by Godwin, Pam
The heat, the intimacy, and the weight of his body vanished, leaving nothing but cold vulnerability in its wake.
She should’ve been relieved to gain the space. But she was still restrained to the bed and knew that when he left the room, she would be stuck here with nothing to distract her from the hunger pangs.
“He raped you?” He stood beside the bed, his expression unreadable.
“No. He got aggressive and handsy and wouldn’t leave. It scared me enough to call the cops and file a restraining order.”
“This happened last year. Yet you divorced him a decade ago.”
“He never wanted the divorce and has been trying to get me back ever since. He’s a relentless pest, but that’s all he is. He shows up at my house, at my work, calls and texts and sends gifts. But it’s all harmless. He’s not a threat.”
“Until he forced himself on you. Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not. It’s just…I know him. He wouldn’t hire someone to watch me.”
“What about Evan Phillips?”
“No way. He doesn’t have the money to throw around on shit like that. Besides, we’re together all the time. He lives right next door. There’s no reason for him to hire someone to watch me.”
“You’d be surprised what a desperate man would do. He has hundreds of photos of you on his personal computer.”
“What?” A chill zinged along her scalp. She didn’t know what bothered her more—his announcement or the fact that he had access to Evan’s computer. “Hundreds?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, okay. I mean, I know he takes pictures of me with his phone sometimes. I didn’t know he saved them. But he’s with a lot of women and probably has photos of them, too.”
“Nope. Just you.”
That’s fucked up.
But was it really? Evan repeatedly pressed her to take their relationship further. Maybe he liked her more than she thought?
“Just because he has photos of me,” she said. “That doesn’t mean he hired Paul to watch me.”
He stared at her for an eternity, his face unfairly gorgeous. And blank. She would give anything to read his mind.
Growing antsy, she twisted her wrists in the handcuffs and pulled. He’d secured them correctly, ensuring she couldn’t escape and while keeping them loose enough not to cause discomfort. She could flip over but would have to sleep with her hands above her head.
Turning away, he grabbed a bottled water from the stash on the small desk and sat beside her hip.
“This is your childhood room,” she said. “You were in here when you started emailing Caroline.”
His jaw hardened as he lifted her head and helped her drink.
She knew he’d burned all the furniture and everything else that had once been in this house.
“I cried for you that day.” She drank another long gulp, draining the rest of the water. “The day you burnt your belongings. I know it was hard for you. But it was also cathartic.”
His neck stiffened, and he tossed the empty bottle in the direction of the desk.
“I want to know…” He leaned over her, his eyes ablaze with accusation. “How far did you let your ex-husband go before you told him no.”
“What?”
“You loved him enough to nearly kill yourself when he cheated.” He lowered his head, hovering his lips a hairbreadth away from hers. “When he put his mouth on you, did you open for him? Did you draw him in?”
Her mouth opened now on a shocked gasp. “No, I—”
His tongue swept in, lashing and licking at the stunned flesh of hers. She didn’t kiss him back, for this wasn’t a kiss at all. It was anger and violence. He grabbed her face and mauled her with his mouth, biting, sucking, and decimating her defenses.
Before she thought to bite him back, it ended. He stared down at her, his breaths fast and hot against her face, his lips swollen and glistening.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, furious.
“To test your reaction.”
She ground her teeth. “What did you learn?”
He touched a finger to her mouth and trailed it down her chin, her neck, her breastbone. His eyes followed the movement, his intention clear a half-second before he pinched her nipple through the shirt.
“Stop!” She wasn’t wearing a bra and had no protection against the assault. “Don’t touch me!”
“Is that what you told him?” He squeezed harder, shooting pain through her breast and stinging her eyes with tears.
“Yes!”
“You told him yes?”
“No!” She kicked her legs, aiming a knee toward his back. But she couldn’t reach him. She didn’t have the strength. “I told him no. A million times no.”
“But he couldn’t keep his hands off your hot little responsive body.” He cupped her breast in a ruthless vise, adding ungodly pressure as his thumb rolled over the pebbled peak. “Your nipples were hard before I even touched them. My God, you’re hungry.”
“You sound like a rapist.”
He clicked his tongue. “Are you wet?”
“Are you hard?”
He twisted, slid a leg over the top of hers and pressed the hardest, largest erection she’d ever felt against her hip.
Her pulse quickened. Her body shuddered, and her mouth went desert-dry.
That couldn’t be real. No goddamn way.
His cock jerked against her, and swear to God, it felt like a baseball bat was stretching the threads of his jeans from groin to knee.
Instinct bellowed at her to retreat, but she refused to wither beneath him.
“I know you get off on hurting women, but I’m a hard pass, remember?” She lifted her pelvis and pushed into the threat, challenging his execution. “Go fuck someone your own age.”
“I don’t want to fuck you, Rylee. I’m only interested in hurting you.”
He flipped her to her stomach and shoved the hem of the shirt up her back.
“What are you doing?” She jerked on the restraints and bucked beneath his ruthless hands.
He yanked down her pajama pants and exposed her bare backside.
Her breath left her.
