by Anne Stuart
“I don’t.”
“Let me convince you.”
It was her last chance. She’d already told him more than she wanted to, she’d stood there and let him undress her, and he’d given her plenty of chance to run. She hadn’t moved.
“I could count to ten. Give you a head start,” he mocked her. “But I’m not sure you really want to get away.”
She still didn’t move. She wanted to. Needed to. But for some reason her body wasn’t responding to her demands. It seemed to know her better than her mind.
“Last chance, princess. I’m going to put my hands on you again, and this time I’m not going to let go.”
At the last minute she pushed away from the Cadillac, almost weak with relief. He hadn’t moved that far out of the way, and as she leaned down to pick up her discarded clothes her jeans began to sag. Her hands were full of clothing, so she couldn’t refasten them, but if she ran really fast then maybe she could keep them up. Why the hell did she wear such baggy jeans? If she wore form-fitting ones like most people they wouldn’t be sagging. But she already knew the answer to that. She wore baggy clothes to hide her body. Not that there was that much to hide.
Dillon was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. As if her eventual decision was no more important than what to have for breakfast.
“I’ll go now,” she said, her clothes clasped to her chest. Not moving.
“Sure you will. I think we’ve talked long enough. Come here.”
He had to be crazy. She was halfway to the door, hugging her clothes against her, and he expected her to come to him.
“Come here, Jamie,” he said again, soft, beguiling. “You’ve been running long enough. Let’s just get it over with.”
If she ran she’d panic, and she was already frightened enough. Frightened by the inevitability of it. He was inexorable, determined, and he wouldn’t stop. Because in the end she really didn’t want him to stop.
She stood there, frozen, as he came toward her, lean and smooth and very dangerous. He took the clothes out of her arms and dumped them on the cement floor. They’d get oil stains, she thought, trying to concentrate on trivialities. Her mother would be horrified. She should pick them up.
He pushed her jeans down her hips and she let him. They pooled at her ankles, and when he took her hand she stepped out of them.
He didn’t let go of her hand, and she didn’t try to pull away. She couldn’t fight him with her body, but she could fight him with her words. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything, simply pulled her into the shadows of the huge garage. There was an old sagging sofa back there, a hideous shade of green with the stuffing coming out of the cushions. She didn’t want to go there. And he wasn’t giving her a choice.
“I think we better do this fast,” he said, pushing her down on the sofa with deceptive gentleness. Deceptive, when she knew how violent he could be. He’d never turned that violence on her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t if she pushed him far enough. As she’d been trying to, ever since she got there. “I don’t want you to panic and change your mind.”
“I never said…” Her voice caught in a gasp as he pulled the skimpy panties down her legs with the ease of long experience.
“You didn’t need to,” he said, kneeling down on the sofa beside her, pushing her back against the lumpy cushions. “You can’t spend your life running away. I never thought you’d be a coward, Jamie Kincaid.”
“I am,” she said. “A sniveling, desperate coward.” He’d pushed the camisole up and flicked open the front clasp of her bra, but he didn’t bother pulling it off her. It lay beneath her on the sofa, and the lacy straps and the camisole were halfway down her arms, limiting her movement.
He reached for the snap of his jeans, and she shut her eyes. She heard the rasp of his zipper, she could feel the shudders of panic wash over her body. He moved between her legs, and she tensed, waiting for him to touch her.
“I’m not going to help you,” she said in a low voice. “Paul made me help him. He was too drunk, and he hit me, and he made me—”
“I don’t need any help.”
She heard the sound of paper tearing, and she almost opened her eyes. A condom, she realized. He was going to use a condom.
She made one last attempt. “You’re wasting your time. I tried to get over this once. I even got this far, but he couldn’t…I was too…” There was no way she was going to explain it, and now she was sorry she’d started.
“You were too dry,” he said in a prosaic voice. “And too tight. And you didn’t really want him.”
“I thought I did….” Her voice disappeared in a little squeak as he put his hand between her legs. His long fingers touching her, sliding inside her, that fast.
“Well, you’re not dry now. And you want me, whether you admit it or not. And I’m not going to give you a chance to change your mind.”
She started to tell him she’d never said yes in the first place, but it was too late. She’d expected kisses, caresses, practiced attempts to still her fears. Instead he’d moved between her legs, pressing against her, and before she could protest he was inside her, pushing deeper, holding himself above her as he slowly invaded her body.
He was too big, but there was nothing she could do about it. This time her body didn’t stop him, and then it began to betray her, letting him in, until she could feel the whole length of him inside her, her hips cradling his as her fingers dug into the torn cushions beneath her.
“Breathe, Jamie,” he said in a tight voice. “It’s not going to kill you.”
Because she didn’t have much choice she took a breath, and somehow he moved even deeper inside her, when she hadn’t thought he could.
He was holding himself above her, only the weight of him inside her, and she felt him lean down, bring his head toward hers, and she knew he was going to kiss her. And she couldn’t stand it. She jerked her head away, so that he couldn’t reach her mouth, and she bit her lip.
“All right,” he said, and she could hear the iron tension in his voice. “Do you want this fast or slow?”
