I’m never going to stop kissing her. Savage, kissing her breathless, I bring her back to her feet, then back her against the wall. My hand at her throat, I stroke her, holding what’s mine as I explore her with my tongue. Tentative, she explores back, shy and unsure but wanting to learn. I groan into her mouth, a starving man finally at an oasis.
She’s so soft against me, and so much smaller. I could scoop her up, crush her, do whatever I want. It’s her breasts I need to touch first, free of her bra, quivering with each heated breath. Her nipples are big, pushing into my hand. I growl, palming one, grasping it between my fingers.
Mouth down at her breast, I capture it, sucking through the T-shirt, biting down on her nipple.
She gasps. But then she speaks. “Don’t hurt me, Knox,” she pleads, trembling. When I pick my head up I see there are tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t.”
I straighten up. Raking a hand through my hair, I pound my fist against the wall over her head, holding my body tense and still. And away from her.
“Go the fuck to sleep,” I bark, pointing at the bed. She scurries away, quick and afraid, tucking herself under the sheet and blanket. She turns her back to me.
I curse, standing there with my head in my hand. In the bathroom, I splash some water on my face. My hard-on is raging. I could take a cold shower. I could jerk off, but I know nothing will cool me down. There’s no relief but her.
But I’m not going to rape this girl. I’m going crazy, but I will not hurt her. I’m just going to have to hold back. And wait.
Because she wants me. She wants this. She’s just frightened.
I turn out the light and slip into bed, careful to stay on my side of the mattress. Our bodies don’t touch. She’s stiff and tense, hyper-aware. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. For hours, long after she’s finally fallen asleep, I listen to her breathing. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, those breasts made for me, that throat milky white, her lips berry red. I will have her. It’s only a matter of time.
7. Olivia
I wake up the next morning wrapped in his arms. I don’t know how we got that way. I don’t want to move. We’re lying side by side, his large, hard body molded to mine. My head is on his bicep, as if I nestled into him at some point in the night. His hand rests on my thigh, possessive and heavy.
I close my eyes again, breathing him in. He smells woodsy and musky and the heat from his body is radiating into mine.
I’ve never felt so safe in my life. I know I’m not. There’s danger outside and in, but my brain isn’t in charge right now. My body is, and every inch of it feels more protected than ever before in my life. Wrapped in his warm embrace, I feel like I’m finally home.
I keep my breathing slow and even, savoring this stolen moment. The second we’re both awake, I’ll have to get my guard back up again. I’ll have to fight my response to him, his advances on me. But it can’t hurt to steal a few more minutes of this.
There must be some sort of endorphin released, a chemical running through my body making me feel so deliciously relaxed. He’s got me. I don’t have to worry about a thing.
Of course the opposite is true, but I can’t stop myself from dreamily remembering last night. I’d known I was asking for trouble the second I’d taken off my bra in the bathroom. My breasts have always embarrassed me, too big, too much to hide. I have D-cups, spilling out of my bras, unable to be tamed.
The bra I’d worn to work the other night didn’t even fit that well. I’d grown out of it. It was a little cotton thing, not enough for breasts like I have. I’d been wearing it for 30 hours. I didn’t want to sleep in it again. I kept my panties on, but I’d removed my bra. I knew it would make me even barer to him, but a small part of me liked that. It should feel wrong to make myself vulnerable, but it doesn’t. It feels so right.
His T-shirt was soft as I slid it over my nearly-naked body. It smelled of him. It felt like being surrounded, owned by him. Way too big, it scooped over my collarbone and hit mid-thigh. It draped down my body, caressing my curves. Walking out to him, surrounded by his scent, all my defenses were down.
When he’d first seen me, his eyes darkened with a predatory gleam. I could tell he liked seeing me in his shirt, as if he’d marked me as his own. Under his gaze, I’d pressed my thighs together, embarrassed yet unable to stop the heat. He couldn’t see that, though.
But he could see my breasts. There was no hiding my reaction there to him. My nipples had tightened, so sensitive, almost as if they called to him and craved his touch. I couldn’t hide as I just stood there, and the way he looked at me just made it worse. He stared at them, watching me blossom for him.
He’d fallen on me like a starving man, and I’d wanted nothing more than his lips, his tongue, his arms and hands. He’d pounced on me and I’d loved it, sighing into him and craving all of it. I’d thought of nothing other than him, wanting to surrender and do everything, anything.