His palm came down with a shocking, fiery smack. She gulped, stunned, and opened her mouth on a silent scream.
Another strike. And another. He wailed on her ass with all the fury of a punishing god. She could only lie there and take it like a shameful child. But she wasn’t ashamed. She was burning, panting, sinking into his blistering attention in the most sickening way.
It wasn’t just the bite of his hot palm or the delicious chill that followed each blow. It was the crescendo of his breaths, the guttural growls from his throat, and the blustering pulse in her ears, in her pussy—all of it echoing in an erotic symphony and growing faster, faster, until there was no pause between the primal beats.
Then he was on her. His hands, his teeth, tearing into her welted flesh, sinking into burning muscle, piercing skin, slapping, biting, and groaning with sexual savagery.
He spread her cheeks and took his mouth to her anus, teasing and tormenting the ring of nerves. His tongue prodded and lapped up and down her crack, delving deep. So deep. Oh, God, he knew what he was doing. If this was him when he lost his temper, she couldn’t fathom what he could do to a woman when he was in full control.
It felt too good. Too atrociously depraved and shocking. She’d wanted this level of rough, raw lust for as long as she could remember, to burn beneath the intensity of male heat, to explore the dark, uncharted corners of her imagination, but she’d never found a man who could take her there.
So instead of fighting, she lifted her ass and writhed against him to heighten the sensation.
“You fucking slut.” He spanked her again, harder, meaner. “I don’t hear you saying no. You tease men with this perfect, round ass. You fuck them and forget them and wonder why you have a stalker.”
The heat of his mouth replaced his hand, his tongue stabbing between her buttoc
ks, and lower, lower, reaching for her pussy.
Nonsensical sounds bubbled in her throat as she jerked like a mindless thing, trembling, gasping. The throbbing between her legs came at intervals until those intervals blurred into one blinding pulse. It overtook her.
She was going to come.
He tore his mouth away and climbed off the bed.
Her stomach seized and plummeted.
Without warning, he plunged two fingers between her legs, gliding the tips along her soaked slit. She squeezed her thighs together, but he got what he wanted, proving it as he brought his wet hand to her face and smeared her arousal across her lips.
If she felt shame, it was diluted by an inglorious blast of rage. Rage at herself for falling into his trap.
His other hand caught her hair and wrenched her head back at a painful angle. Then he kissed her fully, brutally, with such appalling intensity and hostility that it shriveled her insides.
Shoving her away, he strode toward the door.
True to his word, he didn’t fuck her.
He’d hurt her.
“Tommy.” She seethed with contempt and panic. “Let me go!”
He shut off the light and left her quivering in the dark by calculated intent.
CHAPTER 13
Rylee lay in the dark, listening to male voices drift in from the front room. Cole had returned, and no one had come to check on her. Hunger only scratched the surface of her misery.
The welts on her backside throbbed. The restraints on her arms prevented her from pulling up her pajama pants and cleaning away the damp reminder of her arousal. Tommy had deliberately left her in this position, knowing she would squirm in discomfort and despise herself as much as she despised him.
What sane woman craved the touch of a cruel man? She couldn’t even claim Stockholm syndrome because she’d known him for ten years, had willingly put herself in this situation, and felt absolutely no positive feelings toward him.
Except for this sick, sexual attraction.
She needed to get far, far away from him before she lost her damn mind.
He and Cole spoke in low murmurs, too muted for her ears. They were probably going through her duffel bag and dissecting all the messages, apps, and private activity on her phone.
Hopefully, their intrusive investigation would prove she wasn’t connected to Paul Kissinger.
How had she not known she was being followed for six months? As frightening as that was, if the person who’d hired Paul wanted to kill her, she would already be dead.
Ironically, this had all began on the one night she’d actually wished for death. Tommy had inadvertently saved her life on that bridge, and now, a decade later, he was intent on destroying it.
Too bad she didn’t have the training to negotiate her way out of this. But criminal psychologists were not effective as negotiators.
First off, if she attempted to counsel him, no matter how subtle her technique, he would know what she was doing and rage against the implication that he was crazy.
Secondly, therapy was not the same as negotiation. Therapeutic intervention took months or years to achieve positive growth and relief from suffering. She was no longer interested in helping him grow past his trauma. Her only goal now was escaping as quickly as possible.
Thirdly, he wasn’t mentally ill. He didn’t have bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. He was a sane man, a ruthless vigilante, who knew no bounds and harbored a blatant disregard for laws and authority.
Hours must’ve passed, and at some point, she fell asleep.
When she woke, Tommy was in bed with her.
Morning light filtered into the bedroom through the open doorway, illuminating the hard, sinewy arm that rested on her hip like an iron bar.
Her pants had been put back in place, and even more surprising, her hands were free.
She lay on her side, turned into him for some reason. All she could see was a flat nipple and taut, tanned skin stretched over the ridges of a chiseled chest.
Her pulse accelerated, her joints frozen. Had he slept here all night? Was he sleeping now?
His hand moved, fingers ghosting along her back. She stiffened.
Swallowing past the resentment in her throat, she tilted back her head and locked onto alert, golden eyes.
