He wouldn’t have had to force her… but he would have been taking advantage of her, and that was almost as bad… wasn’t it?
As she turned away from the suitcase, her arms full of toiletries and clothing, she paused, her attention directed toward the nightstand. She was standing so still, looking at the telephone. Remembering what he had used the cord for? Or wondering if she would have an opportunity to use it and call for help while he was outside?
Then abruptly, as if realizing that he was watching her, she moved away from the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. A second later, he heard the click of the lock.
He stood where he was for a moment, wanting to trust her, wanting to turn his back and go outside again and not worry that she would try to make a call. But, much as he regretted it, he couldn’t trust her, no more than she could trust him. He couldn’t leave her and the telephone unguarded in the same room. Crossing to the nightstand in a half dozen strides, he held the phone in one hand and yanked the cord from the wall with the other. Then he tossed the phone on the bed, went outside, closed the door after him, and walked through the rain to the Blazer.
His hands were unsteady; it took him a moment to slide the key into the lock, a moment longer to turn it in the right direction. Once the door was open, he didn’t bother climbing in out of the rain, but instead leaned across the seat to rummage in the console for the book of matches he’d picked up at breakfast and the pack of cigarettes he’d bought this afternoon, along with two Cokes and a tank of gas. That had been the only time since her comment about the thunderstorms that Teryl had initiated a conversation with him.
I didn’t know you smoked, she had remarked in that slightly smug, slightly condescending tone nonsmokers tended to use with those who did. I don’t very often, he had replied, which was a lie. He’d started when he was fifteen because the guys he’d hung out with had smoked, because they had thought it was cool, and very much because his parents had denounced it as a nasty habit. He’d taken up swearing about that time—not an occasional damn or hell, but obscenities, every one he’d ever heard, the filthier, the better, and in every sentence—and drinking, too, all in an effort to provoke parents who were already always angry with him.
But eventually he’d grown up. Recognizing swearing for the juvenile act that it was, he had cleaned up his vocabulary. He had realized that drinking was pleasurable enough to become a risk, and so he had cut that back, too—although it was still his strongest temptation when he was stressed out or more morose than usual. But he still smoked—not all the time but more than was healthy.
She didn’t like cigarettes, Teryl had informed him, still using that superior tone of voice, and she would appreciate it if he didn’t smoke around her. Well, that wasn’t a problem, he thought as he held a match to the cigarette between his lips. She was in the bathroom, out of that damnable dress by now and in the shower, water pouring over her head, streaming across her breasts, down the slope of her belly, and between her legs, and he was standing outside in the rain, trying to pretend that he didn’t want to be in there with her. The only thing that connected them now was the fact that they were both wet… and a certain part of him was bound to get a whole hell of a lot wetter if he didn’t quit imagining what she was doing and how she looked doing it.
Hell and damnation.
Backing up, he slammed the door, then headed toward the room again. He didn’t pull his key out to go inside, though. He merely stepped onto the sidewalk out of the rain, leaned back against the stucco wall, and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
Why was his luck so shitty? Why wasn’t Teryl shallow and self-absorbed or a snooty bitch? Why wasn’t she too ditsy to carry on an intelligent conversation? Why the hell wasn’t she everything he didn’t like in a woman? Why did she have to be damn near everything he did like?
If he had met her a year ago—or three or five—maybe they could have had something. If they had met in Colorado instead of New Orleans, if the purpose of her trip had been pleasure instead of business, if her business hadn’t been Simon Tremont… He still would have thought that she was pretty, innocent, and sexy as hell. It still would have taken him only a record-setting short time to decide he wanted her. He still would have eventually mustered his courage and told her so flat out, and when she agreed, he still would have hustled her off to the nearest bed and crawled deep inside her.
The only difference was that back then something could have come of it. Back then he wouldn’t have had to leave her that night or kidnap her the next morning. Back then he wouldn’t have been forced to make her hate him before they’d even had a chance to find out if she could ever feel anything else for him.
