Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(38)

“There,” he mocks. “Very fair. Reciprocal. See? I’m a fucking gentleman.”

His hand leaves his belt and wraps around my throat possessively, then strokes down my front, over my breasts.

“You got some real nice manners right here too, princess.”

My chest lifts too quickly under his wide, warm hand. His hard-earned callouses scrape over my silky soft skin as he traces the edge of my bra.

“I— I don’t. . . Maybe we could just talk first?” I stammer.

Jaykob’s stormy eyes narrow. “Sugar, I’m not your boyfriend. You wanna have a heart-to-heart? Go run to Beau.”

My breath hitches and when I look up at him, there’s more than a hint of challenge in his gaze. A kind of knowing, self-deprecating resentment. He’s pushing me on purpose.

He thinks I’m going to run.

And I realize, for all his rudeness, he’s giving me enough space to get away from him.

I push my glasses back up, trying to think as his fingers track closer and closer to the clasp of my bra. I lift my hand and press it against him, but instead of pushing him away as I intended, my hand flexes on his tight abs. He smells good, I realize.

Like cars and wind and raw man.

“Let’s try a different game,” he says with none of the humor Lucky might have teased me with, “’cause I don’t feel like playing ‘will I or won’t I’ all night.”

My cheeks burn. He steps closer again, and using one of his boots, knocks my feet wide, unbalancing me. His hand dips to the hem on my dress, then slides up my inner thigh.

“Three options, sugar.” His eyes glint. “One. Turn around and leave right now, then tomorrow you pack up your things and get out.”

I glare at him. I’ve already made up my mind, the jerk. There’s no way I’m running off now.

He continues, and his breath fans my lips. “Second option. You can walk out that door and I’ll even be a gentleman and tell the others we fucked. No questions asked.” He smirks. “If you can prove you don’t actually want me to bury my cock deep inside that princess fucking pussy of yours.”

His hand hitches higher, and I squirm. I’m slick and wet and wondering if he can feel the heat of me already. My cheeks redden at the thought. Something about his rough, mocking smile is starting to get to me. His fingers are coarse on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. So male to my female.

Jaykob’s voice lowers as he presses his face close, his lips an inch from mine. “Or, if you’re as soaking wet as I reckon you are, you shut up with your good-girl protests and let me fuck you. Not with the lights off, not with a please and thank you and seven hours of foreplay. My way.” His lips brush mine as his fingers catch on the edge of my panties. “Fast, rough, and messy.”

Oh, God. Time to turn your eyes away, Jesus.

I’m panting against his mouth, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.

I know what he’ll find if his fingers dip any further.

When I don’t move, he pulls my panties to the side and then plunges two fingers into my slick, wet heat. I clench around the tight, sudden pressure with a gasp, and roll my hips forward urgently, pressing him deeper.

When I meet his eyes, he gives me his first real smile. It’s small and slow and full of male satisfaction. Unable to stop myself, I widen my stance further, allowing him better access. His coarse fingers fill me, stretch me. I’m dripping around him.

He presses his forehead to mine. “Filthy bitch.”

I hate that he sounds approving. I hate that I care. I hate that him using me this way, talking to me this way, makes me hot and liquid and dangerously desperate.

Embarrassed and annoyed and more turned on than I can believe, I close the short distance and press my mouth to his, wanting to wipe the amusement from his face.

He grunts, lips parting. His thumb moves so it rubs my clit as his fingers pump in and out of my soaking core. Head spinning, I let out a sobbing moan and scrape my nails down his chest to the top of his jeans, shuddering at the feel of his firm skin under my fingertips. He draws my tongue into his mouth and sucks on it hard.

I rock myself instinctively against his fingers, sending pleasure crashing over me. It’s not the deliberate build I felt with Beau and Jasper; it’s wild, raw passion. I’m so close. My traitorous body feels out of my control, chasing pleasure with a desperation I’ve never felt before.

My nipples ache, rubbing against my bra. It pisses me off. It leaves me breathless. Our mouths break apart and mine presses to his throat, nipping and licking the salty, delicious skin there.

The button on his pants is stubborn as I try to work it open, caught tight against the pressure of his straining cock. I sob in frustration against his neck, and his fingers leave me. He bats my hands away and pops the button in moments, then drops his pants and kicks off his boots.

He . . . isn’t wearing underwear.

My breath hisses between my teeth. He’s thick and huge—bigger by far than anything I’ve ever had inside me before. My core throbs needily, missing his fingers and protesting the loss of the quick brink he’d brought me to. His eyes gleam as he takes in my expression, and he roughly shoves my dress the rest of the way down. My hair’s escaping from my bun, the tendrils teasing my breasts and shoulders.

“Get down,” he says, and his gravelly voice grazes over me deliciously.