The Woman in the Trunk

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Not even close, asshole," she snapped, bringing her knee up.

  Luckily, if there was one move I was always prepared to defend myself against, it was a knee to the balls.

  My hand shot down, grabbing her knee, yanking up, pulling it wide, pinning it against the wall.

  It should have ended there.

  Fighting had never been a form of fucking foreplay for me before.

  But there was no denying my cock straining against the fly of my slacks, the tight grip of need in my balls.

  I shifted closer, my hips moving inward, taking advantage of her vulnerable positioning, pressing my cock against her pussy.

  The gasp that escaped her should have been startled, offended, fearful—anything but what it was.

  Needy.

  Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. There was no way was from the twenty-foot flee from the bedroom. She might have been small but she wasn't so small that such a short distance would wind her.

  No.

  She was breathing heavy because she wanted me almost as much as I wanted her.

  Curious, I thrust my hips inward harder, making a choked whimper escape her.

  A slow, satisfied smile tugged at my lips. "So what are you running from, hellcat?" I asked, thrusting inward again, watching her eyes go small as I started to drive her up, toyed with her obvious desire to feel my finger, my tongue, my cock against her wet pussy. "What I represent? Or the fact that, despite that, you still want me?"

  Fire blazed in her eyes as her hands planted against my chest, shoving me backward, catching me off-guard, making me almost go flat on the stairs behind me as she rushed off the landing.

  Seeing Christopher's shadow near the front door, she darted down the hall instead of out, making a beeline for the kitchen that had a door out into the small garden out back.

  I got there just as her hand landed on the knob, pulling it toward her. My palm slapped down on the door, slamming it back into place, my body pressing forward, pinning her against it.

  Leaning down, I placed my lips near her ear. "Are you going to answer me, baby?" I asked, my hand slipping around her body, between her thighs, feeling her hips buck back against me as her breath caught, as her hips ground down on my fingers and palm, greedy for more, even if she refused to admit it.

  "Fuck you," she snapped instead, but her voice was low, needy, her whole body taut, trying to hold herself back from grinding down against me again.

  "You want that, don't you?" I asked, teeth nipping into her earlobe, drawing a whimper out of her as her hips finally rubbed against me again. "Admit it," I demanded, fingers gliding upward, slipping under the waistbands of her pants and panties, then moving downward. "Or I can just find out for myself," I added, fingers gliding down her slick pussy, my cock throbbing at the idea of pushing inside her.

  But not yet.

  Not until she was begging for it.

  My thumb moved to her clit, working her in slow, soft circles until she was rocking against me, making low, mewling noises that made me damn near lose control right then and there.

  Impatient, needing to see her reaction, I grabbed her with my free hand and turned her, pushing her back against the door, waiting for her chin to lift, her gaze to find mine.

  Only then did my fingers ease down, then slam inside her. I got to watch as her head fell back, as her lips parted on a quiet moan, and her eyes fluttered closed as she took a steadying breath before they opened again, pinning me, all thoughts of resistance gone.

  As if her pussy wasn't telling me everything I needed to know about how she felt. She was drenched, already dripping down my palm. Her walls tighten around my fingers, shamelessly demanding more.

  But I wanted the words, damnit.

  She wasn't getting anything until she admitted it.

  "You want more, you're going to have to ask for it," I told her, watching as her eyes slit at me, pissed, but needy—her mind and body at odds.

  "Fuck you."

  "Eventually, baby. Right now, we're doing this," I told her, flicking my fingers inside her, making her thighs clench together, wanting more of it. "If you will just ask for it, that is," I added, thumb doing one quick graze over her clit.

  "Lorenzo..."

  "Yes?" I asked, doing another little flick.

  Her breath hissed out from between her teeth as her eyes got even more heavy-lidded, as her walls tightened around me again.

  "Damnit," she growled, hips moving in a circle.

  "One word," I told her. "Just one word and I can put you out of your misery."

  "Please." It was said under her breath, a barely audible plead.

  But she said it.

  I heard it.

  That was all that mattered.

  I used my fingers to fuck her. Hard. Fast. Relentless. My lips crashed down on hers, swallowing up the hisses that turned into whimpers that became moans as I drove her upward, as my fingers curled inside her, raking up against her top wall and rubbing against her G-spot.

  My teeth sank into her pouty lower lip, digging in, pulling, as my thumb swiped across her clit, keeping her body guessing, driving it up, but not giving it the consistency she needed for release.

  Not yet.

  Not until she was practically crying for it. My teeth released her, my tongue moving inside to toy with hers, finding her eager, desperate even. For more. For everything.

  I ripped my lips from hers, my gaze focused on her, watching her eyelids flutter open, cloudy with need.

  I finger-fucked her harder, faster, my thumb starting working her clit relentlessly, getting the throaty cries I so desperately needed.

  "Lorenzo," she cried, fingernails digging into my arms as her walls tightened hard around me for a second before they started to spasm around my fingers as she crashed through her orgasm.

  It stole her moan.

  Her breath.

  The strength in her legs.

  Leaving her gasping, hands digging into my arms, holding herself up as the waves kept crashing.