Of course, back then there hadn’t been another Simon Tremont living his life and stealing his glory. Back then he would have appeared a reasonably normal man instead of a raving lunatic.
Jesus, he had the worst luck in the world.
He smoked the cigarette to the filter, lit another, then flicked the butt into the grass. It made little sizzling sounds in the rain; then, with a puff of smoke, the glowing tip went out. He finished the second, the third, and the fourth the same way. He was debating lighting a fifth but decided against it. His clothes were damp and clammy, and his feet were wet inside his shoes. Teryl had had plenty of time for her shower, he wanted a shower of his own, and his need for the bathroom was growing desperate. It was time to face her… and the bed… and the telephone cord, whether he wanted to or not.
That goddamned telephone cord.
Tucking the matches into the plastic wrap that enclosed the cigarette pack, he unlocked and opened the door and stepped inside. He came to a sudden stop right there.
Teryl was finished with her shower, and she was sitting in the sole chair in the room. She had turned the television on its swivel base to face her and had changed the channel to watch a syndicated rerun of “Murder, She Wrote”; although he couldn’t see the screen, he recognized Angela Lansbury’s voice.
She had turned off all the lights in the room except the swag lamp that hung above the small round table where she sat rubbing expensive-smelling lotion on her legs. Had she simply disliked the bright glare of so many lights? Did she, like him, prefer to watch TV in near-darkness? Had she not taken a moment to consider the scene she had set and placed herself in?
It was damned erotic. A darkened room. A single milky glass-enclosed light bulb casting its softening glow directly on her. The chill that came from the air conditioner, which hadn’t yet dispersed the fragrant, steamy dampness drifting out through the open bathroom door. Her wet hair combed straight back from her face. Her legs glistening with sweet-scented lotion. Her cotton shirt, too big, too loose, too revealing by far. The slow, soothing, sensual movements of her hands on her legs.
As she bent to reach her ankle, the tank top dipped forward. It was a man’s shirt, scooped low at the neck, cut deep at the arms, not meant to be worn by a woman, at least not without something snug-fitting underneath… and Teryl wasn’t wearing anything at all under it. The gaping fabric beneath her left arm presented him with a tantalizing glimpse of her breast, rounded and full, and her nipple, small, soft, nearly flat. The last time he’d seen her breasts—jeez, only three nights ago—they had been swollen and her nipples had been as hard as his cock was getting right now. He had sucked them hard, had bitten them, once with enough force to make her gasp. He had made her whimper and writhe and plead in a husky, wordless voice for more, and he had given it to her, had given her everything that he’d had to give.
But she had given him so much more. The welcome of her body. The satisfaction of her release. The comfort of being so deep and snug inside her. His own release. A few hours’ peace.
Sweet damnation, he wanted it again. He wanted her again. He wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her. He wanted to fuck her, really fuck her, hard and fast, wanted to come inside her, to fill her until she couldn’t take one drop more, and then he wanted to do it again, only differ
ent this time. Slower. Gentler. Longer.
He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to make love with her. Sweet, sweet damnation.
Finishing with her legs, she sat back in the chair and the shirt fell back into a semblance of modest attire. Rubbing the residue of leftover lotion into her hands, she looked across the room at him. If she noticed his erection—hell, how could she not notice when he felt as if his balls just might explode?—she gave no sign of it. She just gave him a cool, distant look and in an equally cool, distant voice said, “Close the door, please.”
He reached blindly behind him, shoved it shut, and twisted the lock. He didn’t move away from it, though. He simply stood there, forcing himself to breathe deeply, trying not to think about how damned horny he was or what sweet pleasure he could find in her body. He tried not to think about how impossible his need was, about seducing or coaxing or pleading or raping.
When he thought he could safely move closer, he did so, turning his suitcase on its side, opening it and taking out the damned coil of cord. Teryl was still rubbing her hands together when he turned toward her. The instant she saw what he held, though, she froze. All that cool distance disappeared from her expression and was replaced by raw panic. Somehow she had convinced herself that it wouldn’t happen again. It was denial, he supposed, a common enough response to something she feared as intensely as she feared this. To something she hated as fiercely, as desperately, as he hated this.
