Page 92 of Lured By Shadows

“He won’t touch me again,” I said finally, letting the words sit heavy in my mouth.

His shoulders relaxed at that, tension easing from his body in a single exhale that ghosted down the back of my neck. His cock twitched against me in approval.

“Now, come sit in my lap,” he demanded, voice dropping, each word slower than the last. “Let us make haste in removing his touch.”

God. If he kept talking like that, I was going to crack first. Slowly, I slid between his legs and onto his lap. It was different than being pressed against him. Now, I was on top of him.

His cock nestled into the groove of my hot pants, and I bit my lip as I wiggled into a comfortable position. A smile rose on my face as he groaned in my ear when my ass swallowed his cock between my cheeks.

His hands traced slow circles on my shoulders, and his breath cooled the crook of my neck, making it hard to think straight.

Culver was soft and patient, but it felt like he was walking a tightrope ready to snap.

I swallowed, trying to find steady ground, trying to pry my lungs open enough to breathe around the want pressing on them.

“Go on then,” I murmured.

The words came out too hungrily, spilling free, and the instant they left my mouth, I felt the air shift. He didn’t move right away.

His restraint felt like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades, urging me forward without shoving. He was giving me space to take it back if I wanted to, but there was no way I would.

The silence that followed was suffocating in the best way: thick, humid, and threaded with tension sharp enough to buzz inside my ribs.

My pussy clenched in anticipation, slickness sliding down the tender skin between my thighs, and I prayed it wasn’t soaking into his pants.

His fingers found my collarbone first, tracing the ridge with a tenderness that made the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. The barest pressure of his fingertip dragged fire across my skin and sent a shock straight down to my clit, making my breath catch mid-inhale.

His other hand slid down the outside of my arm, fingers curling around my forearm like a silent promise, the weight of his touch grounding and maddening all at once.

“He left his filthy mark all over you,” Culver murmured, his voice thick with loathing—not for me, but for what had been done to my body by someone unworthy.

Carter’s bruises sat on my thighs like fading fingerprints, stark reminders of hands that had gripped without care. Culver’s voice wrapped around them like a vow to replace every bruise with something that belonged to him.

“I mean… that’s kinda the point,” I whispered, the words coming out breathless, stripped of their usual bite.

I could hear how wrecked I sounded, how turned on I was, my voice trembling like my body were already halfway gone.

His fingers drifted lower, slow enough that I could anticipate every inch before he touched it. He traced the soft swell of my stomach, flattening his palm over my belly button as if claiming territory, as if erasing someone else’s touch required learning mine first.

He dipped his fingers downward, skimming the waistband of my shorts with a teasing slide that made my hips twitch without permission.

“Although,” he said, his voice dipping into something darker, more intoxicating, “he did not reach here.”

Heat rushed up my throat and flooded my face as the meaning sank in: a direct, unashamed acknowledgment of where Carter had failed to go and where Culver intended to replace him.

“You don’t know that,” I muttered, even though the weak protest made me sound like a liar or a coward… maybe both.

My thighs pressed together to chase relief, rubbing slick skin against slick skin, trying to quiet the aching throb that refused to ease.

He didn’t entertain the denial.

“I do,” he said, the words grazing my skin like silk and steel layered together. His hand slid to my hip, fingers gripping firmly, thumbs digging into my flesh with enough pressure to make me gasp. “He did not leave a permanent mark. I will be sure to do so, though.”

There was a rough edge beneath the promise, a hunger that wanted to replace bruises with hickeys, gasps with moans, and touches with thrusts.

I could picture it too vividly: the slow push of his cock stretching me wide, his hips pinning mine as I arched and took it, his breath against my neck while he filled me again and again until nothing remained of Carter.

“Someone’s full of himself,” I managed, sarcasm flickering back as a shield, though it was flimsy and transparent. My voice caught as his fingers traced the line of my waist and toyed with the hem of my shirt.