Hitched: A Dark Hitchhiker Romance (Ride or Die Romances)

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A bright sun pierces the clouds, and the car’s interior is warm to the touch as we leave the motel. We start driving, and the road noise paves the way for me to get lost in my thoughts. I can’t help but feel weak. I haven’t had my hand on a woman in a decade. Ten long fucking years have passed without touching the delicate, addictive skin. Ten years ago, I’d have taken Selena at the motel and enjoyed every single horrifying moment of it, but I’m being fucking weak now.

Something about her seems so broken, and I don’t want to break her further, which is stupid. Having always been a slave to my impulses, I’ve never cared about desecrating a woman before. It’s taking everything in me, but I don’t want to add her to my list of victims. But does it even matter? It’s not like I can let her leave alive once she drops me off. I’ll have no choice but to break her in the worst, most final way.

I turn my head to look at her, and every inch of her tenses. She hasn’t spoken to me since I threatened to put her beneath me back at the motel. She needs to understand that it isn’t just a threat, it’s a promise. She had one rule, and it was for her to avoid doing anything stupid, like trying to leave. She broke that rule, so now I have to break her.

“You were a bad little bunny,” I say. The more I think about her weak escape attempt, the more my frustration grows. Her lips tighten, and she refuses to look at me. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Leave me alone,” she snaps.

Mouthy little bitch. I take a deep breath and lean closer to her. I rub my hand up her thigh, enjoying the way her muscles tighten against my touch.

“If you keep touching me, I’ll steer us into oncoming traffic.”

“No you won’t, sweet rabbit,” I whisper. I call her bluff and run my hand across her lower stomach and slip it down the front of her slacks. As she grabs my wrist to stop me, she swerves over the center line. “Focus on the damn road,” I snarl as I rip her hand off my wrist and put it on the steering wheel. Her maniacal driving is going to get us caught, which is probably what she wants. I can’t allow that. “Those hands better not leave that wheel.”

“Please don’t,” she begs. Genuine desperation pours through her strained words. It makes me hard as hell. And this is why I’m fucked up. I love how much she wants me to stop, needs me to stop.

“Please don’t what?”

“Touch me,” she whispers.

I smirk at her, sinking my fingers lower. “Touch you where?”

She blinks away a tear. “Down there.”

I scoff. I want to hear her say it. I want her to tell me exactly what she doesn’t want so I can do exactly that. “You’re a grown woman, rabbit. Use your words. Tell me what you don’t want me to touch and why.”

She doesn’t speak. I’m not in the mood for these games.

“Why don’t you want me to touch your pussy?” I give her one more chance to answer before I say fuck this and make her pull over so I can take her how she doesn’t want to be taken.

She takes a deep breath. “Don’t touch my pussy”—she whispers the word—“because I’m married.”

I hold my hand against the warmth of her skin beneath her waistband, just above her soft mound. I’m rabid. I want to get my hands on her, sink them lower and fuck her cunt with my fingers. Even then, I consider her statement and her desperation to preserve the sanctity of her fucked-up little marriage.

And I wholeheartedly disregard it.

I lower my hand and palm her pussy. She gasps at my touch, and not in a good way. She really expected me to stop, which is hilarious. Nothing would keep me from getting my hand on her. She had to know that.

“I’m not going to play with you, rabbit. I’m just going to hold my hand here.” I try to soothe the panicked rise and fall of her chest with my words. I hold my hand against her warm pussy, with two of my fingers slipping between the closed seam of her lips and resting there. I bask in her fear as she tries to drive and ignore my hand. She gets wetter and wetter with every bump in the road. She swells beneath my fingers, and I feel the contours of her clit as her body responds to me against her will.

“How old were you when you got married?” I ask, deciding she might be more willing to talk with her swollen clit beneath my fingers.

“Eight . . . teen.”

“Young little rabbit, huh?” My breaths roll over her chest, and she shivers. I feel it in my fingertips.

“Has he been the only one to make you come?”