“No.” The word was thin, a plea with no more substance than a puff of air, but it echoed through his soul.
“I’m sorry, Teryl.”
She found her voice then, along with her anger. “You can’t do this to me again. I won’t let you.”
“I have to.” He reached for her hands, but she jerked away. “Please, Teryl… You don’t have to lie down. Come over here and sit on the floor beside the bed. You can watch television. It won’t hurt. I’ll make you comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” she shrieked. “With my hands tied to the bed?”
“Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he pleaded, reaching for her again. This time she scrambled away, shoving the chair back, struggling to her feet. There was a wild animal look in her eyes, panic and pure terror, as she searched for an avenue of escape. There was none. She had backed herself into a corner. To get away, she would have to climb over the chair and table or go through him, and he was taller, stronger, faster, and outweighed her by seventy pounds. She was trapped, he acknowledged regretfully.
And so was he. Trapped into doing things he despised. Things he would never forgive.
For the third time, he reached for her, catching her wrist, using his hold to pull her to him. She fought every step, scratching at his hand with her free hand, her nails scraping hard across it, tearing off skin, drawing blood. He didn’t flinch, didn’t relent, but dragged her the few feet to the foot of her bed. There it was a simple matter of using his greater strength to put her in a sitting position on the floor, of kneeling astride her to keep her from wriggling away while he formed the cord into a slip knot, of trying desperately, vainly, to shut out her helpless, breathless sobs of terror.
When he attempted to maneuver the wrist he held behind her back, she fought him, twisting her fingers around, clutching a handful of his shirt. “P-please, John,” she whispered, her voice quavering, her muscles quivering. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do whatever you want, anything you want. I’ll sleep with you, I’ll give you the best blow job you ever had, I’ll—I’ll do anything you like, anything kinky. Just please, please, don’t tie me up again.”
He stared down at her, every muscle in his body going taut. “Jesus, Teryl, don’t,” he demanded. He begged. He was having a hard enough time dealing with what he wanted but couldn’t—shouldn’t—have. If she offered it to him, offered him what he needed so damned badly that he hurt with it, offered it voluntarily in exchange for freedom from the restraints… How the hell could he find the character to turn her down? He wasn’t a strong man. He wasn’t an honorable man. He was just a weak bastard who’d lived alone so long that an hour’s intimacy with her just might be worth sacrificing whatever little bit of self-respect had survived the last few days.
All too aware of her effect on him, she brought her free hand to his chest, then slid it lower, over his belt, past the snap on his jeans, straight down the zipper to his crotch. She stroked him, and his cock twitched, making him bite his lip on a groan.
“Please, John,” she whispered, the tremble gone from her voice but the desperation still painfully, shamefully there. “Let me make love to you. Let me undress you so I can touch you, so I can kiss you. Please…”
She stroked him again, rubbing hard through the denim that separated them, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he groaned again. If she kept touching him like that, kept talking like that, he was going to come, all right.
He’d never wanted any woman this way.
Slowly, one finger at a time, he released his grip on her wrist. His hand was trembling. So was hers. Raising both hands, he cupped her face, bent forward, and hesitantly touched his mouth to hers. She opened to him immediately, accepting his kiss, accepting his tongue. Lower, she was opening his jeans pretty damned quickly, too, not fumbling over the belt, the snap, or the zipper. The mere touch of her hand, soft and cool, on his belly stirred an ache that threatened to never end.
Now his tongue was in her mouth, and her hand was in his jeans, closing around his erection, lifting it for easier access, caressing it. He was so damned close to coming, so pathetically, needfully close to emptying into her hand.
And it was wrong, so wrong. He could spend the rest of the damned night screwing her right there on the floor, and when they were done, she would hate him. He would hate himself, and, worst of all, she would hate herself.
