by Litte, Jane
Would Ian know to come here, though? Even if he caught Shaw, would the murderer give up the location of this cabin? If not, it wouldn’t matter if Shaw returned or was arrested—either way, she had to get out of this chair.
And she had to do it without panicking.
All right. She drew in another long, calming breath and took stock of her situation. The hardwood chair was old, but sturdy. Shaw had bent her arms around behind the chair’s back and positioned her like a cop handcuffing a suspect, threading the cable tie around her wrists and between two of the vertical rods. She didn’t think those rods were going anywhere; their ends were securely joined to the seat and embedded in the curved wood forming the top of the chair’s angled back. He’d fastened her ankles to the front legs of the chair, too—but only using one cable tie to each chair leg. Jenny tested the strength of those nylon ties, pushing against them until the muscles in her thighs began to cramp.
No luck. So she needed another option. Namely, she needed to alert someone who could get her out of this chair.
Holding her breath, she listened. The noises outside the cabin were the familiar sounds of a summer night: crickets and frogs . . . and in the distance, the sound of a big engine passing at high speed. A logging truck or a semi. That meant a highway, though the cabin probably wasn’t visible from the road. Shaw hadn’t been concerned about leaving the two scented candles burning on the table, where someone might wonder about and investigate the light. But this time of year, these woods were always full of hikers and campers—if she could make noise, perhaps someone would hear her.
She was bound by hardwood and strong plastic, but the stocking in her mouth was just thin silk. She’d run several pairs just by snagging a fingernail; surely her teeth could do better. She just had to grind. She just had to ignore the disgusting soppiness of the material wadded against her tongue, the pain at the corners of her mouth.
Or, no—not ignore the pain. She’d tried to pretend it didn’t matter before, and had begun to panic. So she’d use the pain and discomfort instead, turn it into something she could manage. Something good, not terrifying.
Something like . . . Ian.
A crash at the door brought her head whipping around—and he was there, Ian, his gun drawn and his stance low. His dark eyes met hers from across the room, and he stared for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over her in that intense scrutiny she’d often seen him give her when he’d thought she hadn’t been watching him in return.
“Are you all right?”
His voice was low and deep, and before she’d finished nodding, he strode across the cabin. God, she loved to see him move, loved his smooth, coiled strength. But she’d never loved his stride as much as when it brought him to her side, where he sank onto his heels and reached for the knotted silk at the back of her head. He didn’t watch his fingers, but studied her face—and now that she was safe, now that he’d come, she felt exposed. Aware of her sweat and her bare skin, of her slow and heavy breaths.
Silk tugged at the corners of her mouth while his fingers worked the knot. “Did he hurt you?”
Jenny answered with a slight shake of her head. Not yet, she thought.
No. That thought didn’t belong here. Only Ian did.
Gently, he pulled the knot apart and drew the silk from her lips. His big hand cupped her jaw, and he smiled—the same smile that had made her belly flop over and her pussy clench the first time she’d seen it, three years ago. The same smile that had made her believe Ian Grayson had a mouth she ought to be kissing.
His thumb caressed the raw corner of her lips, and his smile widened to a grin. “If not for this situation, Jenny, I’d say the position you’re in is ripe with possibility.”
No, he wouldn’t say it. He was just trying to make her laugh, to make her feel better—because even if Ian wanted to make such a suggestion, he wouldn’t actually say it, let alone follow through on it.
Not with his partner’s sister.
Maybe he’d imagined her in this position, though: hands tied, legs spread. God knew that Jenny had pictured it so many times, but the scenario had been filled with a different sort of ache: a pain that was sweet and needy instead of sharp and frightening.
With effort, she moistened her tongue, found her voice. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“Jenny.” His gaze held hers. His thumb ceased its soft caress at the corner of her mouth. “You want to thank me?”
