Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
He chuckles against my ear, his hand moving back and forth between my thighs.
“Bend over again, Clara.” These words are whispered so softly, I close my eyes and almost melt. Then his hand is between my shoulder blades again. Not pushing this time, though. “You do it. I want you to want it, Clara. Bend over and show me you want it.”
Do I want it? Or am I still pretending that this is just part of my job description as Rebellion infiltrator? Do I care at the moment?
A smirk plays across my face. Not really.
I haven’t spent much time thinking about Finn Scott, but there’s no denying he’s handsome. A little too pretty and clean for my tastes, but that dirty mouth of his has me reconsidering.
I bend over, telling myself that it’s an opportunity. One I can’t pass up. That this is just what’s required to get the job done.
It’s a lie. Even in this moment I know this. But I tell myself the lie anyway. I can introspect the fuck out of this decision tomorrow—if I still care about the moral implications. But right now, I just want him to keep going.
He chuckles behind me as he pushes my nightgown up my back, his fingertips making little circles down my spine until they come to that dip where they meet my underwear. “Slide them down over your ass, please, Clara. So I can see how pretty it is.”
I gulp air, but don’t hesitate. I reach behind me and begin to pull my underwear down, but his hands grasp mine, stopping me when they reach the top of my thighs.
“Leave them right there for me, please. They’re so pretty tonight. So plain and white.”
There are many seconds of silence after this. Like he’s expecting me to say something back. Does Clara talk dirty back to him? Should I be doing that? To… like… convince him that I’m her? To keep him in the delusion?
I bite my lip, trying to think of something to say, then blurt out, “I put them on just for you.” My voice is husky and deep with desire.
I can’t see his smile, or feel it—not literally. But I know he’s smiling. And while I’m thinking this his foot knocks against my ankle, kicking my leg open. I nearly fall over, but he grabs my hair in his fist, steadying me.
This shocks me. I don’t know why, of all the things he’s been doing for the past few minutes, it’s the hair pulling that makes me reconsider what my goals are here—but it is.
Mostly because it makes me moan. Not cry out in pain because a boy yanked on my pigtails in school. But actually… sexually moan. Like I want him to do it again.
This is some kind of signal to him. It must be. Or it gets him off or something. Because suddenly the fingers between my legs are pushing up inside me and I’m wriggling. Not trying to escape, but out-of-control wriggling because it feels so damn good. It’s almost too much. It’s like he just lit a fire inside me. Ignited a passion within me that I never even knew existed.
I’ve had hands between my legs before. The hands of boys who didn’t really understand what they were doing. But this is the hand of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
The initial wave of the climax bursts out of me as a tightly controlled squeal. My mouth clenches together, as I am desperate to control it. But the second wave is like an explosion. Like the fireworks on Extraction Eve. And there is no hope of stopping the scream that flows out of my mouth. So loud, it echoes off the ceiling.
Finn laughs, yanking my hair that is still in his fist. His laugh mingles with my moans as wave after of wave of pleasure fills me up until I feel so out of control, a sob escapes past my lips and my eyes tear up.
It’s not fear and it’s not pain, so it’s confusing. I don’t understand what I’m feeling because I’ve never felt anything like this before. No boy has ever made me squeal like an animal.
But this man did. And everything about what just happened feels primal and dirty.
But the most humiliating thing is… I want him to do it again. The pleasure is still coursing through me—my thighs trembling, the wetness of my orgasm running down them—and all I can think about is how I want him to do it again.
He’s still laughing. Thrusting his hips forward, grinding himself against my upturned ass. And then hope fills me—replacing the humiliation of lust—because he hasn’t finished yet.
There will be more.
He lets go of my hair, grabs my hips with both hands, and thrusts again. But his pants aren’t open. And I’m suddenly unsure. Is he just going to play with me like this? Or is he going to put himself inside me?