The man from earlier. The one with the square jaw, the beautiful lips, the midnight-black eyes.
His stare is even more intense up close.
And right now, he looks absolutely murderous.
“Yo, buddy, get the fuck out of here,” the monster on top of me says. “Go find another whore to stick your cock into. This one’s mine.”
My guardian angel doesn’t bother responding.
He takes one step forward, grabs Boulder Man by the throat, and hurls him to the ground.
I feel the pressure around my neck disappear and my legs suddenly feel like jelly. It takes all my strength to stay on my feet.
I draw in a deep, shuddering breath.
Then I look up to see what’s happening.
The two men are on the ground. My rapist is at least fifty pounds heavier than the dark-eyed man—mostly in the beer gut department—but that doesn’t seem to make a difference.
All I can see is a flurry of fists.
All I can hear is a series of muffled groans and sickening crunches.
There’s blood on the tiles, I notice suddenly.
Then—one more crunch.
I scream and look away, but not before I see Boulder Man’s elbow bent exactly the wrong direction. The image sears itself into my brain.
I’m still covering my eyes as I hear more muffled noises.
When I look up again, I see that my attacker has dragged the rapist out into the hallway.
He delivers one more swift, brutal kick to the man’s ribs—CRUNCH—spits on him, and then slams the door shut. Locks it with a click.
Then he turns to me.
And my heart does a platform dive into the acid of my stomach.
I thought the dark-eyed man was my savior.
What if I was wrong?
I’m shaking like a leaf. Horrified all over again. One bad thought leads to the next.
Is this better? Is it worse? What have I gotten myself into? What is going to happen next?
My dress is ripped, my face is bruised, and I’m sweating all over.
But despite the brutal beatdown this man just administered, he looks perfectly calm.
Perfectly composed.
The very picture of icy control.
“Did he hurt you?” he asks.
His voice resonates with something inside me. I’m still too choked up to answer.
When I don’t reply, he takes a step forward.
I flinch instantly. “Don’t come any closer,” I order.
“And here I was expecting a thank you,” he drawls. But to his credit, he stops in his tracks.
His eyes bore into my face. Something rises, hot and desperate, inside me. I’ve never quite felt anything like it before and it takes me off guard.
“Why?” I ask. “So you can finish what he started?”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Do I look like the kind of man who needs to force himself on a woman?”
“How would I know?” I spit. “I don’t know you.”
“No, but you’ve been staring at me like you do.”
My mouth pops open in shock. I thought I was being subtle. I try and recover, but I fear he’s already seen through me.
“You were the one staring at me.”
He smiles, a slow, tilted grin that sends a bolt of electricity shooting up between my legs. What the fuck is that?
“Yes, I was,” he admits freely.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why?” he repeats, raising one dusky eyebrow. “Because men like me live to claim women like you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Without thinking, I take a step towards him. Something magnetic takes ahold of me.
I make a decision in that moment.
For no one else but me.
Because I want to.
“He had his hands all over me,” I say softly.
Anger flashes across his eyes, bitter and terrible. He says nothing though. Waits for me to go on.
“Make me forget,” I whisper. “Make me forget that he ever touched me.”
My savior closes the final distance. Raises his hand. Lets his thumb trail along my bottom lip.
It’s the only moment made of tenderness.
In the next second, his lips crash down on mine like a storm and my arms wrap around his neck.
I can feel his hands on my back, before they slip down, squeezing my ass and hoisting me up around his waist.
He turns and carries me to the bathroom counter. He sets me down on the marble, right between two sinks.
My body registers how cool the marble is, but it’s extinguished almost immediately by the heat of his hands.
They rake across my skin, leaving trails of fire that somehow find their way between my legs. I can feel his cock pressed up against my thigh and it makes me moan.
Desire—that’s what I feel with this stranger.
Aching, craving, desperate desire.
The kind I had always assumed was simply an elaborate fiction dreamed up just to sell books and movies.
But this is real. This is happening.
He settles between my legs, pushing my thighs further apart, his sheathed cock rubbing against my pussy.
His lips ravage mine, and I let him. I open for him. Beg for more.
When his tongue meets mine, I try twisting into him as close as I possibly can. I’m aware how clumsy I am as my hand reaches down between us, but I want to feel him.
Before I can reach his cock, however, he grabs both my hands and pulls them back behind me. He holds them there, keeps them bound together with one of his hands, as the other falls on my pussy.
I gasp as he shoves aside my panties and strokes my lips for a few seconds before he slips a finger inside me, then another.
I gasp again, shocked at how my body is reacting to this.
He’s not gentle.
And I realize one thing: I don’t want him to be.
My wetness coats his fingers. All I can do is writhe around helplessly, unable to move my hands.
Totally and completely at his mercy.
He finger-fucks me until I’m bent into him, my face pressed up against his neck.
He smells of oak and sandalwood. Deep, earthy scents that make me think of icy mountains and dark forests.
My body feels like a raw nerve ending, ready to explode.
And just when I think I might, he stops, he pulls out of me and raises his
