Tremble

by Alison Foster

  “Well, he did.”

  He sighs. “What did I tell you about lying? This was your choice, Mac.”

  I open my mouth to tell him off but he’s so fast to slide his open palm between my legs that I freeze on the spot.

  He rubs the inside of my thighs and I bite my tongue, trying hard not to slap him across the face.

  “You feel good,” he says. “You always have.” His voice changes, turns softer, more intimate. “You’re not to blame for this mess, Mac. I know that.”

  His lips seek out mine, his tongue probing, urging me to participate.

  At first I think I might vomit in his mouth, but I don’t. It’s absurd and degrading, I know, but the only weapon I have is connecting with this man. Getting on his good side could be my salvation. So, I kiss him back.

  At first, I close my eyes, thinking of all those times his kisses made me feel alive and happy. All those times I melted in his hands. I think of that day in Santa Barbara when he got down on his knee and proposed, or the day he gave me Grandfather’s book. I try to remember that man and summon him back, and pretend this gentle side of him is somewhere in there still, in these kisses, in the broken part of his tortured soul. It helps me not to throw up.

  His hands travel across my body, my waist, my hips, my ass, and my breasts. I flick my tongue against his and it’s like we’re going back in time, like I’m falling through the floor of a nightmare into a dream, the good kind, the kind with sunshine and the sea crashing on the shore and Lukas Dupree, the one I thought existed for those many beautiful hours.

  I let myself go. I know I may die and this delusion may be the last I taste of happiness. Lukas himself tastes of coffee and sweet bread, he tastes like a holiday morning. It’s not fair. I miss him so much it hurts.

  “Are you going to beg for that fuck now?” he says as he breaks the kiss. “I think I might give it to you if you ask nicely.”

  His crude words finally bring me to my senses. No, I can’t let him treat me like that. I won’t. Death is better. There comes a point when you have no option but to draw the line. And if you don’t draw that line, you become blurry and formless and you are lost forever.

  I know I’m at his mercy. I know he’s a hundred times stronger than me, lethal even, an ex-marine with who knows what kind of training and fighting experience under his belt, but I go ahead and spit on his face anyway.

  It’s a pre-meditated, direct act of mutiny against his authority and he knows it. And it feels awesome. If he killed me now, it wouldn’t be half bad, going out this way, my spit still clinging to his stupid face.

  “Why don’t you get yourself off,” I say. “You seem obsessed with your own dick anyway.” Okay, that was cool, too. Kill me already. I’m on fire.

  Two heartbeats later, I’m immediately regretting my rebellion, but it’s pointless mulling it over now. The ball’s in his court.

  I’m bracing for a slap, or worse. He wipes the spit off his face, slowly, a smirk forming on his lips. “Feisty,” he says. “That always makes my dick hard.”

  He pushes me backwards, grabs my hips and spins me around so I’m bent over the bed. Instinct takes over. I lift my leg and manage to kick his knee. He curses, giving me a moment to crawl to the other side of the bed.

  The victory is short-lived. He gets ahold of my ankle, pulling me toward him until I’m lying on my stomach again, sprawled over the bed, my ass exposed to him.

  He leans over me, covering me with his body. “Stay still,” he growls in my ear. “I’ll tie you down if I have to.”

  He swings the handcuffs in front of my face. I stop breathing. I make one last attempt to wriggle out from underneath him but his hands are like steel vises now, keeping me in place.

  We stay like that for what seems like minutes, like he expects me to make some lethal move. One hand cups my ass suddenly and then tugs at my shorts and panties, stripping me of both.

  A chill runs up my body. I take in a deep breath and then another. He’s dangerous, he can hurt me, he can do anything he wants to me. It’s a fact that is hard to ignore right now. I’m exposed.

  I turn my head to look him in the face. His expression is severe, frown lines forming on his forehead as if he’s in pain or in deep contemplation. I know neither is the case. My eyes plead with him and then his expression turns sinister like my silent plea was a trigger.

