“Put your feet on the ground.” As soon as she obeyed, wobbling slightly, still unsteady on her feet in her heels, he started to fuck her.
Not make love, not have sex. Fuck. He rammed into her cunt without mercy, slamming forward with such force that she had to brace herself on the hood and push back against him to keep from being glued to the side of the truck. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t emotional. It was hard, fast, brutal. In a word—perfect, exactly what she needed to ground herself back on earth. And to come near the edge of completion for a third time.
Nicky spread her legs a little wider and shoved back against Jack as he thrust forward, intensifying the penetration until she could feel the head of his cock making bruising contact with the end of her pussy. The hint of pain made another rush of wet heat flow between her thighs and Jack groan behind her. His hands flipped up her skirt and took hold of her hips, digging his fingers into the full flesh of her ass.
“Harder, harder!” Nicky begged, gasping for breath as the tension within her built to a level she’d never dreamed possible. She was either going to come again or shatter into a million pieces, and she didn’t really care which. So long as Jack kept fucking her, touching her, taking her.
“Don’t come. Not yet. Wait for me. Wait,” Jack demanded, even as he obliged her by squeezing her ass even tighter.
“Oh, god. Oh, god.” Nicky struggled to obey, but oh, god, it was hard.
She was so close, so terribly close, and he felt so amazing. His cock actually seemed to be getting thicker as he neared his own release, stretching her pussy even further, making her feel so full of him that there was room for nothing else. Nothing but Jack. And it was perfect, better than anything she could remember, even the other times she had been with him.
“Now. I want my pussy to come now.” He punctuated his words by jerking her hips back toward him, forcing himself so deep inside her the hint of pain as he met the end of her became enough to make her wince.
Fortunately for her, she could wince and come like the world was ending in a big burst of fire at the same time.
“Fuck! Jack!” She screamed those words and a few other things she couldn’t remember as her mind spun inside her skull like she’d slammed back half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and her pussy did its best to squeeze Jack’s cock in half.
She moaned as his penis jerked inside her, each tiny movement enough to take her even higher. She’d never felt so connected to a lover, as if his pleasure was her own, as if every wave of his release triggered a ripple of bliss inside her. It was more than she’d ever expected, more than she knew what to do with as she finally drifted down from the high of her first triple orgasm.
Triple orgasm. She’d come three times and Jack hadn’t even seemed like he was trying that hard. What would he be capable of if they became regular lovers, if they had the time to learn the little things that—
What the fuck are you thinking? He doesn’t want to become lovers; he despises you so much he can’t stand the idea that you share a matching tattoo and is willing to permanently alter the damn thing without your consent. Get your head on straight and figure a way out of here before it’s too late.
“Get back in the car and warm up. We’re still about twenty minutes from the cabin,” Jack said as he pulled out of her, the loss of contact between them as depressing as her inner monologue. “Thank you . . . for your trust.”
He kissed her softly on the top of her head as he smoothed down her skirt, but the affectionate gesture did nothing to stop the anger slowly flowing into her veins, replacing the euphoria of a few moments before.
Thank you for your trust. Her trust? That was it? No “You were amazing” or “That was the hottest fuck of my life”? Or even a “Damn, I can’t wait to have you again”?
No, he just wanted to thank her for her trust. Wasn’t he the big, bad, unavailable dom? Just like Derrick had been during the first year of their marriage, when he still made love to her but never had a kind or affectionate word. Never made her feel like anything but a sub in the worst sense of the word.
Subhuman. That’s what she’d been to Derrick, and what she’d vowed she’d never be to any man, ever again.
The headlights came around the curve only a second later, as if some higher power had heard her thoughts and decided she deserved the chance at deliverance. Nicky ran for the road without a moment’s hesitation, heedless of her nudity or of Jack’s voice behind her, ordering her back to the car.
Fuck him, and his orders. She was getting the hell out of here. In less than a few hours, he’d gotten under her skin to the point his lack of pillow talk after they’d had sex had hurt her. What kind of damage would he be able to inflict in a few days?
Nicky was not sticking around to find out. Her heels clicked madly on the pavement as she dashed for the road, racing the heavy footfalls behind her for salvation.
Chapter Four
Jackson watched the ancient pickup pull off onto the gravel at the road’s edge and ran even faster, determined to catch Nicky before she got inside. Before she took her life in her hands trying to get away from him.
It could be anyone in that truck. Some mountain man who hadn’t seen a naked woman in years, a couple of drunk teenagers who would take turns raping the woman they picked up on the side of the road before dropping her off on the streets of San Bernardino. Or even worse, there could be a bona fide psychopath driving that vehicle, a man who would have his fun with Nicky and then kill her, dumping her body in the surrounding wilderness where it might never be found.
Or maybe the driver is a nice grandmotherly type who will buy her some clothes before taking her to the police station to file a report against the man who kidnapped her.
Nicky skidded to a stop as the driver’s door to the truck whipped open. “Help, I . . .” Her voice trailed off and she backed away as an obese man in tattered overalls leveraged himself out of the vehicle.