“Fast. Get it over with.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby girl.” He started to pull out, and she let out her breath again in momentary relief. Until he pushed inside her again, deeper than ever. Again and again and again, and there was nothing she could do but shiver and find that dark spot inside herself where she could hide.
But that dark spot was filled with sparkling lights, and he was in there, too, in every part of her, and there was no escape, and she could feel the heat spreading through her, rich and languorous, and the more she tried to fight it, the more it spread through her body like a warm, sweet poison.
And he knew it. He could feel it. “Open your eyes, Jamie,” he said. “I want to watch you.”
She could no more resist than she could stop her heart beating. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she stared up into his face, half dazed.
“We’re going to do this again,” he whispered. “And again. And again.” Each word was punctuated with his body rocking against hers. “Every way I can think of, every place, every time of day. You’ll be thinking and breathing and tasting me. And I’ll be thinking and breathing and tasting you.”
She was shivering, inside and out, but she wouldn’t touch him. Her fingers dug into the sofa, her hips cradled him, and he thrust hard, deep inside her, over and over again, until she felt his body go rigid, saw his eyes close, heard his voice let out a strangled curse as he caught her hips in his hands and pulled her up even tighter against him.
She watched him almost from a distance, and for a moment she felt almost serene. It was a strange kind of power, to feel him climax inside her, to feel his total loss of control, when she was the one who always felt powerless.
And then he collapsed on top of her, sweat-slick, panting, his heart hammering against hers. She noted all these things with detached interest. It was a kind
of revelation. She hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated it at all. There was even a moment when she’d begun to feel something almost like…
He rolled off her, off the narrow sofa and onto the floor, where he sat, cursing. “Shit,” he said after a moment. “That was a fucking disaster. That wasn’t what I had in mind at all.” He turned his head to look at her. “Stay put,” he growled. “I have to go clean up, and then I’ll be back.”
She closed her eyes, shutting him out, until she heard the door close, the water running. And then she sat up.
A disaster was something not to be repeated. To be talked about. The inevitable had happened, and somehow she’d known it would. But now she was getting out of here, as fast as she could go.
Mouser was the last person he expected to see when he emerged from the bathroom. He was so damned pissed at himself his savage mood spilled over onto the world in general. He’d planned to make her come, over and over again, until there was no way she could hide away in that pseudo-virgin body of hers. No way she could hide away from him.
And instead he’d lost control like a teenage boy and shot his load before he’d given her no more than the first taste of arousal.
He’d been planning to take care of that the moment he got back to her. But she was gone, and instead Mouser was standing there looking at him like he’d murdered a kitten.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Killer?” he demanded.
Dillon managed a grim smile. “I’m about to cut your throat. I happen to be busy. Go away.”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s been going on here. Why don’t you leave the poor girl alone? You don’t need her. You’ll only hurt her, and no matter how much Nate fucked you over you shouldn’t take it out on his cousin.”
“It has nothing to do with Nate. I spent a year and a half in jail because of that woman. Don’t you figure she owes me?”
“No. Any time you spent in jail was long overdue and you know it. That’s no excuse, and you don’t even believe it yourself. I figure you’ve got a major jones for that woman and it ain’t her fault. Send her home, man.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that? Don’t blame her for Nate. Any score you had to settle with him has already been paid in full, don’t you think? You’ve never been a cold-blooded bastard, Killer.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve had lots of experience being a cold-blooded bastard, and that’s what she expects from me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.” He leaned down and picked up the T-shirt she’d dropped in her escape. He’d had her. A good solid taste of her after God knew how many years of waiting. And it had just whetted his appetite.
Cinnamon. The T-shirt smelled of cinnamon. He couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Even though he’d done his damnedest to atone for a lifetime of sins, there was a limit to his good behavior. And that limit was Jamie Kincaid.
“Get the fuck out of here, Mouser. We’ve had this argument before and it’s just a waste of time. I’ll do what I want with her, and she’s not going to object. And next time knock before you walk in.”
“She probably doesn’t know how to object. You’re the experienced one. You could let her go.”
“I’m not going to. Lock the door behind you.”
“You’re a bastard, Dillon. I love you, anyway, but sometimes you make it real tough,” Mouser said sternly. “Think twice before you hurt that girl again. You’ll only end up hating yourself even more than you do now.”
“Go fuck yourself, Mouser.”
Dillon made no noise as he walked up the creaky stairs. Mouser was gone, the door locked behind him, and no one was going to stop him this time. He wouldn’t be able to start where he left off, but it wouldn’t take long to get her back to the point of trembling surrender again. This time he’d do a better job of it. And to hell with Mouser and any trace of conscience that was bothering him.
He almost had his hand on the doorknob when he heard her. It took him a moment to figure out what the choking sound was. She was crying, and trying to stifle the sound against something. The pillow, the mattress, her fist. It didn’t matter. She was trying not to make a sound, and it made it all the worse. She was probably huddled in some corner, waiting for him to come get her.