  He pushes my head down with one hand as the other hand smooths out the skin on my ass cheeks. He rubs them slowly, almost kneading the muscles underneath the skin and I shudder. Not because it doesn’t feel good but because it does.

  I’m fighting against my own body now—my body that wants me to give in to the relaxing feeling of his massaging hands, my body that wants to forget all about the ugliness of my fucking life for a single moment.

  He plays with me like that for minutes and then I feel how one hand veers off a little to the center and presses against the tight muscles between my ass cheeks. His finger teases the little bud there but does not attempt to enter. I gasp. I’m torn between a thousand different feelings and fears. I want to scream at him to fuck off and at the same time I just want to stay in this state of semi-shock and stupor.

  “Say no and I’ll stop,” he says. I’m not sure I believe him.

  The pressure on my hips and back diminishes suddenly as he lifts his body off mine. He removes the hand that’s been rubbing my upper thigh. All that’s left is his fingers on my ass. I could easily roll away from him now. But I don’t. I let him play with my ass some more, feel how his fingertips rim me again and again and then one fingertip presses a tiny bit inside.

  I suppress the sounds of shock and confusion that want to pour out of me. “What are you doing?” is all I manage to say.

  “Relax, I’m not going to fuck your ass if that’s what you’re asking—not unless you beg me to. And you will, that’s a promise, babe. You will beg me to fuck your ass while I stroke your clit ever so gently.” He nears his mouth to my ear to whisper. “And I might do just that. I might shove my dick inside your ass and make you come through your sobs and tears.”

  “Screw you, you sick motherfucker,” I say, my skin prickling.

  He laughs as he pulls my panties up my thighs, covering me up. “Just something to think about,” he says, turning the light off. “You’ll have endless hours to use your imagination.”

  The tears come when he leaves the room. I fucking wish I knew what it is he wants to hear me say so I can give it to him. I’ll tell him my father is in Iceland or Timbuktu or wherever he wants so I can get out of this dark room and out of this nightmare he has built for me.

  I want to run from the shame of getting wet during his sickening vulgarities. Even as I’m thinking this, I’m turned on at the thought of his probing fingers. He knows there’s something wrong with me. I can see it in his eyes, those ocean eyes of his that haunt me whenever I close mine.

  Chapter 20

  Lukas

  I pour ice water all over my face and chest to jolt my brain back into rational thinking. What I did to her last night has me question my own motives. The fact is I have her right on the brink of breaking and it unnerves me. I have no desire to push her over an edge from which she can never return.

  I don’t blame her for instinctively wanting to protect McRae. No matter what a complete scumbag he was to so many, he’s her father. Her loyalty is natural, but her innocence act still pisses me off. This is a woman who didn’t cry at her own father’s funeral, who has never visited his grave. She is not a cold-hearted debutante, I made sure to measure her true character over the last weeks. That leaves only one explanation. Her father is alive.

  Even without these circumstantial arguments, there’s still the matter of the two coded messages I found when I hacked her email. Why would a young animation intern at Disney exchange messages in complex encrypted language to communicate with an unidentified recipient? The messages literally arrived to her account from nowhere—they’re untraceable and unreadable.
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  I could probably find some code breaker for hire, but that might take months to get what I need. Nora could give me information today or tomorrow or next week. And she will. It’s not like I’ll leave her any options. It’s past time for her to give up on her shit heel father. The sooner she does, the sooner her life can return to its path to mediocrity.

  She’ll hate me with every breath she takes for the rest of her life. I’m not particularly fond of that reality. She’ll live. Maybe she’ll have more perspective because of our encounters. She’ll be able to go on unlike so many others who weren’t so lucky.

  I fill a plate with spaghetti from a can and place it in the microwave. As I pour water in a cup, my eyes wander to the desk by the window.

  Maybe I should be smart about this. Getting her to trust me a little, getting her to admit there’s still something about me she likes despite all I’ve done to her could be the X factor.