  Her forehead pressed into my chest as she could finally draw in a breath that came back out on a moan as the last wave coursed through her.

  And damned if everything in me didn't want to grab her shoulder, push her to the floor, have her take out my cock, bury it in her mouth, give me some of the relief from the clawing desire I'd just given her.

  But not yet.

  Not even if my body felt like it was crying for relief.

  She came back to her senses slowly at first, then all at once, her breathing slowing down, her grip loosening. Then she was slamming backward away from me, her chin raising, her eyes blazing again, angry that she wanted me, that I knew it, that she had responded to me just like we both knew she would.

  "I guess I got my answer," I said, knowing I was goading her. What can I say? She was hot when she was pissed.

  "I fucking hate you," she told me, jaw tight, lip starting to tremble with her anger as my fingers slowly slipped out of her, out of her panties and pants.

  "You might hate me, baby," I said, raising my hand upward, slipping my fingers into my mouth, watching as shock gave way to desire again as I licked her taste off of them. "But your pussy loves me," I told her as my fingers left my mouth. "Now get your ass in the car," I added, taking a step back, reaching behind her to yank the door open.

  "No."

  "You want to play it that way?" I asked, shaking my head.

  "I want you to try to make me," she told me, jaw tight. "I can make a big scene," she added, thinking she had the upper hand.

  Her stubborn ass was a glutton for punishment, I realized as she opened her mouth to scream, making me slap my hand over it and grab her, yanking her around so that her back was against me, my arm anchoring around her stomach.

  "This is going to happen, Gigi. Like it or fucking not. You don't have a choice in the matter. The only choice you have now is if you are going to behave, so you can ride up front like a human being, or if I need to throw you in the t
runk again like spare luggage. You understand me?" I asked, waiting, feeling her body sizzle with anger. "I asked a question," I repeated, giving her a small shake.

  To that, she nodded.

  "You want to ride in the trunk?"

  A head shake.

  "Good. Then keep your fucking mouth shut when we go outside."

  Really, I should have known better.

  Than to take her at her word.

  To think her pain in the ass self was capable of playing along. Even when she clearly had no advantage, when we all knew how this was going to play out.

  The second we moved outside, she started to scream, making me drag her back inside as Chris went to grab the cuffs and the duct tape.

  When I put her in the trunk, her gaze was on me, eyes fucking fuming.

  I had a feeling that the second she was free, she was going to try to fucking claw my eyes out.

  And I didn't want to know what it said about me that I was turned on just thinking about it.

  Chapter Eight

  Giana

  I would never get that image out of my head.

  His fingers.

  His mouth.

  The way he looked at me while he did it.

  God, even the memory was making me need to press my thighs together to ease the aching between.

  Even as I swore I hated the man.

  Maybe there was some truth about the thin line between hate and love. Well, not love. Obviously. But attraction. After all, what was hotter than anger?

  The car took the third hard corner in a row, making it abundantly clear that they weren't being done by mistake, rather trying to make me roll around the trunk, my arms clamped at the small of my back, making my shoulders scream.

  He was trying to make a point.

  He was always going to come out on top.

  And, damn him, that seemed true, didn't it?

  It bruised my pride to admit it, but I was no match. I wasn't a criminal. I wasn't born into this. I didn't have the skill set he'd likely learned at his father's knee. While I had been trying to help dig my father out of whatever mess he'd gotten himself into.

  I didn't think like a criminal.

  I didn't know how to disappear without being found.

  And now?

  Now, there was no way he was going to let me get away. There would be no unlocked doors. No unmanned elevators.

  I was in this for the long haul.

  With a man my body responded to even as my mind revolted.

  I wanted to say I would cling to my hatred, that I would coddle and feed it, that there was no way I was going to let him get his hands on me again. At least not willingly.

  But there was a little voice in my head whispering that I wasn't sure I would have any defenses if he looked at me with those heavy-lidded eyes, talked to me in that deep voice, said those delicious things.

  It was weak and pathetic and I hated myself for it. But it was true.

  I guess I finally understood the concept of hate sex. In the past, it had always seemed like a weird, fringe thing that only super kinky people were into.

  But I was really starting to hate this bastard who was keeping me from my life, keeping me under his thumb—God, that thumb—but that hatred was there, a weirdly tightened coil in my core, something wound too tight, something I instinctively knew would be incredible—unfathomable—when the pressure was released.

  All that said, I wasn't sure I could live with myself, assuming I lived through this, if I knew I had been so damn weak, such a slave to my own desires. I'd had no trouble controlling them in the past. In fact, they'd hardly ever been any trouble, more of a little background chatter to everything else in my life that took more precedence.

  By the time the car pulled to a stop, and the engine cut off, my shoulders were aching, my thigh muscles sore from trying to brace myself against all the rolling, and I was starting to get a raging headache from all the rampant overthinking.

  There was a long pause before the trunk popped open.

  I felt a wave of relief when I noticed we were in the same parking garage we'd been in the last time. At least I wasn't being thrown in some basement somewhere.

  It wasn't Lorenzo's face I saw when the light streamed into my dark prison, though.