“You need help, darlin’?” the man asked, weaving a bit as he lurched forward. “I’d be happy to help.”
Despite the chances of being convicted of a felony, a part of Jackson wished it had been a sweet granny in the truck. Now he was probably going to have to get into a brawl with a man who looked like an extra from Deliverance to keep Nicky safe. And he had a witness who might report what he’d seen to the authorities.
Not that it really mattered. If Nicky decided she wanted to press charges, it wasn’t as if he’d do anything to stop her. Despite what the voices in his head had been telling him lately, Jackson wasn’t a psychopath.
At least not yet. If this drunk did anything to Nick, however, Jack was sure he’d lose what was left of his sanity in a fairly memorable fashion.
“No one needs help.” Jackson’s teeth ground together hard enough to make something in his jaw pop as he watched one of the other man’s large, meaty hands reach toward Nicky’s chest. “Get back in your truck.”
“I don’t think I was talking to—”
“Get back in your truck,” Jack repeated as his fingers closed around Nicky’s elbow and pulled her behind him, shielding her nakedness with his body.
“Why don’t you fuck off? The lady asked for my help.”
Jackson cursed himself. Why the hell had he demanded Nicky take off her shirt? She was irresistible enough clothed. Of course he hadn’t thought anyone would see. It was the middle of the night, for god’s sake, and most people knew better than to try to navigate the treacherous mountain roads at night, especially after hitting the bottle. God, he could smell the whiskey on this character from three feet away, which gave him an idea. . . .
“All right, don’t get back in your truck. I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here. Call me crazy, but I doubt this will be your first DUI. Put your hands on the hood.” Jack heard Nicky suck in a breath behind him as she caught on to what he was doing. “I’m taking this one in for attempted prostitution, it will be no trouble to haul you into the station at the same time. I’ll just go lock her
in the backseat and come back with some cuffs for you, Mr. . . .”
“Uh . . . ca . . . um . . . Beam. Walter Beam,” he said, already backing toward the door to the battered pickup. “But I haven’t been drinking, Officer. I swear.”
“We’ll see about that when I get back with the Breathalyzer.” Jack turned around and urged Nicky in front of him across the street, whispering as he went, “Get in the backseat.”
“Prostitution?” She hissed the word over her shoulder, obviously angry but relieved to have escaped “Mr. Beam’s” attentions. Mr. Beam . . . riiight. It didn’t take much imagination to guess Beam was the brand of whiskey he’d been drinking, not the name on his license. “Do I look like a prostitute?”
“I don’t know. What does a prostitute look like?” Jackson asked, not surprised to hear the pickup roar to life behind him and tires squeal as old Walter took off down the mountain like a bat out of hell.
“I don’t know. You’re the one who lives in Vegas. I heard it’s legal out there,” she said, shivering as he opened the Expedition’s door and urged her inside. “That was a pretty lame cop act, by the way. I thought you had your own television show. I expected better than ‘haul you into the station.’ ”
“It was a reality show. I just had to be myself, not act like anyone else.” Jackson reached into the front for Nicky’s bra and shirt and tossed them into her lap. “Put those on and don’t run away from me like that again. You could have been seriously hurt.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The car’s overhead light illuminated Nicky’s face, revealing the flush that heated her cheeks. “I could have been hurt?”
“What do you think Walter would have done to you?”
“I don’t know. Taken me back to town?”
“Doubtful. And even if he did, not before he took advantage.”
“Took advantage?” She laughed as she finished up with her bra, but her hands were shaking as she reached for her shirt. “He might have copped a feel. At most.”
“He might have raped you,” Jack said, anger making his voice even deeper.
“No, he wouldn’t have,” she said, returning his glare, making it clear she wasn’t scared of his angry voice. “I can take care of myself, Jack. In case you don’t remember.”
“Then why didn’t you get in the truck with him? If you were so sure he was a safe bet?”
“I guess I didn’t want to see what you’d do to the poor guy if I did,” she said, her eyes glittering in the dim light. “I mean, you’re the psycho who’s kidnapping a woman so he can make permanent alterations to her body. And you used to love me. Who knows what you might have done to some fat old man you don’t even know?”
The bravado in her tone made him positive she was simply saying what she knew would hurt the most, but the words still cut him. Just like she’d known they would. She wasn’t stupid, his Nick. Volatile, emotional, and oftentimes too impulsive for her own good, but never stupid.
“I did love you. Enough to believe everything you said to me the night before you ran away,” Jack said, careful to keep the emotion out of his voice. “And I don’t hate you now, Nicky. I hope you know that. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Tattooing someone against their will is bound to hurt,” she said, her voice still hard, though he’d seen the flash of guilt on her face when he’d mentioned the night she’d fled Carson City. “Literally hurt, and probably do a pretty decent job of destroying a person’s trust.”
“Trust,” he said, letting the word linger between them. “Is that what this is about? You regret letting me dominate you?”
Nicky’s eyes dropped to her fingers and she suddenly seemed very interested in the workings of the buttons on her shirt.
“Answer me. Do you regret what we did?”