  I retrieve her personal things from a desk drawer. Things like makeup and pink razors, but those aren’t the things she needs. I find her sketchpad and pencils. This girl always brings her art supplies wherever she goes. Now that I’ve established a baseline of fear, less mental intimidation could be the key to breaking her without destroying her increasingly fragile psyche.

  I load a tray from the kitchen with food, water, and her sketchpad and pencils. She’s underwhelmed when I set everything on the bed. I never expected her to thank me profusely, but maybe these things will help keep her anchored to the reality of what I need from her.

  “What’s this?” she says, keeping her eyes on the goods. When she starts tapping her fingers on the sketchpad, I know I have her. Most people can’t control themselves around the things that make them feel passionate. She’s not an exception. If I know anything about Nora McRae, it’s that she’s driven by her passions, and her love for visual arts is high on the list.

  “I thought about what you said,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re right and you could use some distraction.”

  I wait for a few seconds to see if she will thank me. She ignores me, only having eyes for her precious supplies.

  “Just think of all the other things you’re missing out on. I hope covering up for a criminal is worth it. I know I’d rather be doing something other than tormenting you.”

  Her eyes burn like hot coals when she locks them on mine. “Really? You seemed to be enjoying yourself when you threatened to rape me.”

  Hold on. Rape? The images of crossing the line race through my head.

  “I had no interest in raping you,” I say. “You’re pushing your luck. You kissed me passionately. I never threatened to rape you.”

  “You kind of did, big guy. Pulling my clothes off is assault. Rubbing your junk all over the place is not going to go over well in a court room either.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve had consensual sex a hundred times. We didn’t come close to sex last night. Get your facts straight. I remember telling you that I don’t rape women. Never have, never will. It’s not my fault you get wet every time I’m near you. Your panties betray you, Mac.”

  She laughs and it’s a harsh, drawn-out laugh, the kind that people make when they have stopped caring. “Kissing is assault when you kidnap someone. And I’m pretty sure sticking your finger in my ass qualifies as well.”

  “No, Mac,” I cut her off, growing more and more disgusted with the whole thing. “I’d have stopped immediately if you said anything at all about stopping. You made it clear that’s what you wanted. I gave you every chance to stop me and you didn’t. You barely moved when I stopped holding you down.”

  “You can’t use my paralyzing fear as an argument against me when you’re the one whose causing that,” she hisses at me.

  “You know what? I don’t care. You give me what I want and then you’ll be free to accuse me of all of this,” I say and it’s true but I know she won’t believe me.

  I can’t stand the thought she thinks I’m a rapist, but I can’t care about that now. What I’m doing to her, it’s all circumstantial and eventually she might begin to understand that.

  “You’re as guilty as I am,” I tell her, pulling her up to her feet. “You can’t stop me when I touch you because you still crave me inside.”

  “Lukas? Do you even hear yourself anymore?”

  I take in her sweet scent, feel the warmth of her skin as I run my hands up and down her arms. She shivers when I lean down to kiss her neck but she doesn’t pull away.

  “Here you go again,” she says but doesn’t resist.

  I slide my hand down her back, caressing my way to her ass. I wait to see how she will respond to this. She arches her back a little but that’s all. I continue kneading her flesh tenderly as I cup her ass with both hands. God, her ass. The more I handle it the more I love it. Just the perfect shape and firmness to squeeze sweetly.

  It took all the control I had not to beg her to fuck me last night. It wouldn’t have been too hard. If I had just pushed her a little, touched her a little more, she would willingly give in, but that’s not why I brought her here.

  She surprises me by rubbing her body on mine, grinding her stomach against my crotch. I groan as the skin on my cock tightens. I feel it flex and throb as she grabs it underneath the jeans. Fuck, she’s getting bolder than I thought she would. I’m not stupid. I know she’s trying to become the aggressor, most likely assuming I will let lust take over and start making mistakes. She’s tough, but I’d better set her straight.

  “I’m a man of my word,” I whisper in her ear. “If you want me to fuck you, you have to ask nicely.”

  She makes a hissing sound before she pulls back to slap me.

