Page 103 of Hunted

Chase. Typical rich, college-frat-boy name.

“Gladly,” Chase answered excitedly. He rushed over, wasting no time with pleasantries, reaching around to cup my freshly-waxed honey pot.

He probably thought he was good at this. Probably thought I was actually feeling something other than bone-deep revulsion, as he rubbed over my slit up and down, over and over.

I played into it, of course. Ignoring the static silence through my comms, I faked stuttered breaths and soft moans, twisting on Chase’s arms to better reach him.

“Still too much clothing,” Lewis announced softly before reaching up to rip my panties clean off.

Chase groaned, grinding against my hip.

Poor, tiny dick, rich kids.

Somewhere behind us, the distinct smacking sound of a furiously jerked-off cock sounded and I learned that these boys weren’t shy about what got them off.

Degradation made them hard. Abuse got them off. Assault made them blow their disgusting little loads all over each other, probably.

Chase shoved his own pants down in a rush, prepping for what exactly, I wasn’t sure. But I wasn’t about to find out.

I reached up to palm his cheek and locked my fingers in the dirty-blonde hair at his nape. Dragging him down, I smiled, before pressing my lips to his in a shallow kiss.

And the countdown begins.

Shoving him roughly away, to Lewis’ ever-growing amusement, I padded closer to the one who really mattered. With practised grace, I lowered myself onto his lap. My knees straddled his thighs, and my core rested against his crotch—bare skin on soft fabric.

He couldn’t help but drag himself upwards—some ingrained testosterone-fuelled response driving every action as his brain slowly left the building. His hands grabbed my hips roughly, shoving me down atop him like he could take what he wanted, even with the fine wool of his pants in the way.

“That’s it, baby,” I crooned. “Take what you paid for.”

“I hate this,” someone muttered through the receiver, distracting me from a move I should have seen coming.

Lewis backhanded me, dislodging the earpiece and sending it flying across the carpet.

Blessedly unaware, he snarled, “Don’t talk.”

Poking my tongue at a dislodged tooth, I fought every instinct to fight back. With Chase still wondering why his hand couldn’t grip his dick as well as usual, there were still four players to contend with.

I leaned in, ready to kiss Lewis and end this, ready to deal with Randall and Spencer’s fallout. But just as I got close enough, he reared back, sinking his fingers into the skin of my upper arms so hard it’d leave more bruises.

“You think I kiss whores?” he spat vehemently, twisting and shoving me face first into the couch cushions so hard I couldn’t breathe.

So hard my lip gloss smeared all over them.

The telltale stickiness across my cheek informed me that my own countdown had started, too.

Fuck.

The sound of a body falling through a glass table ricocheted through my ears, startling my assailant into a looser grip.

Hoping the microphone in my earring was still working, hoping they’d be able to hear over the crash of shattered glass and a cussing CEO, that Dek would know and understand I whispered “Duck.”

“What?” Lewis yelled. “What did you say, bitch?”

Praying that my boys heard—that they’d understand—while simultaneously aware that I’d just have to manage if not, I kicked out at Lewis with legs that felt a little too like jelly.

I had less than three hundred seconds until I was dead. Less than sixty until I was no better than.

By the time I got my legs beneath me, Randall had leapt into the fray. He tackled me to the ground, giving me a clear view of a twitching Chase and frantic Spencer. He flipped me over onto my back, straddled my hips, and closed his meaty hands around my throat.