Oh, she could see the dark need in his eyes, but his desire remained unspoken. She would speak it, then. She hadn’t for so long—and Brandon Shaw had almost made it so that she never could. Jenny wouldn’t risk not saying it now.
“Yes.”
It was breathless, her answer, and hard to form, but Ian’s response was everything that she’d wanted. His fingers moved back to her nape, tightened in her hair.
“How would you thank me?”
By giving him what she’d needed for three years. What she thought that he needed, too. It would start by burying her fingers in his short brown hair and dragging him down for a scorching, pussy-melting kiss, but her hands weren’t free for that. Only her mouth was.
“Stand up,” she said.
Without letting go of her hair, he rose in front of the chair. Anticipation and excitement locked the air in Jenny’s throat, but he didn’t need another instruction. His free hand moved to his belt. Off-duty, he wore a white T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest, and faded Levi’s. Jenny strained forward as he popped the fly open. She needed to touch him, needed to get her hands free and out of this chair—
“Slow,” he said roughly, and Jenny realized that she was already losing herself again. She closed her eyes, breathed deep.
God, he smelled good. As always, he wore the cologne she’d given him that first Christmas—an impersonal gift for her brother’s new partner, who wasn’t returning back East to visit his family over the holidays, and so he’d been invited to the little dinner Jenny and Tom always shared. That scent wasn’t impersonal now, and Ian must have thought so, too. Three years later, he still wore the same cologne, though the small bottle Jenny had been able to afford must have run dry by now.
And he smelled a hell of a lot better than spiced apple candles.
“We’ll get your hands free in a minute.” With his palm cupping the back of her neck, he urged her to him. “But we’ll put your mouth to work first. You ready?”
Oh, she was. His cock hung heavy and thick over his denim fly, not hard yet—but she’d change that. Hungry for him, Jenny didn’t waste time, dipping her head and catching the wide tip in her open mouth.
His fingers clenched in her hair. He made a harsh sound, like a sharp breath drawn through clenched teeth.
“Oh, fuck yes. Suck me in. Take all of me.”
Jenny didn’t know if she could. Already, his shaft was stiffening between her lips. Flaccid, she might have been able to take all of him in, but not now. His growing erection forced her mouth open wide and stretched the raw corners of her mouth. But just as she thought she’d reached her limit, Ian groaned his pleasure—and suddenly she needed to take more, needed to hear that sound from him again. She rubbed her tongue around the thick, smooth head, stroking the hardened flesh, tasting the salt that was her sweat and his. And when he shuddered, when his head fell back and his hips rocked back, she followed and tried to draw him deeper.
“Christ, Jenny.” His breath was ragged. “I imagined this. Only two fucking weeks ago, when I came over to Tom’s for a beer and you fell asleep on the sofa next to me.”
She knew he’d been imagining something. She’d woken to a darkened living room, with her head on his lap and his thick erection straining against the pants beneath her cheek. He’d been still, utterly still—not the silence of a man trying to be quiet, but the tension of a man holding himself back. Filled with her own tension, Jenny had waited with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Finally, just when she’d been unable to bear the silence any longer, his fingers ha
d brushed softly over her hair and he’d slid out from under her. She’d heard Tom’s door close behind him a few seconds later.
She’d spent two weeks wishing that she’d opened her eyes and looked up into his face. Two weeks wishing that she’d unzipped him and taken his cock into her mouth. But she’d known that messing with his partner’s sister was against Ian’s personal code—and as much as she’d wanted him, Jenny hadn’t wanted to be the reason he broke that code.
And so for three years now, she’d been pretending. Not just pretending to sleep, but pretending she and Ian were only friends. That he was just a guy who let her use his shower when her hot water heater went on the fritz. The guy whose oil she changed for free, but who repaid her with a movie and takeout from her favorite Thai place, and neither of them considered asking her brother to join them. She knew that Ian was the reason he and Tom often stopped for lunch by her shop, and when she asked him to bring her something healthy he always complied—and he never made a comment when she swiped one of his fries.
