Page 42 of Pucked Around and Found Out

Need overrides all rational thought.

He's the devil.

But I see through the darkness. He wasn't born to be a monster, he was forced to become one in order to survive.

“Tell me something, Tink.” His voice is low and rough, sending shivers cascading down my spine. “Did your new friends tell you about the Director?”

I swallow hard. “No.”

His face doesn't change, he's walled off his emotions from me completely.

“Hmm. How'd you find out about this bitch?” His tone is sinful and suggestive.

I want to remain silent, but when he grips my hips and pulls me flush against him, the fight drains from my body. His heat bleeds into me and I find myself wanting to give him whatever he wants so long as he keeps holding me.

When he buries his face in the crook of my neck and nibbles on the tender flesh, I gasp.

“Don't make me ask again,” he mumbles against my skin.

Heat engulfs me as he places tender kisses along the side of my neck, working his way up. He peppers kisses along my cheek and across my face to the other side.

I pout when he purposefully avoids my lips. I need to taste him.

He shifts his hold and grips my ass in both hands, making me moan.

“Answer or I fucking stop.” His tone is firm and unyielding.

I obey his demand, my voice breathy. “I have a file on her.”

He growls his approval, then grips the hem of my shirt and peels it off me in one swift motion.

I stand here in the middle of this haunted road in nothing but my pants and bra. I can't find it within myself to give a fuck if someone drives past and sees me half-naked.

All I care about is the way he's looking at me with hunger burning in his eyes.

His hands travel all over my body, never settling on one spot. For a moment it feels amazing until I realize what the fuck he's doing.

He's searching me for a wire.

I smack his hands away and shove against his chest and the movement sends a wave of nausea through me so sharp I have to clench my jaw and breathe for two seconds before I can speak.

He clocks it.

Of course he clocks it. He clocks everything about me with the infuriating comprehensive attention of a man who made it his business to know his enemy and never fully stopped, even when the war changed shape. His eyes drop to my face and something flickers, so brief I would miss it if I wasn't watching and then it's gone behind the anger.

I refuse to let him use it.

I refuse to let the pregnancy be a vulnerability he can reach for. It is mine. Ours, if he ever decides to acknowledge it. But in this moment, on this road, it is mine alone and I will not let him see that my body is fighting me while I'm trying to hold my ground against him.

I breathe.

The wave passes.

I lift my chin.

He grabs my arm and drags me toward the passenger side, shoving me inside the car.

I sit there fuming, crossing my arms over my chest and refusing to utter a word as he claims the seat beside me.