Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘I can’t,’ I whimper, trembling. The very thought of those things never happening again feels like a knife plunging repeatedly into my stomach, being twisted each and every time. I look into his eyes and let him see what’s harbouring in mine. Fear. Love. Hope. ‘I can’t. Just like you could never let yourself love me.’

My words seem to anger him, the flash of rage in his eyes confirming it, but I know for sure he’s angry with himself. Not me. He’s angry because I am right. ‘Do you want to leave?’

I feel my jaw tighten. ‘Yes. But I can’t, can I? Because you won’t let me leave with your secrets.’

‘It has nothing to do with my fucking secrets and everything to do with the fact that I don’t want you to go. Understand?’

We stare at each other; his hazel eyes are balls of fire burning into mine.

‘Understand?’ he asks gently.

‘No,’ I admit. ‘I don’t understand anything.’

‘Then maybe you’ll understand this.’ He’s on me like a lion, fast and ferocious, pulling at my clothes as if they’re the enemy. And I’m with him. I’m angry and confused, but I’m with him.

Our kiss is wild and crazy, desperate and passionate. His arousal is iron, pressing into my stomach, causing me to swivel my hips to ease the throb that’s hijacked every single piece of me. My body is acting on instinct. My mind is focused on accepting his punishing attack. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think.

So I do the only thing I have left – the only thing I’m capable of with Becker.

I surrender.

My clothes are being ripped from my body, his hands working fast while he maintains our manic kiss. ‘Skin,’ he pleads, sending my hands on a mission to remove his clothes. His T-shirt is gone first, my arms yanking it above his head, taking his glasses off with it. He doesn’t care. He kicks off his boots while pulling at the zip on my trousers, and I start on his jeans.

It’s fast and it’s clumsy.

It’s desperate and it’s hectic.

Hands are a blur of movement, and our mouths are greedy and unruly. I need to experience this disorder for longer, stretch it out and soak up the pleasure of his craving for me, because it feels so good to feel his need. But my own need is running away with me, the pressure in my groin increasing by the second. Patience isn’t featuring in either of our plans. I need him inside me, I need him moving and making me feel good.

‘Becker,’ I pant, biting at his rough cheek, pushing at the waistband of his boxers to find my target. I wrap my hand around his cock and squeeze.

‘Fuck.’ His curse is strangled and weak, and my bra is cast aside, exposing my breasts to the cool air. My nipples are hard and ready, and his mouth abandons mine, encasing my soft flesh, his tongue swirling fast. ‘You taste like nothing else.’ He nips my nipple, and I yelp, tossing my head back and dropping his cock in favour of his hair. I roughly pull at it, then push his head to my chest, pull and push.

‘I need to fuck you, princess.’ He bites down hard and kisses his way to my mouth. ‘I need to fuck you so hard, you never forget I was here.’ He pushes two fingers into me, groaning at the wetness.

My greedy muscles grab and hold on, making it as difficult as possible for him to withdraw. ‘Please,’ I stutter. ‘Please, please, please.’

‘Shhhh, baby.’

I gasp into his mouth.

He bites my lip.

‘You ready?’ he asks urgently, taking my shoulders and turning me to face the wall. I nod, because speech has abandoned me. ‘Hands on the wall.’ He takes them for me and places them where he wants, before sliding soft palms down to my hips. I shudder. ‘Back,’ he says softly, tugging at my waist.

My forehead meets the wall when he paints a perfect line down my spine, tracing the crease of my bum. ‘Perfect,’ he muses. ‘My filthy little princess wants me badly.’ He pushes the pulsing head of his erection to my opening, driving me wild, and I begin mumbling nonsensical prayers to the floor, rolling my forehead from side to side. ‘How badly do you want me, Eleanor? Tell me how badly you want me inside you.’ My arse flies back in answer, earning a sharp slap.

‘Ahhhh.’

‘Fucking tell me.’

‘Fuck me,’ I plead, my voice desperate and broken. ‘Please, fuck me.’

His growl is pure, raw and aching. ‘That bad, huh? So bad you’ll resort to begging?’ He kicks my ankles apart and pushes halfway into me. I cry out, thrusting back to try and attain full penetration. I get denied the friction I so urgently need. I could cry – cry with frustration, cry with delight. He’s depriving me, making me comprehend exactly how much I need it. How much I need him. It’s coming. The penetration I need; I know it’s coming, but the long, drawn-out affair he’s making of this, intentionally fucking with my mind and senses, is making me hysterical. Irrational.