He simply smiled that pussy-clenching smile, watching her eat. Watching her lips, just as he did now, but this time he allowed the stark pleasure on his face to show as he slowly fucked her mouth. She couldn’t take his rigid length, but she tried, ignoring the deep ache in her jaw and fighting her gag reflex when he hit the back of her throat, loving his groan and the soothing words that followed.
“You can do this, Jenny.” His eyes closed as he thrust past her lips. “Just a little more. I’m almost there, baby. I’m coming undone.”
Unraveled.
He hissed and suddenly stilled, his cock seeming to swell against her tongue. “Now give me the edge of your teeth.”
She obeyed, and felt silk tearing, loosening at the corners of her mouth and behind her head. Ian was going now, but—
With a cough, she spat out the gag between her feet, where it landed with a wet plop. Holy shit. Jenny stared at in disbelief until the reality of her sudden freedom sank in, and she gave a wild laugh.
Not usually a spitter, this time she had a great excuse. And she wasn’t usually a screamer, either—but for Brandon Shaw, she’d make an exception.
She tilted her head back, and shouted for help at the top of her lungs.
9:20 P.M.
Her throat was raw. No one had come. And now she wanted to scream and scream, not for help but just because she didn’t want to die here.
“Pull it together, Jenny.” The hoarse voice emerging from her throat sounded alien, but just hearing the words helped her remain calm. And though she usually wouldn’t consider talking to herself a sign of mental health, the fact she was still talking at all was a damn good sign indeed. “It’s time to come up with another plan.”
Her gaze fell on the candle flames, flickering in the glass jars. There was no point trying to break the cable ties again—but maybe she could melt them. The table stood only three feet from her chair. He’d tied her ankles to the chair legs, but her feet rested flat on the floor. By rocking forward and balancing on her feet, she could shuffle toward the table. And if she could turn and back up to the candle, holding her hands over the flame, the nylon might melt.
She’d probably fry her wrists in the process, but better to serve up a small Jenny-BBQ than being filleted by Brandon Shaw.
That thought was all she needed to brace herself against the pain and throw her weight forward. For a brief, exhilarating instant, she balanced on her feet in a low squat. Then her balance began to shift, threatening to topple her over and smash her face into the edge of the table. Desperately, she pushed with her toes and jerked her body to the right. Tipped on two legs, the chair spun onto one, the back of its frame clipping the side of the table. Jenny balanced there on the diagonal, stunned, with the edge of the table next to her shoulder. Then, with a sudden rasp of wood against wood, the table skidded back a few inches.
Oh, fuck.
She curled her chin into her neck to protect the back of her head, but the impact still rammed through her chest. Ribs screaming, she stared up at the underside of the table. Spots danced before her eyes and a strange rolling noise filled her ears. She’d landed faceup, and the angle of the chair’s back had protected her hands and elbows, but she suddenly didn’t ever want to move again. She didn’t want to breathe again. Not if it hurt this much.
Ian lay on his side next to her, elbow braced against the floor, his jaw propped on his fist. “At least you stuck the landing.”
She’d just screwed her chance of ever seeing him again. He didn’t have to rub it in. “Fuck you.”
“Maybe later. It’s difficult now, with your ass in that seat.” His brows lifted, and he glanced up toward the table. “What do you think that noise is?”
The rolling sound—like a glass spinning around on its side. Her fall must have knocked at least one of the candle jars over. She had the sudden image of the candle rolling off and shattering, setting the cabin ablaze and roasting her alive, trussed up like a turkey on a chair. But she’d no sooner imagined her eyebrows burning off before the rolling stopped. The flame hadn’t gone out; the light flickered wildly against the wall. So she could still try to get up there, and still try to melt the damn cable ties—and then she’d drag herself out of this cabin with the chair fastened to her ass, if she had to.
