do it, Ember.”
My chokes turn to sputters. The curve between his thumb and pointer finger digs into my jaw.
“Fucking do it. You don’t want this. You don’t like it. Tell me to stop. Fight me!”
I reach between us, forcing space between our bodies, and pull my skirt up.
There’s nothing underneath.
Thorne seems to sense this, his lashes flickering over his eyes. But his expression is resolute. “This isn’t you. You’re a good girl. Beat me off, little pretty.”
In a last exhale, my eyelids fluttering, I part my folds and stroke myself, rubbing my knuckles against his dick. “You … stop … first.”
His eyes widen as if in disbelief, but he pushes off, stumbling until he falls back into his father’s chair.
Instinct forces me to gulp deep breaths, my thankful throat expanding and filling my lungs with air. Falling against the bookshelf, I stare at the ceiling and wait for the spots to settle, then disperse.
“You’re not as fucked up as I am, Ember. You can’t be.”
Thorne’s voice is raw. Haggard. Powerful.
Lowering my chin, I watch him for cues when I raise one leg and settle it against a shelf’s edge, exposing all of myself.
Now it’s Thorne’s turn to struggle to breathe.
I nestle two fingers against my clit, circling and rubbing, my eyelids growing heavy, but it’s not enough. Recalling my shower and how good and wrong it felt, I raise my other hand to my throat, pressing against the ache Thorne left behind.
“Ember…”
“Yes?” I breathe out, blinking him into clarity. Without seeming to realize it, Thorne’s hand rests against his groin, clenching and unclenching.
“Don’t. Stop.”