Page 26 of Primal

Gasp after gurgle after shuddered breath. Just when the stars recede, he slaps my pussy.

Once.

Twice.

I gasp into the duct tape. Tears sting my eyes, but fuck if Dollar-Store doesn’t know exactly what I need.

He curls those fingers like a dark magician, probing deeper—dragging my release out by the throat. “Like this?”

“Thisss.” Barely a whisper behind the gag.

Holy hell—I’m flying, breaking, melting—ready to shatter.

A heartbeat. Three seconds of savage bliss. A thousand years packed into one ragged exhale.

I arch back.

He bows forward.

Our bodies slot together like shared breath—like we’ve done this before in some other life where knives and masks didn’t matter.

I roll my hips, wordlessly begging him to push in, fill, wreck—

The bastard retreats.

Leaving me breathing hard, forehead against the bark, the echo of his fingers inside me.

A flash of silver. Cold steel kisses my inner wrist.

I tense. One twitch, and he could nick an artery without even trying.

The tape splits. Clean. Precise. No hesitation.

My arms drop, shoulders aching, tingles fizzling from wrists to fingertips.

One brutal spin—

And I’m facing him.

Dollar-Store Ghostface. Same bargain-bin mask.

Except now? I see it.

Moonlight spills through that gaping maw, feeding the void beneath. The cheap plastic warps the shadows just right—or wrong—turning the frozen scream into something that watches. Craves.

Even the frayed edges look less like bad stitching and more like torn-up skin.

My pulse jackhammers in my throat as I shove at his chest—the guy who could slice me up from crotch to belly.

He doesn’t so much as sway. His bare hand—calloused, furnace-hot—locks around my neck. The knife thuds to the ground as his other hand finds the edge of the tape at the corner of my mouth. “Make a sound, and they’ll hear you. One.”

A cruelly slow drag—adhesive pulling at fragile skin—until the sting zips up my spine in electric waves, pooling low. My body jerks, instinct fighting restraint, but I swallow the scream.

His thumb pauses where tape meets flesh.

“Two.”

Another deliberate tug—the sticky strip surrendering in uneven bursts.