Wet & Wicked: Forbidden Collection Of Lust

To my filthy girlies… this isn’t a love story. It’s a confession. Every story in this book is about women who were ‘good girls’ until they met a man who didn’t want good. He wanted wrecked.

If you like it slow, go read a romance book. If you like it raw, if you like the sound of a spank echoing off a bathroom tile, if you like a man who looks at you like he wants to eat you alive…

Then stay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Elena’s POV:

“It’s over between us. I found someone else. Don’t call me anymore.”

That text message glowed on my cracked screen and I re-read it over and over again. I didn’t cry. I was too angry.

Finally, Eden had revealed his pathetic, true colors. We had only dated for six months. Six boring, fucking months. And he made me feel like trash for every second of it.

He broke up with me because I was too ‘clingy.’ (Translation: I wanted him to actually touch me. To spend more time with me. To keep proving he loves me). Asshole!

I almost threw up in anger. I fucking hated him.

Eden was a fucking boy! I deserved only a real man!

I stormed into the house, kicking the door shut so hard the hallway mirror rattled. Mom was at work. The house was supposed to be empty.

I needed to scream. I needed to hit something. I needed to cry in my pillows. I just wanted to break down quietly.

I marched up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my boots thudding loudly. I headed for the master bathroom, the one with the heavy door my step dad always keeps locked.

I didn’t care. I needed to splash water on my face and scream until my throat bled.

I grabbed the handle. It wasn’t locked.

I shoved the door open. "I hope you’re hap—"

The words turned to ash in my mouth.

The room was thick with steam. The smell of expensive soap and the musky scent of raw male sweat hit me first.

Rick. My Step-Dad. 40 years old. The man who lectured me about curfews. The man who looked at me with those cold, gray eyes like I was a disappointment.

He was leaning back against the edge of the clawfoot tub. But he wasn’t being a "Dad" right now.

His head was thrown back, his mouth open in a silent groan, veins bulging in his thick neck. His suit pants were pooled around his ankles.

His white dress shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, exposing a chest that was tanned, hard, and covered in a dusting of gray hair that trailed down his stomach.

And his hand.

God, his hand. It was huge. Thick, veined, scarred from "work." And it was wrapped around a cock that looked nothing like the boys at school. It was thick, angry, purple-headed, and pumping furiously.

He wasn’t just touching himself. He was wrecking himself.

The sound of him fucking his fist was wet and violent in the quiet room.

"Fuck... fuck..." he grunted, his hips bucking off the porcelain, driving his fist up and down. “You’re so fucking wet baby. Fuck! Don’t close your legs! Open them wider!”

I froze. My breath hitched. A tiny, pathetic sound escaped my lips.

His eyes snapped open.

They were black with pure, dilated darkness.

He saw me.

For one second, he didn’t stop. He kept stroking, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He looked at me standing there in my school skirt, my mascara running, and his eyes raked over my body with a hunger so violent it made my knees buckle.

Then, the mask slammed down.

"GET OUT!"

The roar shook the tiles. He didn't cover up. He just lunged forward, grabbing a towel from the rack and whipping it at me like a weapon.

"GET THE FUCK OUT, ELENA!"

I stumbled back, hitting the hallway wall. The towel hit my chest.

"I... I didn't..." My voice was shaking. "The door was open..."

"I SAID OUT!"

He was standing now, panting, his massive erection still pointing at me, bobbing with his heartbeat. He looked terrifying. A monster.

I should have run. I wanted to run.

But the breakup. The anger. The way he looked at me just now, like he wanted to eat me alive, it snapped something in my brain.

"No," I whispered.

I didn't move. I stared at his crotch. At the wet tip of his cock glistening in the steam.

"You're a hypocrite," I spat, tears finally spilling over. I had no idea what I was crying about. "You lecture me about boys? About respect? And you're in here jerking off like a teenager?"

His face went from red to white. He looked horrified. Not because he was naked, but because I saw him.

"You don't know what you're saying," he snarled, grabbing his pants and trying to pull them up, but his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't get the button. "Go to your room. Now. Or I swear to God..."

"Or you'll what?" I stepped forward. Into the room. "Spank me? Like you did last week when I dyed my hair?"

I was taunting him. I knew it was suicide.

"Don't push me, Elena," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He finally got his pants up, but he didn't button them. He just stood there with his chest heaving, looking like a cornered animal. "I am trying to hold it together. Do not test me."

"You're not holding anything together," I said, my voice trembling, my eyes glued to the bulge in his pants. "You're hard. You're still hard, Rick."

"Shut up!" he yelled, slamming his hand on the sink. And it cracked.

The sound echoed.

He stared at me, his chest was rising and falling. Silence stretched between us.

"Why?" I whispered. "Who were you thinking about? Mom?"

The insult landed. He flinched. Actually flinched.

"Get out," he choked out. He turned his back to me, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. "Before I do something we can't take back. Get out."

I looked at his back. At his broad shoulders.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to be disgusted. But my pussy was throbbing so hard it hurt. I turned and walked out.

But as I closed the door, I didn't lock it. I left it cracked open. Just an inch.

I walked to my room, my legs were shaking, my heart was hammering a rhythm that sounded exactly like his fist on his cock.

I fell onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I put my hand between my legs.

God, I want him.

I didn’t even hear the footsteps. I was too far gone.

My back was arched off the mattress, my head thrown back, and my slick, trembling hand was buried deep inside my pussy. I had no idea when they had reached there.

I was facing the door. Stupidly, desperately facing the door, because some sick part of me wanted to be caught.

I was rubbing my clit in fast, messy circles, chasing that high my ex-boyfriend never gave me. My breath was coming in ragged gasps.

“Oh goodness… yes… just like that…”

BANG.

The door suddenly flew open, slamming against the wall with a crack that shook the room.

I froze. My fingers were still buried to the knuckle inside me, my thighs spread wide, my pussy glistening and open for the whole world to see.

It was Step-Dad.

He was still in his work suit, his tie loosened, looking furious. He didn’t even look at me at first. He was looking at the floor, shaking his head.

“Listen,” he barked, his voice still deep and annoyed. “If your mother finds out about this… I wear to God—”

He looked up.

And the words died in his throat.

The silence that followed was louder than the door slamming.

He saw everything.

He saw my hand between my legs. He saw the shine of my wetness coating my fingers. He saw my tits heaving up and down, my nipples hard. He saw the flush spreading down my neck.

His eyes dropped from my face, straight to my hand, straight to the messy, to the wet sound my fingers were making as I tried and failed to pull them out.

His jaw tightened. The anger didn’t leave his face, but something else joined it. Something dark. Something hungry.

He didn’t leave.

He didn’t yell.

He took one step into the room. Then another.

He reached behind him and locked the door.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I should have covered up. I should have screamed. But I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by the look in his eyes.

He walked up to the edge of the bed. He loomed over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. He looked down at my hand, still stuck inside me, trembling.

His voice turned into a low, dangerous growl.

“Does your Mom know you sound like that when you’re alone?”

He reached out, his hand hovering over mine, his eyes burning into mine.

“Because if she did… she’d never let you touch yourself again.”

He grabbed my wrist.