When I flick my thumbs over my nipples, I arch my chest, already incredibly aroused. My tits are sensitive today. Maybe I should have grabbed a pair of clamps too, but I don’t want to take the time now. I decide to refocus my energy.
The vibrator fits perfectly in my palm, and I moan into the silence as soon as I touch my clit with it. That’s all I’m going to need tonight. I haven’t had an orgasm since Friday. For some reason, I’ve denied myself that luxury too. I’ve felt like I haven’t earned the pleasure since I haven’t accomplished enough writing.
I’m aching to come tonight though. There’s no way I would be able to settle down and go to sleep after visualizing Craig examining my bottom. The memory of his fingers dancing over my heated skin has me close to exploding.
Sure enough, I don’t even need to turn up the level on my vibrator. I’m on the edge in moments, my free hand pinching one of my nipples hard enough to make me cry out as I reach my peak, both the orgasm and the tight pinch combining to engage my entire body in the release.
It takes me a few minutes to relax afterward, my hands shaking as I turn off the vibrator. I keep flinching in the aftermath, my arms and legs twitching. The glow leaves me drowsy enough that I don’t bother putting any clothes on. I just pull the covers over me and slide into a deep sleep.
Chapter 7
Leah
I wake up Wednesday morning far more energized than I have been in days. Probably because I slept hard and finally got a full night’s rest. I slip from the bed and pad naked toward my bathroom.
Moments later, I’m standing under the spray of my shower. I’m smiling, my eyes closed to avoid the waterfall. Hopefully, I can finally get some work done today, which will make me feel more deserving of whatever Craig has planned for me tonight.
I love when he makes arrangements and refuses to tell me. Even though I always pretend to be incensed, I like the surprise. It’s not as if he ever does anything shocking. So far, it’s always been some sort of impact play. He simply shakes up what apparatus we use and what toy he strikes me with.
I take longer than usual in the shower, letting the hot spray soothe my muscles. When I’m finally done, I dry off, squeeze the excess water from my hair, and face the mirror.
My long curls are a pain in the butt. It takes me a few minutes to work some gel into the locks and comb it out. I’ll let it air dry and pin it back tonight. Foregoing makeup—which I’ll add when I leave for the club—I dress in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I even put on tennis shoes.
I head to the kitchen, feeling good. I won’t have any excuses after I eat breakfast. I pop some toast into the toaster and fill a mug with water for hot tea. I’m in the middle of dipping my teabag into the water when there’s a knock at the door.
I can’t think of any delivery I’m expecting, but it could be a neighbor. Without looking, I open the door.
I don’t know the man standing in the hallway. He has his fingers tucked in the front pockets of his jeans and he’s rocking back and forth. He’s wearing a ballcap low on his forehead and a sweatshirt.
“Can I help you?”
Before I can fully react, he shoves past me to enter my apartment and shuts the door.
“Hey, what the hell?”
Suddenly, he jerks something out of his pocket, and seconds later, he lunges for me, grabbing me by the hair and gripping it tightly while he holds a cloth over my face.
My eyes widen in panic. I have no idea who this man is or what he wants. I kick at him and shove against him with both hands, fighting with every ounce of energy I have. But it’s a losing battle. Whatever is on the cloth is knocking me out. I’m fading. I’m so fucked…
My head is pounding when I wake. I groan in confusion as I try to sit up, wondering what time it is and if I drank too much last night. As I peel my eyes open, I freeze, the breath catching in my lungs.
I jump off the bed, gasping as my gaze darts around the room. “What the fuck,” I mutter. Am I dreaming?
Heart pounding, my memory returns. A man. Ball cap. Jeans. Tennis shoes. Sweatshirt. He drugged me. I rush across the room to try the door, but it’s locked. My head hurts as I spin around and take in the room.
There are no windows. I’m in a bedroom. It looks normal. Twin bed. Desk. Chair. Dresser. The second door is standing open, and when I rush toward it, I see it’s a bathroom. Also no window. I feel like I’m in a basement.