Her lips tighten, and she refuses to answer me. But I know. Her body responds to my words so fucking well. Her slick, warm excitement coats my fingers, and I fight the urge to swirl my fingertips around her clit and make her come against my hand.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll touch you,” I growl. She refuses to respond, so I curl my fingers against her. She jolts.

I warned her I would play if she didn’t.

“Yes, he’s the only one who’s made me come,” she whispers with a hint of defeat.

“Don’t you want someone else to make you come? Don’t you want to know how it feels to have another man inside you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want another man.”

“What does he do to you?” I keep my fingers still against her clit.

“Don’t make me talk about it.” Her gaze cuts to the steering wheel, and she tries to pretend she’s anywhere else. But she isn’t anywhere else. She’s in her car, with me beside her and my hand on her perfect little cunt.

Selena

His fingers remain between my legs, building heat even when they’re still. His grasp is sure as his hand curves to cup me. I answered his questions. Well, I answered enough of his questions.

I don’t want to talk about it with anyone, but especially not him. It’s painful enough to remember the day my life changed forever. The day I learned who I was promised to. I knew what kind of person Bryce was and what his family was like. I knew I would live a regimented life under his thumb and that I would never be happy again. I expected him to watch my every move. But I hadn’t anticipated the violence. He’s an angry drunk, just like his father. The bruises on my body tell a story I try to hide beneath my clothes, and I’m not ready to share. I can’t discuss my marriage or my husband with this stranger.

He won’t even tell me his name, so no, I’m not telling him a damn thing, even as his fingers tease me.

I shake my head. “I’m not talking about it,” I say, as firmly as I can with his hand palming me.

“If you don’t, I’ll make you come, rabbit.” I know he means what he says by the harshness of his glare and the feral growl that leaves his lips as he says my nickname.

I think about it. I consider telling him something to placate him, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words to describe my abuse. I haven’t even come to terms with what I’ve been through. Before I can come up with a lie, his fingers dance against my clit, which begins to throb against my will. My stomach tightens at his touch.

“He doesn’t . . . do . . . anything to me. He’s just . . . controlling,” I say through breaths that are becoming too sharp to control.

“You’re lying to me.” He leans his weight into me and rubs me faster. His thumb slides against my clit, back and forth, and I fight back each moan that rises into my throat. He doesn’t deserve them.

My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. I don’t want him to get me off, but I also don’t want him to discuss my marriage. My hell at home. I can’t tell what’s worse. They’re both terrible options that I don’t fucking want.

I fight back the heat behind my eyes and spread my legs a little wider for him.

“You’d rather come than tell me about your marriage?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

I drop my gaze from the road and nod, slow and unsure.

“Fair enough, rabbit,” he says as I clutch the steering wheel. He rubs against my clit again before he opens me. He slips two fingers inside me, then withdraws his hand and rubs my unintended wetness over my clit. I shudder as my body responds to his touch. It feels so good, and that makes me feel so bad. So guilty.

A small moan leaves my lips, and it darkens his eyes.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, even though he knows. He can tell by the way I’m losing control of my body. My pelvis tilts against my will. I nod, but it’s not enough for him. “Tell me with your words.” He circles around my clit before brushing over it between every stroke of his fingers.

“It feels good,” I whimper.

“I’ll tell you my name if you come.” He dips his fingers into me again. “Do you wanna know my name, sweet bunny?”

“Yes.” I pant the word. I’m betraying my husband. I’m betraying myself. But he’s going to make me come. I feel it brewing between my legs, rising into my belly. I rock my hips and grind against his palm as I leave my morals at the edge.

My body tenses, each muscle aching for release. I struggle to keep my eyes on the road with each forward scoop of my hips. He fucks me with his fingers, and I come against his hand. He growls as he feels me spasm around him, at the twitch of my clit. I shudder and try to keep hold of the wheel.

“My name’s Lex,” he whispers in my ear, his hot breath leaving goosebumps along my skin. He pulls his hand from my pants and puts his fingers into his mouth. Tasting me. He pushes his spit-coated fingers past my lips. My stomach tightens. I don’t want to like what’s happening. Everything inside me tells me not to.

But the hungry way he looks at me makes me want it to happen again.