She would be so ashamed.
It would be his fault, his shame, but she would feel the guilt. She would blame herself.
With a good deal more decency than he’d thought he possessed, he ended the kiss, drew her hands away, and awkwardly zipped his jeans. For a moment she remained motionless—eyes closed, lips parted, hands resting limply at her sides where he’d laid them—then he slipped the vinyl-coated wire around one wrist, and her eyes flew open. She didn’t bargain, didn’t plead. She simply looked at him with a steady gaze that spoke eloquently of anguish and fear, a gaze that wordlessly accused him.
Feeling the weight of his guilt all too strongly, he pushed ahead anyway. He guided her hands behind her back, slid the cord over the free one, looped it around both wrists, then tied the ends to the metal foot of the bed. Sliding his fingers between the flexible cord and the soft skin on the inside of her wrists, he made sure it wasn’t too tight, made certain she couldn’t work her way free but wouldn’t suffer any real discomfort.
When that was done, he cradled her face in his palms again. “I’m sorry.”
That look didn’t waver. “You bastard.” Her voice was quiet, empty of any real emotion. But her eyes weren’t empty. Her eyes damned him.
Rising to his feet, he grabbed what he needed from his suitcase, went into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. He felt a hundred years old, a hundred years dead. Some of his aches—like the bloody scratches on his hand or the hard-on that not even Teryl’s loathing could diminish—were purely physical. Time—or a little dexterous handwork—would take care of them. As for the rest of it…
There was no cure for the pain. For the weariness. For the shame or the dishonor, for the sorrow or the guilt. There was no cure for the miserable man he had become. No cure but death. I’m sorry, he’d told Teryl, and he had meant it with every fiber of his being. He was so damned sorry.
Maybe someday she would believe him.
But she wouldn’t forgive him.
Not ever.
Teryl stared at the television screen, but nothing she saw made sense; nothing she heard could penetrate the roar in her ears. She hated this—hated
this helpless, degrading feeling and, worse, the fear. Oh, God, the fear. There was nothing worse, nothing more dreadful, than irrational fear. It wasn’t as if this were a new and strange thing. It wasn’t as if, after tying her for a short time, then freeing her, the two previous nights, John was going to leave her here all night this time. He wasn’t going to come back and assault her, wasn’t going to rape her, wasn’t going to hurt her in any way. She had no reason to be afraid this time. All she had to do was sit quietly, watch the rest of “Murder, She Wrote” and by the time it was over, John would be finished in the bathroom and she would be free.
It was an inconvenience. A little bit of unpleasantness. An embarrassment.
But it wasn’t any reason for her heart to beat in her chest as if it might burst. It wasn’t any reason for her lungs to be so tight that only the smallest of breaths could squeeze in. It wasn’t any reason for her palms to be damp, for sweat to be trickling down her spine, for the muscles in her arms and legs to be trembling with such force.
Oh, God, she wanted to scream. Afraid to do that, afraid of losing what little control she still had, she wanted to cry. To plead. To beg. But she’d already done that, hadn’t she? She had pleaded with John not to do this to her again. She had begged him, had offered him anything, had behaved so disgustingly pathetically.
And he had turned her down.
He could have accepted her offer, then reneged. He could have done anything he wanted, could have debased her, used her, then tied her anyway. There was nothing she could have done to stop him.
But he hadn’t. Because he’d known he would have to secure her to the bed anyway? Because somewhere inside him the decent, nice, normal man he’d once been still somehow existed? Because he’d been too honest, too fair to take advantage of her when he would still have to subject her to this fate?
Maybe his refusal had had nothing to do with decency, normalcy, or honesty. Maybe he simply hadn’t wanted her. Oh, sure, he’d been hard; she’d seen it, had felt it, had wrapped her fingers around the long, hot, solid flesh. But erections were involuntary responses to physical stimulation. An erection simply meant that he’d been aroused, that his body had been ready to engage in sex.
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