“Why did you sleep in here?” she asked, suspicious.
“The other bed was taken.”
“So was this one.”
“While I despise the sight of you, I’d rather sleep beside you than the sweaty, bearded bastard in the other room.” He lowered his hand to her backside and squeezed the abused muscle. “How’s your ass feel this morning?”
“Fine.” She resisted the impulse to jerk away and give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Liar.” He gave her a light smack on the butt and rose from the bed. “Go take a shower.”
He strode out of the room, wearing workout shorts that hung so low on his hips she could see two deep dimples near the crease of his firm butt.
No one should look that sexy after just waking up. Especially not the motherfucker who was responsible for the stitching pain in her stomach.
How many days had it been since she’d eaten? Four? It felt like forty, and her strength was paying for it. Any escape attempt right now would be laughable. Hence the reason he’d removed the handcuffs.
The room spun as she wobbled toward the bathroom. The only reason she wanted another shower was to wash off the remnants of last night’s arousal. She couldn’t let that happen again.
Today, she would find a way to leave.
Fresh clothes—taken from her truck—waited for her on the vanity. No undergarments, but there was a tube of ointment. She glanced at the label, realizing it was meant for her welts.
Was that what Tommy did for all the women he fucked? Blistered their asses then tossed them a tube of aftercare?
Her blood boiled, and she snatched the ointment, hurling it across the bathroom.
She made it through a quick shower without passing out, all the while imagining driving her fist into his handsome face repeatedly. As she dried herself off, she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Four days of stress and starvation had already taken its toll. Her cheekbones sharpened under the dark circles bruising her eyes. Her shoulders and ribs were more pronounced, pressing starkly through the pallor of her skin. She looked gaunt. Almost cadaverous. She felt sick.
Reluctantly, she located the ointment and smeared it on her welted backside. That done, she dressed in jeans and a white tank-top, cleaned her teeth, and left her hair dripping down her back.
Then she opened the door to the overwhelming fragrance of pork grease and coffee. The aroma buckled her knees. Staggering, she followed the scented trail into the kitchen.
Tommy sat at the table, a mug in his hand and his eyes drilling into hers. Shirtless and sprawled with his legs spread, he took up too much room, too much air. He knew it, too, with his brown hair all tousled from sleep and his lips twitching with arrogance.
He knew exactly how women looked at him, including the one he starved.
She tore her gaze away and found Cole standing at the stove, frying eggs and bacon. A basket of colorful fruit sat on the counter, along with cheese, bakery sweets, and milk. He must’ve gone to the store while he was out yesterday.
Salivating and dizzy with hunger, she couldn’t endure this. It was cruel enough to starve her. But to torment her with a goddamn breakfast buffet right under her nose was beyond brutal. It was coldblooded and diabolically evil.
Tommy stood, put his empty plate and mug in the dishwasher, and strode past her without a glance or a word. A second later, the bathroom door shut, and the shower turned on.
“Sit.” Cole pointed a spatula at the table and turned back to the stove.
If she didn’t sit, she would collapse. So she obeyed.
He joined her, holding a heaping plate of food.
Her eyes watered, overflowing with despair. “Would y
ou kill me if I fought you for a bite?”
“No need.” He slid the plate toward her and wrapped her trembling hand around a fork. “Hurry up. You only have about five minutes.”
Shocked elation jolted through her, but she didn’t hesitate. Eggs, bacon, pineapple, glazed donuts—she shoveled it all in, groaning, whimpering, and casting off her manners in lieu of stuffing her face. “He doesn’t know you’re feeding me?”
“No, and if you tell him, this will be the last time I interfere on your behalf.”
Focused on devouring every bite, she didn’t come up for air until she’d licked the plate clean.
Cole held out a glass of water, regarding her too closely.
She drank deeply, washing down barely chewed food. “I’m not complaining, but what are you playing at? Good cop, bad cop?”
“If you think I’m the good one, you’re terrible at your job.”
The bathroom door opened.
Cole reached out and swiped a thumb across her lips, clearing away crumbs. Then he moved the empty plate, setting it in front of him.
Her blood-sugar levels were already rising, surging energy through her system and chasing away the trembling effects of hunger. She was far from feeling like her normal self, but the meal had quickly taken the edge off.
She met Cole’s eyes, and maybe he saw the gratitude in hers. But she wouldn’t thank him. He was an accomplice in her suffering, and she owed him nothing.
With a smirk, he reclined in the chair and ran a finger along his beard.
He wanted her to think he wasn’t a good guy. He could mostly pull it off with that unnerving smirk on his rugged face and the sheer number of tattoos that competed for space on his strapping arms. And maybe his heart was a little jaded and a lot broken. But those bloody, beating scraps still had the capacity for compassion.
As Tommy walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and back to the hall, she pinched the neckline of her tank-top and scrubbed the inside of the material over the surface of her teeth, trying to remove any evidence of that satisfying meal.
Cole arched an eyebrow.
She tipped up hers in return. She’d meant what she told Tommy that first night in the desert. Keeping secrets was a weakness of hers. She did it too well and often lied to protect someone’s feelings.