But, no—the chair fastened to her ass was where she’d gone wrong. She wouldn’t get anywhere squatting, because her butt was centered too low and behind the support of her feet. But she could have shuffled forward if she’d been able to get her ass off the seat.
To do that, however, meant that she’d have to get her hands up higher, too. She pictured the back of the chair, the wooden rods. Spaced closely together near the seat, the distance between them widened as they rose toward the curved top. So the ties would tighten around her wrists as she forced her hands up.
So it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.
“I’ll keep you occupied.”
Ian’s voice pulled her from thoughts of the coming pain. His forefinger traced a circle around her navel. Jenny shivered, her abdominals tensing.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her belly before shooting her a grin. “Nice panties.”
“It’s laundry day.” Shaw had said all the other girls were dirty, too.
“I don’t care. Cotton briefs or lacy thongs—I’ll take them off you when your ass is off this seat.”
That was incentive enough to push. She couldn’t shove her feet down and slip the cable ties off the bottom of the chair legs, but she could raise her feet and brace them against the wooden rung between the legs and force her body upward. Helped along by the chair’s angled back and gravity, she’d already moved up a few inches.
The cable ties bit like razors into her wrists. Her hands weren’t numb yet, but it would happen eventually. She needed to move faster than this.
“That’s it, Jenny.” Ian rewarded her with a lick along the inside of her thigh. “Work your ass up there. Give me some space to get my fingers and mouth between your legs, and to get yourself out of here.”
Dirty fingers, she thought.
As if he heard her, Ian made a questioning sound, a hum with his lips against the hem of her panties.
“Everyone’s been wondering why the killer chose those brunettes,” she told him. “It’s because we have dirty hands and dirty hair. Shaw doesn’t approve.”
“Brandon Shaw is an asshole. I like your dirty hands.”
Jenny smiled, then jerked her head up when she felt a splash on the inside of her left knee, hot as a tear. She stared at the red drop sliding down her thigh. Blood? But blood didn’t leave a hardened trail behind it. Then a second drop splashed onto the first, and she realized: It was candle wax. Candy red wax, melting in the tipped-over jar and dripping down the inside of her splayed thigh. The jar must have stopped rolling near the edge of the table—and as long as she lay down here, as long as it burned, the melting wax would drip.
The next drop fell, and trai
led almost down to her panties before hardening. Ian looked up at her. “I can’t say that I’ve imagined this kink.”
No. She wouldn’t know if he had. “I have, though.”
“You’d like this?”
“I’d love it.”
Holding her gaze, he lowered his head and traced the hardened trail with his tongue, and the heat of that caress moved over her skin, burning hotter than the wax. She gasped, her back arching, her hands pushing higher.
“So you like a little pain,” he said softly. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t made a move on me these past three years. You like it rough, but you’re afraid I wouldn’t. You’re afraid I’d think you were a dirty girl.”
Jenny closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“I do think you’re a dirty girl. But unlike Shaw, I enjoy that.” His fingers drifted down her thigh, almost to her center. He teased the elastic edge of her panties. “You’ve got to give me more room if you want me to fuck you with my fingers and tongue.”
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself higher, lifting her butt off the seat. Ian cupped his fingers over her sex. Jenny moaned, rocking her hips toward him. The heavy heat of his hand seemed to burn through the cotton, and he rhythmically pressed the heel of his palm against her clit.
“That’s right. Lift your ass up, and I’ll slide these panties down. Higher, baby. Are you wet for me? I want you slippery when I eat your pussy. When I fuck you.”
Oh, God, she wanted that. But she was aware that her wrists were slippery now, too. Bleeding. Not a lot. But, Jesus—
“It hurts.” Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, itched down toward her ears.
“I know, baby. But you just need to lift up a little more. Have you ever wanted me to handcuff you?”
More times than she could count. Sometimes to a chair. But it had never hurt like this. Instead, he’d treated her to a sweet, slow fuck, making her writhe through each endless thrust, denying her release until she’d begged to his satisfaction.