Then he’d bit me.
I’d panicked. No one had ever bit me before. What scared me was how good it felt. It should have repulsed me, made me hate him, but instead my clit throbbed, and I grew juicy wet, as wet as his mouth and tongue had made my breast. It felt so wrong and right all at once. I wanted to beg for more, my other nipple, down where I ached.
That’s what frightened me. One bite and he turned me into a madwoman. I had no control over myself. If he made me like pain so much, where would it stop? I’d never felt that way before, never had crazy crushes on boys, never even sought attention. Now I couldn’t stop myself. I had to rely on him to stop. So I’d begged him to not hurt me.
And he had.
The second he’d done as I’d asked, removing his touch, holding himself stiff and away from me, my body had filled with loss and longing. I’d missed him with an irrational pain. It was ridiculous. I should have felt relieved.
Instead, keeping myself tight to my side of the bed last night, back turned, my body had desperately wanted to cleave to him. I’d lain awake for so long, struggling and confused. When he’d climbed in and lain there, not touching me, I’d wanted to close the distance. I’d almost turned to him, maybe offering words, trying to explain my inexperience and fears. Maybe not saying a thing. My touch could communicate instead.
But I hadn’t done either. I’d talked sense to myself. I should be frightened of him. He’d told me he worked for the mob. He’d probably killed so many people he couldn’t even keep count. I shouldn’t want anything at all from him. My response wasn’t right. He was a criminal, a kidnapper, and I needed to stay away from him. It was good he’d listened to me, good he was staying away.
His body looked like a machine. He’d probably used it to harm and hurt, inflicting pain without mercy.
But he isn’t doing that now. He’s holding me, possessive and protective. I can feel his skin next to mine, his arms and legs. The fire in the wood-burning stove went out overnight, but heat is radiating from his body. We’re under the covers, cocooned, and I never want to leave.
I’ve never felt so horny. He can’t tell, though. With my back to him, under the blanket, he can’t see my nipples pebbling out hard with need. With his hand on my thigh, he can’t feel the heat and wetness seeping through my panties.
I want to squirm, but I make myself stay still, keep my breath even. I blush at the thought, but it’s true—I want to touch myself. Even in that department I’m no expert. I don’t have any sex toys stashed in my bedside table. I usually feel embarrassed about masturbating and don’t do it often. When I do, I just keep things short and simple. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure if I’ve ever had an orgasm. From the way I’ve heard my roommates talk about it, I’m guessing I haven’t.
Even the way I feel right now is so much more intense. I’m like a caramel in the hot sun, my center turning into a gooey mess. He’s not even messing around with me, but the heat from his body and that wall of muscle behind me is driving me crazy.
I feel him awaken. It must be a ch
ange in his breathing pattern, or maybe his limbs are less heavy. I can’t see him, but I can tell. He doesn’t remove his hand from my thigh, and I keep my eyes closed. Unlike yesterday, this time I’m one-hundred-percent awake. Today, I’m faking sleep.
I tell myself it’s because I’m frightened of him. He was so ferocious last night, like an animal sprung out of its cage. That’s what I tell myself.
But the real reason I’m holding still is I’m listening to a naughty voice in my head whispering, “Don’t you want to see what he does?” This may be my only chance. I don’t know what’s coming next. Mobsters are supposedly looking for us. I might get a chance to escape.
Deep down, the truth is that I want to steal a moment with him, here under the covers where no one will know. He moves his hand slowly, so slowly. It’s warm, rough, and big against my thigh. I force myself to keep my breathing regular. I don’t want to break the spell.
The feel of his hand sliding up my thigh drives me crazy. I want him to move faster, race to the finish. I want to part my legs and let him know where I need him to touch. But he stays slow, caressing my inner thigh, drawing lazy circles.
I should stop him. I should scream and kick. I should leap away and tell him to keep his hands off me.
I don’t. I want him to keep going. It feels too good. I don’t know where this is leading, but I know I don’t want him to stop.
8. Knox
When I wake up, she’s in my arms. Her luscious ass is pressed into my huge hammer of a hard-on. She smells so good, her soft hair under my cheek, her thigh under my palm.
Slow, I draw my hand along her leg, down her inner thigh. It’s a playground I never want to leave. She’s an angel, but her curves are made for sin. I’m tense, breathing hard, wondering at any second if she’s going to stop me. Will she wake up and jolt away like last time?