  It wasn't even Chris.

  Nope, it was Emilio, of all people.

  "You've got a lot of spirit in you," he said, giving me that smirk that seemed so natural to him. "I've never seen Lorenzo so pissed off before," he added, reaching in, snagging my legs, pulling them out to dangle over the back of the car.

  "Yes, how dare I not be a model prisoner, sitting and waiting for all the menfolk to come to a decision about my fate?"

  "Yeah, I get it. I'd be pissed in your position too. This isn't your fault. And this isn't how we usually do business. Let's just hope the next meeting with your old man goes better."

  "When is that?" I grumbled as Emilio grabbed my upper arm, helping me out and onto my own feet. But even when I was, his hand stayed there, making sure I didn't get away from him. As if I would get far without my hands free.

  "Three days."

  "You only gave him three days to find the money he owes you?"

  "Plus interest. And he doesn't owe me shit personally," Emilio reminded me, seeming to want to distance himself from the whole kidnapping and imprisonment thing, even as he walked me inside, situating himself in such a way that the lone employee hanging around didn't see the cuffs as we moved into the elevator that Christopher was holding open. He didn't join us, though. Given my earlier escape, I figured he would be stationed at the bottom of the elevator from now on.

  Great.

  "Plus interest? My father can barely make payroll each week, and you think he can find thousands of dollars plus interest for you in three days?"

  "Hey, babe, don't shoot the messenger here. These aren't my decisions. And, for the record, they're not Lorenzo's either."

  "Yeah. You're all just a bunch of mindless soldiers, right?" I asked as we stepped out into Lorenzo's apartment, the man himself throwing back a whiskey in the kitchen. "No thoughts of your own. Just do what you're told. How pathetic is that?" I asked, looking over at Lorenzo, chin lifting.

  "Put her in her room. I'm not in the mood tonight."

  "The truth is so inconvenient, huh?" I asked as he made his way across the living room.

  He stopped in the opening of the hallway, leaning down, eyes hard. "Watch the mouth, hellcat, or I will bring out the duct tape again."

  With that, he went off into his room, slamming the door.

  I was led to my room, and it didn't escape me that there was now a lock on the outside.

  "Turn around," Emilio demanded when I stepped into the threshold. "I will undo the cuffs."

  "So you can lock me in my room," I hissed, feeling the cuffs release, my shoulders crying out when I could finally swing my arms forward as I turned to face Emilio.

  "Hey, not my fault you fucked up your escape attempt, babe," he said, shrugging, waiting for me to take a step inside, then reaching for the door. "Now you gotta deal with tightened security. I'm on duty tonight, so if you need anything, just call."

  At this point, I'd rather starve to death than have to ask these guys for anything.

  Really, what had I been smoking to have thought they were all kind of charming before my escape attempt? How was I able to distance the men themselves from the acts they had done? Some of them to me?

  Maybe I had a little of my father in me after all.

  Maybe I had somehow let myself romanticize these men, had somehow been able to excuse their crime because they hadn't treated me badly after they'd taken me. No one had hurt me, abused me.

  But there was one problem with that thought process.

  They hadn't hurt or abused me yet.

  Clearly, if given the order, they would.

  That was how the mafia worked, wasn't it?

  Family over everything.

  Even their own mo
ral compasses.

  They would string me up and slit my throat if the boss demanded it.

  It wouldn't matter how many things they bought me, how much food they brought me, how well they had treated me if the end was me in a shallow grave somewhere.

  Frustrated, I dropped down on the edge of the bed, taking a few deep breaths, trying to consider any exit strategies.

  It was about fifteen minutes later, and I was no further along with any ideas, when I heard Lorenzo make his way across the hallway, going into the gym. There was a short pause before I could hear his footsteps on the treadmill, the pace set to punishing. Like he was trying to outrun something.

  As committed as I was to hating him, an annoying little voice wondered if what he was trying to do was run away from his desire for me.

  But that was ridiculous.

  Sure, he had wanted me.

  There had been no mistaking that.

  But that didn't make it personal.

  Men like him probably thought of it as some sort of twisted power play. Make the poor, abducted woman want you, then take advantage of that.

  It wasn't personal.

  It wasn't about me.

  It was about the situation.

  He got off on dominance.

  And maybe the push and pull, the fighting.

  And that made him pretty fucked up, didn't it?

  Then again, I was just as fucked up if I was wet just at the memory of that scene in the kitchen, damnit.

  "Ugh," I growled, getting to my feet, going into the bathroom, running a shower. Cold. Because I was trying to shock some damn sense into my system.

  I went to sleep pissed at myself, at Lorenzo, at the entire situation.

  I tossed and turned to dirty dreams about us.

  And woke up even more frustrated—mentally and physically—than I had been when I'd gone to bed.

  There was a sharp rap at my door, making me shoot up in bed.

  The outside lock slid, but the door didn't open.

  I guess that was my wakeup call.

  My presence was being requested.

  A petty part of me wanted to stubbornly stay in my bed. Only better sense dragged me out, realizing that if I refused to follow directions, Lorenzo would come in. Things would get physical.