Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘I’m constantly fucking solid for you,’ he pants, taking hold of my hip, guiding himself to me. ‘How dirty are you, princess?’ He rubs the tip of his cock up and down between my swollen lips, sinking his teeth into my shoulder.

Fuck me, I’m on the brink of self-combusting. ‘Dirty,’ I whisper – like I’m ashamed to admit it. Average sex. Just the kind that sees the job done. That’s all I’ve had.

This? This and last night are as far removed from my previous sexual encounters. This is all kinds of illicit and dirty and so fucking good.

He slips in on a guttural groan, the sound rumbling up from his belly. ‘How fucking dirty, Eleanor?’ He holds himself deep, and my mind spirals into submission once again.

‘Filthy,’ I shout. ‘I’m a filthy fucking whore.’ I don’t know what I’m saying. Jesus, I’m slipping further into debasement by the second. His carnality, his kink, his secrets. I’m falling for it all. And I couldn’t give a flying fuck. ‘Fuck me,’ I plead, ramming back, impaling myself on him and hoping it locks us together for ever. Everything is forgotten – everything – my name, my history, everything that has made me me. It all disappears, lost amid a tidal wave of self-indulgence and excitement. It’s an epiphany, an overwhelmingly decadent one that I want to last for the rest of my life. Becker Hunt has found me – not in the physical sense, but discovered me, unearthed who I am – a woman who thrives on excitement and holds her own. Someone confident and vivacious and set to take on the world. Someone daring and bold. Strange as it might sound when he’s thrashing into me like a jackhammer on speed, but holy shit, the sense of raw abandon, the feeling of control when I haven’t really got it, is bringing me to life.

Becker thrusts over and over, every pound harder than the last, every smack against my arse getting louder and louder. Reaching around to feel my breasts as they bounce and dance under the force he’s subjecting me to, he clamps eager hands around each aching mound. ‘How much does my filthy girl love my cock pounding her?’

‘Oh God.’ My stomach knots, twisting with exhilaration when the tell-tale pressure drops lower. My eyes close in preparation. It’s coming. I’m going to scream. Loudly.

‘How much?’ he roars, twisting my nipples harshly.

My eyes snap open and my head bolts up, my fist pummelling the wall, hitting it hard, beating the ever-loving shit out of it. ‘Don’t ever stop!’ I scream the words as stars start to form on the edges of my vision, drifting inward, clouding my sight.

‘Oh, baby, we are going to be doing this a lot,’ he shouts, and rams into me hard. It knocks what breath was remaining from my lungs, making me woozy. He doesn’t relent, moving his hands back to my hips and holding me firm, like he senses the possibility of me collapsing to the floor. It’s a very real possibility. My bones must have liquefied, disintegrated, shattered; I don’t know what, but I’m suddenly incapable of holding myself up. ‘Make it count, Eleanor.’

And I do, using my last scrap of sense and energy to seize the orgasm that’s looming and letting it possess me like the devil himself, my whole body going up in wild flames.

I scream for as long as my lungs will allow, ignoring the scratching in my throat that feels like I’m swallowing nails. My arms are useless lumps of nothing braced against the wall, my head rolling and when I hear Becker take in a deep breath and hold it, I know he’s about to tip over the edge, too. His sudden silence defies the brute force with which he’s still taking me, smashing repeatedly against my bottom as he bangs every tiny piece of pleasure out of me. Then he releases his breath and seizes another long lungful, giving me no break from the attack my limp body is under. I’m spaced out, accepting, still riding out the release of a thousand accumulated orgasms.

His gasp for breath overrides the slapping sound of our sweaty bodies, and I’m jacked up on to him with very little effort. He moans and drops a level, now grinding forcefully. And I feel it. The swelling, the thundering of his heart, and the relief as he finds his release, mumbling incoherent words into the heavy air.

For the love of every Greek god in existence. Damn.

My orgasm has zapped me of the ability to feed instructions to my brain. It’s stripped me of the ability to think, to speak, to move. He collapses against my back, and I fold to the floor, Becker following me down.

‘Fuck me,’ he heaves, rolling on to his back, leaving me a pile of sweaty uselessness beside him. ‘That was better than . . .’