20| Dirty and Desperate

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It felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest, his every touch tethered to the emotional turmoil this day had brought forth, the tension between us shattering like glass against the ache of his determined touch. My thoughts were a tangled mess in my head as I kept my gaze stuck to his, the dangers and darkness swirling in the pale grey of his eyes as he held me hostage to my destructive feelings.

I had spent days begging for him to finish the motion he had set in place since the first time he had put his hands on me, all of it in the hopes that it would get rid of the connection we had come to share with each other, but it was no use. Even against my better judgement, I had tried to understand the reasoning for my blossoming attraction towards him—but if there was anything I knew with certainty about living a life in the shadows of a town filled with gangsters and stained with blood, it was that with danger there was beauty and with darkness there was also light.

Everyone believed Freddie King was a monster, a man who knew exactly the type of power he wielded, and the fear he held amongst the hearts of vile men. His vicious actions dictated his cold-bloodedness, his cruelty enacted by his lack of compassion, his criminality proved in the way he held himself above all else—but as his hand slid beneath the flimsy material of my underwear, I had never known a man to be as gentle as he was.

Desperation was an ugly thing, it wormed its way into your body and made you believe there was only one way to have faith and only one way to move forward, but with his eyes on me like the intensity of the sun, and the warmth of his palm cupped at my core—a monster was the last word I would have used to describe him.

"Fuck." He cursed, his husky voice filled with overwhelming need as our breaths mingled together with the heaviness of our desires.

His touch and his strength were a force to be reckoned with, enveloping my weaknesses as he leaned into my need for him, using my body as a bridge for the power he claimed over me.

All it had taken were a handful of words.

All it had taken was for me to admit that I was his, a possessive confession filled with all the makings of everything he wanted from me as they clutched onto a pretence of meaning that wouldn't make it past this moment. The words gave him control over me in the rawest of forms, and now I was at his mercy, on the borderline of everything I had asked for, and at the end of it—all I wanted was for him to ruin me.

It was a desperate thought that disappeared with a single touch.

I swallowed harshly as I watched him close his eyes in contentment, a deep groan rumbling from the depths of his chest as I tried to push my thighs together in an attempt to stop the pleasure from taking hold of me, but his hand was too big and his fingers had already found their home.

The first of his touches sent a rush of electricity through me, his fingers finally dipping into the wetness that had pooled for him since the moment I had stepped foot in this room. His name was on the tip of my tongue as I held back the moan at the back of my throat, my body arching towards his like it knew the truth of who it belonged to long before I had come to accept it.

"You really can't help yourself, can you? Soaked to the fucking seams and still, I can feel you getting wetter." He tutted with fake disapproval, his words hoarse with hunger as his fingers continued to glide against me with ease, gathering the proof of my arousal at a torturously slow pace.

And just like he had said, I could feel myself getting wetter with every measured touch.

A mind-numbing neediness clenched at the base of my stomach as I squirmed under his unhurried rhythm, his fingers applying the lightest of pressures to keep me on edge as my hips pushed against him with my impatience.

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