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “No,” she mumbled, still not looking him in the eye.
“Then why did you run right after we finished?” he asked, certain he was onto something. This wasn’t about her trying to get away from him because she was afraid or didn’t want her tat modified. It was about the power games they’d begun to play, the amount of trust she’d given him so readily.
The trust that had floored him, aroused him, and come closer to softening the walls he’d built around his heart than anything had. Anything or anyone . . . even Nicky herself eight years ago. If he was a smart man, he’d turn the truck around and take her back to Los Angeles right now. No amount of ink modification was going to give him peace if he let Nicky get under his skin again.
Too bad he was an absolute idiot where this woman was concerned.
“Finished? That’s a really nice way to put it,” she said, hurt obvious in her tone.
“I’m sorry. What do you want me to say?” Jack asked, ignoring the strange tightness that gripped his throat. “After we had sex?”
“Fucked would be fine. That’s all it was, right? A little fucking between friends?”
She was hurting, that was obvious, but how much of that pain had to do with what he’d done and how much was the result of her obviously troubled recent past, he couldn’t say. But he could at least apologize, try to make things as right between them as he could before they were holed up alone together for forty-eight hours.
“It was more than that. You know it, and so do I,” he said. “I’m sorry if what we shared left you feeling confused, but you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Or that you didn’t need it.”
“What do you know about what I need?”
Jackson sighed, recognizing her defiance for what it was, a mask for the fear many submissives felt when starting a relationship with someone new. He certainly hadn’t meant to “start” anything or inspire those kinds of feelings in Nick, but now he had no choice but to deal with them.
“Listen, it’s natural to be anxious about giving yourself over to another person, even if that person is someone you used to know very well,” he said, keeping his tone soft and reassuring. He wanted her to know she was safe, that he wouldn’t abuse her trust, that all his cards were on the table. “Especially if you’ve been in a relationship where your trust has been abused.”
Jackson was willing to bet money her ex was the cause of her emotional trauma. He knew better than anyone the pain an ex-lover could cause.
Nicky tilted her head back, lifting her face to his, staring deep into his eyes without a trace of fear or deference. In that moment, she was the least submissive woman he’d ever seen. If he hadn’t experienced dominating her himself and seen how she rev eled in being controlled, he never would have believed she was the type who enjoyed the lifestyle.
“You don’t know anything about my former relationship, and you don’t know anything about me,” she said, every word clipped and deliberate. “Not anymore. So don’t pretend you do. Just because we had sex, it doesn’t give you the right to psychoanalyze me. I’m not some pathetic subbie who needs a big bad dom to show me the way.”
Jackson just looked at her for a minute, not saying anything, staring into those big greenish brown eyes, seeing so much more than Nicky realized. “Is that what he taught you? That to submit is weak and contemptible?”
Without meaning to, Jack found himself cupping her cheek in his hand, then sliding his fingers into her impossibly soft hair. God, how many times had he dreamed of feeling that hair falling around his face as he kissed this woman again? And here she was, so close, but still so incredibly far away.
Her lips parted and her breath came faster, but she didn’t say a word. She only watched him, like he was a circus performer about to do some fascinating trick. In that second, Jackson prayed he could live up to the expectation in his woman’s eyes.
His woman. There was that thought again, that sense of ownership that felt completely natural and would never be anything but wrong.
“In a real dominant and submissive relationship, the submissive is an incredibly strong person,” he said, hoping she could tell how strong he’d always belie
ved her to be. “Sometimes even stronger than her master, depending on the dom and how much experience he has.”
“Really?” she asked, doubt and sarcasm warring with the genuine curiosity in her tone.
“Just think about it. What requires more discipline, giving someone else orders or giving up control?” He leaned a little closer to her lips, unable to resist. “Trusting someone else to guide you, exploring the boundaries of your capacity for pleasure and pain, giving the gift of your faith, of yourself to another person . . . that’s pretty amazing stuff. I don’t know that I could do it.”
“Call me crazy, but for some reason I don’t think you’d want to.” She smiled, a tiny, genuine twist of her lips that made him inexplicably happy.
“Are you calling me a big bad dom again?” He laughed and she joined in, the puff of her breath against his lips reviving the desire that had haunted him since the second he saw her dancing on that bar in Pasadena.
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” she said. “Though I have to admit, I was . . . surprised.”
“You and me both. I never thought . . . certainly never expected . . .” Jack took a deep breath and forced himself to pull away. He couldn’t stay like this, hand buried in her hair, lips inches from hers, and not take this encounter to the next level.
He stepped back, crossing his arms at his chest, concentrating on the feel of the cold wind cutting through the fabric of his sweater. “I want you to know I never planned for there to be anything sexual about this meeting. I expected we’d come up here, maybe have a few beers and a few laughs, I’d modify your tat, and we’d part as friends.”
“Or that I would say no to having the tat modified, you’d hold me captive and modify it whether I liked it or not, and we’d part as enemies,” she said, a hint of humor in her tone that made this entire journey seem even more surreal.
Skin Deep Page 5