“Fuck,” he sighs, reaching out to cup my breast in a large, hot palm. “Look at you.”
I wrench my head to the side, averting my eyes. “Just do it,” I grind out, flinching when he flicks my nipple.
I feel more than see him lean over me, a fist pressed into the mattress as he hovers, watching. “Look at me.” I squeeze my eyes closed, face turned away. Even so, I know he sees my angry grimace, can feel my flinch at the brush of his knuckles over my sore jaw. “That’s going to leave a mark.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.
The damp tip of his cock drags against my inner thigh, causing me to shudder. “Get on with it!”
Still, he takes his time sliding his hand down my body, as if he’s mapping every single one of my curves. “Need to make you wet,” Creep says, voice husky and rough as his hand ascends, dipping between my thighs.
I didn’t think I could get any more tense, but the first touch of his fingers down the slit of my folds makes me lock up in revulsion. Part of it is because of the touch—invasive, wrong, forceful—but a bigger part—the much, much worse part…
He freezes, fingers poised just outside my entrance. Quietly, arrogantly, he whispers, “Or maybe I don’t.”
I bite down on a sound when he replaces his fingers with the head of his dick, running it through the slickness that’s gathered in my folds. His breaths are hot and loud, so close to my ear as he hovers above me.
“Look at me,” he says again, but this time, he doesn’t take no for an answer. He grabs my chin, yanking my head toward him. His stare through the mask is just as hard and unforgiving as the press of his dick against my entrance. “Watch me make this pussy mine.”
I gasp at the invasion.
That’s exactly what it is—unwelcome, violating, aggressive. He enters me without any fanfare at all, filling me with one powerful, violent shove of his hips. His hand flies up to the top of my head, fisting in my hair as he pushes me in counterpoint to it, eyes flashing in anger when my heels slide against the sheets in an attempt to scurry away.
“Stop!” he growls, pinning me with his hips.
I think I mean to tell him to go fuck himself, but what comes out is a plaintive gasp. “It hurts.” I don’t mean to say it. The last thing I want to give these assholes is the satisfaction.
From the edge of the bed, Maniac hums. “I bet it does, little girl. Hung, isn’t he?” From my periphery, I can see him squeezing his crotch.
But Creep isn’t swayed into gentleness at my declaration. He tightens his fist in my hair and surges into me, punching his dick against my cervix. The second my mouth opens in a sharp cry, Maniac is there to clamp his hand over it.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he snaps, tone switching from malicious delight to stony anger so fast that I can’t even keep up. His hand is slippery, and it isn’t until the metallic tang fills my mouth that I realize it’s covered in blood.
“So fucking tight,” Creep mutters through his clenched teeth. He fucks into me with slow but brutal thrusts, those blue eyes never leaving mine. “How does it feel?” he asks, ignoring the swell of my throat—my shout trapped by the other man’s palm—as he digs into me. “Tell me how it feels to know this pussy belongs to me now.”
All I feel is trapped. Trapped beneath his body, beneath the palm clamped over my face, beneath the lens of the phone Lurker is pointing at us. His hips are crushing me, unyielding as he hammers me with tight, back-curling thrusts. I fix my gaze to the flexing point of his shoulder, unwilling to see the sweat darkening the fabric of his mask.
I still feel it, though.
When he leans down to press his face against my cheek, it’s damp with it. Sweat. Breath. Saliva. It makes my stomach flip and churn, and when I whip my head to the side to avoid it, Lurker lets me, finally freeing my mouth from his grip.
“Goddamn,” he says, hovering somewhere close. Vaguely, it registers that he sounds impressed. “You’re really giving it to her.”
Creep…it’s like he doesn’t even hear him. It’s like the other two aren’t even in the room. He wedges a hand under my cheek and forces me to turn to him.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not really a kiss, impeded by the fabric of the mask, but I can tell that’s what he wants. I can feel the hard jabs of breath through it, and even when I try to turn away, he won’t let me, covering my mouth with something I might call passion on someone less unhinged.