He’d never been susceptible to a woman’s tears. He’d had more than his share cried over him, at him. Women trying to manipulate him, make him feel guilty. And Jamie Kincaid was the kind of woman who cried at the drop of a hat. Hell, she was probably just frustrated by his rushed attempt at fucking her and didn’t know it. If she wouldn’t open the door he could kick it down without any difficulty, and finish taking care of her as she needed to be taken care of.
And he knew he wasn’t going to do it. Some latent sense of decency had cropped up at the sound of her crying. He was a fool and a half, when he finally had gotten her where he’d wanted her for far too long. Shaken, trembling and willing, and it wouldn’t take much to get her that way again. And he wasn’t going to do it.
He was about to hang the discarded T-shirt on the doorknob, but he hesitated, bringing it to his face, breathing in the scent of her. And he moved down the hall, the shirt still in his hand.
Mouser shook his head ruefully. Killer had it bad, and he didn’t even realize it. Far be it for his old friend Mouser to point out that the poor bastard was in love. Killer didn’t believe in love, certainly not the romantic kind. He’d chalk it up to simple lust. But Dillon was way past anything as simple as lust when it came to Nate’s cousin.
She was bringing out the worst in him, that was for sure. Dillon could be utterly ruthless, but he didn’t usually take it out on the helpless. It wasn’t like him, and he’d hate himself for doing it.
The best thing a friend could do for him was to get the woman out, before Dillon made a mistake that he couldn’t fix. A light snow was falling, and Dillon had locked the door after shoving Mouser out into the snow. But the door to the alleyway didn’t have a lock. He figured he’d managed to ruin the mood for at least the time being, long enough to get Jamie out of there. But he couldn’t afford to wait.
The grim alleyway looked almost pretty beneath the thin layer of snow. Only a trail of footsteps marred the pristine white, and he frowned, trying to figure out who the hell had come in the back entrance. The prints were too small to be Dillon’s feet, too big to be Jamie’s.
He opened the door. The hallway was warm and shadowy, and he closed the door behind him, moving into the darkness.
And then he stopped, staring into the shadows in disbelief. “You’re dead,” he said in a choked voice.
“No. You are.”
12
It took her too damned long to stop crying. All she could do was thank God he’d left her alone for a moment, so she could run. Because if she’d stayed, it would have been even worse. She might have grown to like it.
There was rape and there was rape. Dillon Gaynor could force her just by looking at her. For twelve years she’d kept her distance from men, only to come face-to-face with the worst of all of them. The only one who could get through to her.
She thought she’d been safe. He’d touched her. Kissed her. Slid his hands beneath her clothing and felt her breasts, he’d stretched her across the kitchen table and covered her body with his. He’d done almost everything she’d been terrified of, and she’d survived.
Until this afternoon, when he’d pushed her down on the battered old sofa and came inside her. He hadn’t kissed her, caressed her, barely touched her. And he still almost made her want it.
She could hear the noise of his infernal music beneath her, the rumble of a car engine and the metal sound of tools. She needed to get clean, to get the feel of his hands, his body, off her, and then she needed to get the hell out of there. She sprinted down the hall, taking the fastest shower imaginable, but when she emerged the noise was still coming from beneath her.
His bedroom door sto
od ajar—at least, she assumed it was his. She pushed it open—if she could find anything at all to put on her feet she could get out of there before he even realized she was gone.
There wasn’t much in the room. A big bed, unmade, sheets in a tangle. She stared at it a long moment, unnerved. She couldn’t really look at that bed without thinking of Dillon. Lying in it. And her. Beneath him.
There was a splash of color against the white sheets, and she recognized one of the T-shirts she’d put on earlier. She must have dropped it in her flight. Typical of him to have taken it. If she was around for much longer she’d end up with nothing at all.
She grabbed the T-shirt and headed for the closet. No shoes, no boots, nothing she could put on her feet. She turned back to the room in frustration. There was a large-screen TV on the dresser opposite the bed, and on impulse she pulled open the drawers. It was more than likely he’d taken her purse and shoes in the first place, and this would be an obvious spot to stash them. But the drawers held nothing but clothes—T-shirts and jeans and socks. No underwear, though. She wasn’t surprised.
Until she saw the scrap of red and pink, wedged into a corner, tucked away underneath the T-shirts. She pulled it out, and she felt a weird clenching in her heart as she recognized it.
She hadn’t seen it in thirteen years, but she would have recognized it anywhere. She’d gone out with her friend, Carly, the one her mother had always referred to as white trash, and she’d found it on a sale rack at Macy’s. It was a dress made of a lacy pink-and-red-striped knit. The sleeves were long, with an uneven ruffle at the end, the skirt was short, and the neckline much too low. At fifteen she’d been flat-chested enough to get away with it—her now respectable 34B would make it as indecent as her mother had insisted it was.
Of course, there’d always been the little problem that the dress was see-through. It wasn’t as if Jamie hadn’t worn a full slip underneath, so that nothing showed. Carly wore things a hundred times more revealing, and Jamie had loved that dress. For the first time she’d felt beautiful. Even desirable. Back when desire was a good thing. She’d put the dress on and felt like a sexy, sultry creature, and she’d reveled in it.