Page 60 of Twisting Beauty

He shoved me against the balustrade and hissed in my ear. “They won’t see you if you behave. But one scream, one word, I’ll make sure they do.”

I looked down over all the heads of the partying students, praying that none of them looked up.

He bent me over the railing, the cool air licking across the tops of my thighs. Buckles from the jacket clicked against the railing as he tethered me in place.

I was tied down. Exposed. Vulnerable.

I wanted to scream. To rage. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t and he knew it. I’d attract too much attention, and I didn’t need an audience for whatever he had planned for me.

I repressed a shiver.

His hands skimmed up my thighs, teasing just under the hem, close enough to make my chest tighten with anticipation. The image flashed unbidden, him shoving my panties aside, filling me, stretching me open, taking what he wanted.

Shameful wetness leaked out of me, soaking my G-string. I was terrified he would violate me. But even more terrified that I secretly wanted it.

His fingers slid through the slickness coating my upper thighs, teasing along the edge of my panties. “Oh, you are soaked, mo chlunaireín…”

“Y-you wouldn’t,” I said, my voice shaking with fear, yet thick with lust. “You’re not a rapist, Lorcan.”

He leaned in, his voice soft, venomous, even as his lips brushed my ear. “You think I want your body? I could’ve had that anytime. I want your secrets. Your lies exposed.”

His palms slid over my ass, my thighs, never touching where I ached most.

“If you want me to stop, then admit it,” he murmured. “You’re not here by accident. Someone placed you. In my house. In my sister’s room, with my sister’s face.”

His fingers slid over the edge of my panties, sliding along the slickness of my upper thighs, proving how shamefully wet I was.

“That takes planning,” he murmured, the words thick with dark amusement. “That takes someone with a reason.”

Shit. He was getting too close to the truth.

I bit my lip to stop from speaking. Or moaning. Or screaming.

God, this was torture. Shameful torture.

“Confess,” he whispered. “Who sent you?”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, just to steel myself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you’re good.” His breath was hot on my ear, his voice almost tender, his words almost a compliment. “You held up under the knife. You held up in my father’s house. Most people break faster than that.”

I looked down at the crowd. There were no friendly faces among them. Only his allies. His fucking minions. There was no one down there who would help me. Not even if I screamed.

At that moment, Aoife, currently standing against a pillar, looking bored as hell, happened to glance up. Her perfect mouth twisted into a scowl when she saw us. God, from her angle, we probably looked like we were fucking.

Feel free to trade places, bitch.

He grabbed the front of my muzzle and turned my head, forcing me to look at him over my shoulder, his gaze burning into mine. “Which tells me whoever put you here trained you. Or threatened you. Or both.”

Eyes locked, something passed between us. My chest tightened.

He pushed my panties aside and thrust two fingers into me, spreading me, forcing me to bite down on my cry.

“Give me a name. And I give you what you want.”

His fingers worked my G-spot mercilessly.

God, how I hated myself as my body tightened, my orgasm rushing up toward me embarrassingly fast.