All Chapters of MAKE ME SCREAM: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

His mouth is on mine and his cock is inside me and I can taste myself on his tongue.He kisses nothing like Marcus. Marcus kisses like a checkbox, quick, dry, already thinking about something else. Jax kisses like he’s consuming me, tongue pushing deep, teeth biting my bottom lip until it stings, swallowing every moan I feed him while his hips roll in slow, grinding strokes that drag his cock across every nerve ending I have.The rose toy is still pressed against my clit. Highest setting. His hand holds it there while he fucks me face to face, and the combination is too much, his thickness stretching me, the suction pulling my swollen clit, his cum from the first round making every thrust wet and loud and filthy.“Eyes open,” he says against my lips. “Look at me.”I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, dark eyes fixed on me, sweat on his temples, jaw tight with restraint. He’s holding back. Fucking me slow on purpose. Making me feel every ridge, every vein, the way his he

I wake up wet.Not from sweat, though I’m sweating too, skin damp against sheets that aren’t mine, in a room I don’t recognize. I’m wet between my legs, slick and swollen, and the realization hits me at the same time as the panic: my wrists are bound above my head.Rope. Soft but tight. Looped through a wrought-iron headboard in a dim room that smells like cedar and woodsmoke. A cabin. I’m in a fucking cabin, and the last thing I remember is the parking garage, footsteps behind me, a hand over my mouth, something sweet pressed against my nose — and then nothing.I pull against the ropes and they don’t give. My ankles are free but my wrists are locked and I’m wearing what I was wearing when he took me— a thin sundress, no bra, underwear that I can feel is already damp. My body was dreaming before my brain woke up. My body was responding to something before I opened my eyes.A chair creaks in the corner.He’s sitting in the shadows. I can make out the shape of him, tall, broad, legs spr

I don’t sleep.I lie in the dark replaying the feeling of his fingers inside me, the way he read my body like it was written in a language only he spoke, and I hate myself for the arousal that hasn’t faded. Every time I shift, the slickness between my thighs reminds me. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his thumb on my clit. The orgasm he gave me was the hardest I’ve had in over a year, maybe ever, and a stranger in a mask pulled it out of me in under ten minutes.By the time grey morning light filters through the curtain, I’m wound tight again. Aching. Swollen and untouched and furious about it.The door opens.He’s changed clothes. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Still masked. He’s carrying a glass of water and a plate— fruit, toast, eggs. He sets them on the nightstand.“Hungry?”“Untie me.”“After you eat.” He sits on the edge of the bed and lifts the water to my lips. I want to refuse, want to spit it back in his face, but my throat is raw and my body

His hands are on my hips and I’m already sinking down onto him.No pause. No recovery. He’s hard again, or still, I can’t tell— and his cum from the first round is leaking out of me, coating his shaft as I lower myself, and the slick, messy glide is the filthiest thing I’ve ever felt. I take him inch by inch, hands braced on his chest, watching his face, unmasked now, every expression bare, and the way his jaw clenches when I bottom out, when my pussy swallows him completely, makes me feel powerful for the first time since I woke up in this cabin.“Ride me,” he says, voice strained. His fingers dig into my hips. “Take what you need.”I start moving.Slow rolls at first, grinding in circles with him buried deep, feeling the head of his cock press against every part of me. His cum squelches between us with every movement, leaking out around him, dripping down his balls, and the mess of it should disgust me, but instead I’m grinding harder, chasing the pressure on my clit, using his body

The water is warm and I’m naked and this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.It’s past midnight. Becca went to bed an hour ago after half a bottle of wine and a rant about her ex, and the smart thing would be sleeping, curled up in the guest room of her dad’s ridiculous house with its ridiculous pool and its ridiculous view of the hills. But I can’t sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks, not since Derek left, not since I found the texts on his phone from his coworker, not since I moved back in with my mother at twenty-two years old like a failure in a sundress.So I’m floating on my back in Richard Calloway’s pool in nothing but moonlight, watching steam curl off the surface, trying to feel something other than hollow.Richard. Becca’s dad. Fifty-one years old, divorced for three years, built like a man who never stopped working out after college. Silver temples. Jaw that could cut glass. Hands that look like they could fix anything or break everything, depending on his mood.