  It stings. She’s put a lot of force in that slap, leveraging her entire body to deliver it. Who knew she had such power in her little frame?

  It’s an awesome feeling. The pain her delicate fingers caused my cheek is exciting. I’m hard as hell now, if I’m being honest. She’s so spirited, so brave and untamed. A fool, but a brave fool.

  I kiss her. She’s startled at first, keeping her lips tight together. I bite on her lower lip. It’s more playful than aggressive and she gives in, parting her lips so I can slip my tongue inside her mouth. She probably thinks she’s doing this for strategy, but we both know she wants me. I want her too, but I can control my needs. She’ll never get what she wants, she’ll never trap me in a state of need and vulnerability.

  My turn to manipulate. I lean down to whisper in her ear. “Remember I promised I’d lick you every day of your life? I’d like to make good on that promise now and eat your pussy.”

  She pushes me away, her eyes on fire. “I’m not clean,” she says. “You haven’t let me shower since we got here.”

  Now that’s something I did not expect to hear. Her eyes flip back as she’s trying to come up with more excuses. Because that’s what they are—excuses. It’s written all over her face. She’s tempted. Maybe it’s boredom, or loneliness, or a wish to appease me that’s driving her, maybe all three together, but her eyes betray her. She wants my tongue to give her a sweet tickle bath until she comes undone. Even if it means she’d be giving up all control.

  I decide to make it easy for her. “That’s okay,” I say. “I never cared much for soap. I’d rather taste your hot little pussy.”

  She throws her head back, her eyes hooded. “You can’t help yourself,” she says. “You have to be vulgar. Whatever. You don’t deserve a clean pussy anyway. Knock yourself out. You win.”

  Well, that was fast. I grin. “Give me a second and you’ll be the winner.”

  I get her to sit on the bed against the pillows. I’m tempted to yank off all her clothes, but I want her to feel like she’s the one in charge for a while.

  “Take your clothes off,” I urge her as I crawl up to kiss her ear and neck.

  She obliges, sliding her shorts and pants down her legs before she pulls her shirt over her head. She watches me without tenderness.

  Fuck, she’s so hot, so fuckable. My co
ck aches at the sight of her bouncing tits and smooth hips. I control myself and resist slamming my fat erection into her tight pussy. Instead, I part her legs and land my mouth on her deliciously tasty, unwashed pussy, causing her to gasp loudly.

  I circle her opening with my tongue again and again before I flick it against her clit. I haven’t shaved in days. The whiskers will burn her sensitive skin like tiny razors. All the better. She’ll remember this longer. She’ll remember how I owned her.

  She grabs my hair, pulling my whole face up against her pussy. I slide a finger inside her and it gets drenched immediately.

  She moans now, moving her hips up and down to increase the friction on her clit. Fuck. One swipe of my tongue against her quivering pussy and she’s done for, she’s convulsing all over, moaning like a dying kitten.

  I almost explode just listening to her pleasure.

  Too fucking easy. Even now. I’ve known for a long time I have this effect on women but I’m a sucker for a challenge. It’s one of the things I liked about her from the beginning, what drove me to desire her so much, made me want to seduce her, but now she’s acting like every other chick who ever spread wide for me seconds after we met.

  But I know there’s more here. She thinks she’ll outsmart me, make me a captive of her charms. Her mind moves quicker than most. This game between us is incredibly addictive. I want to keep playing.

  I flick my tongue over her clit wildly and then pin her clit up against her. She cries out loud as fuck and then her screams are hoarse, like she’s lost control of her own vocal chords.

  My dick is fucking throbbing, my balls tight and painful, begging for some action. It’s not going to happen. I’ve already risked enough with my inability to keep her at a distance.

  I get up, saying nothing. She’s watching me with her eyes half open as I stride into the bathroom. I wash my face and soak a towel in warm water.

  She gasps a little when I return to spread her legs, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed. She accepts it. She’s almost resigned, as if understanding she’s given into my will yet again.