you want?" he asks so low and so rough that it’s more of a growl. "If I fuck you, will you leave?"
I feel rage well up inside me, warring with the intense arousal that’s already made me wet and hot and utterly disoriented. "Go to hell, Walsh," I grind out just before his mouth catches mine yet again.
His lips are all over me while his hand moves up my shirt, under my bra, until he’s palming my breast. Then he bends his knees, dipping just enough to grind his erection against my core. I cry out as something nearly painful shoots up my center.
Walsh moans my name as he pinches my nipple between his finger and thumb. "You’ve always had the world’s most gorgeous tits," he whispers harshly in my ear. Before I know it, he’s lifted my t-shirt and bra completely, bent down, and taken my breast in his mouth, sucking hard. I push back harder into the car if that’s possible. I feel like something inside me is breaking, but I can’t stop it, and a strange part of me doesn’t want to.
He finally releases my wrists so he can bring his other hand to the apex of my thighs, where he begins a pulsing pressure with his fingers. Even through denim, it’s about to make me explode.
I dig my hands into his hair as he sucks on first one breast and then the other. I press him closer, wanting more, wanting it to hurt, because it’s the physical embodiment of all the pain I’ve felt inside for so many months. Walsh has made this sex and nothing more. No love, no caring—just hard, fast, hot sex—and as much as I want him, as much as I ache to feel that orgasm roll through me, this hurts like hell.
He lifts his head from my chest and looks me in the eyes. We’re both breathing like we just ran a marathon, and he plants one forearm next to my head against the car, pinning my hair and forcing me to look at him as his other hand moves to the button and zipper of my jeans. I quit breathing altogether as he unzips them and slides his hand inside my panties. When he runs a finger along my center where things are very damp and very hot, he bows his head for a moment.
"Christ," he chokes out.
He lifts his face back to mine and slips his middle finger inside me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice is screaming, This isn’t love. This is hate and anger and retribution. But when the waves of ecstasy race through me and I feel myself coming harder than I ever have in my life, none of it matters.
I gasp for breath as I cry out over and over, the pulsing sensations rolling through me for what seems like hours. When it finally stops, Walsh slowly pulls his hand out of my jeans. I feel him shaking, his whole body racked with tremors.
He takes a deep breath before he looks me in the eyes, and says, "Go. Home."
Then he steps back, turns around, and walks away.
Walsh
I STRIDE across the employee parking lot, trying not to break into a run or turn around and give in to the blazing want that’s got my head spinning in ten different directions.
I want a fucking drink so bad I’m ready to kill for one. Literally. I’m afraid I might hurt someone right now—as if what I just did to Tammy weren’t hurtful enough. I march into the bunk room, kicking the shit out of the door when I slam it shut with my boot. Everyone else is at work. It’s the middle of the day, and I should be out there too. I dig my fingers into my hair and yell, because that’s all I can manage at the moment.
"Fucking goddamn fucking shit!" I holler as I kick at the wall. I kick it again and again and again until my boot blasts through the drywall.
As I yank it out, it catches on a piece of wiring and breaks it. Shit, I’ve probably knocked out the electricity to the cabin now. That makes me even more pissed, so I turn and pick up the first thing I see, which happens to be Mike’s expensive digital camera, and I throw it—hard—against the wall, where it breaks into a couple of different chunks and falls on the floor. It’s sort of a letdown. No
I feel rage well up inside me, warring with the intense arousal that’s already made me wet and hot and utterly disoriented. "Go to hell, Walsh," I grind out just before his mouth catches mine yet again.
His lips are all over me while his hand moves up my shirt, under my bra, until he’s palming my breast. Then he bends his knees, dipping just enough to grind his erection against my core. I cry out as something nearly painful shoots up my center.
Walsh moans my name as he pinches my nipple between his finger and thumb. "You’ve always had the world’s most gorgeous tits," he whispers harshly in my ear. Before I know it, he’s lifted my t-shirt and bra completely, bent down, and taken my breast in his mouth, sucking hard. I push back harder into the car if that’s possible. I feel like something inside me is breaking, but I can’t stop it, and a strange part of me doesn’t want to.
He finally releases my wrists so he can bring his other hand to the apex of my thighs, where he begins a pulsing pressure with his fingers. Even through denim, it’s about to make me explode.
I dig my hands into his hair as he sucks on first one breast and then the other. I press him closer, wanting more, wanting it to hurt, because it’s the physical embodiment of all the pain I’ve felt inside for so many months. Walsh has made this sex and nothing more. No love, no caring—just hard, fast, hot sex—and as much as I want him, as much as I ache to feel that orgasm roll through me, this hurts like hell.
He lifts his head from my chest and looks me in the eyes. We’re both breathing like we just ran a marathon, and he plants one forearm next to my head against the car, pinning my hair and forcing me to look at him as his other hand moves to the button and zipper of my jeans. I quit breathing altogether as he unzips them and slides his hand inside my panties. When he runs a finger along my center where things are very damp and very hot, he bows his head for a moment.
"Christ," he chokes out.
He lifts his face back to mine and slips his middle finger inside me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice is screaming, This isn’t love. This is hate and anger and retribution. But when the waves of ecstasy race through me and I feel myself coming harder than I ever have in my life, none of it matters.
I gasp for breath as I cry out over and over, the pulsing sensations rolling through me for what seems like hours. When it finally stops, Walsh slowly pulls his hand out of my jeans. I feel him shaking, his whole body racked with tremors.
He takes a deep breath before he looks me in the eyes, and says, "Go. Home."
Then he steps back, turns around, and walks away.
Walsh
I STRIDE across the employee parking lot, trying not to break into a run or turn around and give in to the blazing want that’s got my head spinning in ten different directions.
I want a fucking drink so bad I’m ready to kill for one. Literally. I’m afraid I might hurt someone right now—as if what I just did to Tammy weren’t hurtful enough. I march into the bunk room, kicking the shit out of the door when I slam it shut with my boot. Everyone else is at work. It’s the middle of the day, and I should be out there too. I dig my fingers into my hair and yell, because that’s all I can manage at the moment.
"Fucking goddamn fucking shit!" I holler as I kick at the wall. I kick it again and again and again until my boot blasts through the drywall.
As I yank it out, it catches on a piece of wiring and breaks it. Shit, I’ve probably knocked out the electricity to the cabin now. That makes me even more pissed, so I turn and pick up the first thing I see, which happens to be Mike’s expensive digital camera, and I throw it—hard—against the wall, where it breaks into a couple of different chunks and falls on the floor. It’s sort of a letdown. No
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