I rub my temples with both hands, trying not to panic. If the man had wanted to kill me, I’d be dead. What the hell does he want?
My mouth is so dry. I turn on the water, splash my face, and use my hand as a cup to get several drinks of water. There’s a plastic cup next to the sink, but I don’t want to touch it.
As I return to the bedroom, I run my hands through my hair. It’s damp. That means I’ve only been out for two hours tops. I know exactly how long it takes my hair to air dry.
The desk catches my attention as I wander around the room. It’s not just a desk. There are several things on it. A computer. A plate of food. And a note.
I grab the note. It’s typed and printed out.
Dear Ms. Richards,
After trying numerous times to get you to see reason, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are unwilling to make the necessary changes to your latest novel in order to continue the story. This wrong must be corrected, so you’ve given me no choice but to ensure you fix the problem.
You will not be harmed. I simply need you to repair the errors in your latest book and write the next volume in the series. Perhaps without all the distractions out in the real world, you’ll be able to focus and get your work done.
I will bring you three meals a day, and you can use the computer I’ve provided you to do your work. I’ve taken the liberty of downloading all six books from this series onto the computer so you can use them as reference. I’ve also provided you with paper and pencils if you need them to take notes.
For obvious reasons, I can’t permit you to have access to the internet, but if there’s anything you need me to research for you, just let me know. I’ll be happy to help your progress. Feel free to slide a note under the door if you have any needs.
I can’t be around during working hours to check on you because I must be at my job from nine to six each day. Therefore, I have left you some lunch. Please get started on your work. I’m looking forward to reading the corrected ending to book six soon, and I’m excited to be the first person to read your next manuscript before anyone else as I’ll be reviewing each chapter as you write them.
I’m certain without distractions, you can get this situation fixed as soon as possible. Thank you for cooperating. I’ll bring you some dinner when I get home tonight.
T
My hands are shaking violently as I read the letter once again. Bile rises in my throat. I don’t know if it’s from whatever he drugged me with or from the stress of the situation, but I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time to vomit.
There’s not much in my stomach. I’m dry heaving. Did I even have breakfast? I’m panting, my forehead sweating as I continue to hover over the toilet, not trusting my stomach to not revolt yet again.
I remember making toast and tea, but I don’t think I had even one bite or sip before I answered the door.
As soon as I can trust my stomach, I push to standing. I’m trembling. So many emotions are running through my head as I lean over the sink once more and rinse out my mouth.
What the fuck?
This cannot be happening. Surely, I’m dreaming. I head back into the bedroom and over to the door, trying the handle again. I slam my body against the door next as if there’s a chance in hell I’d have the strength to budge it.
My pounding head intensifies, but I ignore it and start screaming as loud as I can. “Help! Somebody, please help me! Can anyone hear me?” I hear nothing but silence. I’m obviously in a basement. If this is a single-family home, no one is going to hear me screaming from down here. Not
even if they were standing outside watering their plants.
I stagger back to the bed and sit, my head in my hands, rubbing my temples, trying to think through the stabbing pain. What the hell am I going to do?
I wonder how long it’s going to take for anyone to even know I’m missing. Wait… Today is Wednesday. I’m supposed to meet Craig at the club tonight. He’ll be suspicious when I don’t show up. He’s never been to my apartment, but he’ll find Eve and get her help. She has a key to my place.
And then what? Even if they realize I’m missing and call the cops, what good will that do?
I don’t want to cry, but I can’t help it. I can’t think of any way out of this mess. Writing a book is never going to happen. And how could this man possibly let me go even if I did write it? I know what he looks like.
Except do I? No. Not really. I don’t know a thing about his face. It all happened too fast. And I don’t know where I am. He could easily drug me and return me to my apartment without me ever seeing him.
It’s far-fetched, but I’m going to grab that glimmer of hope and hold it tight. Except who the fuck am I kidding? None of that matters unless I write this man a book. Does he have any idea how long it takes to write a book?
Under the best of circumstances when I have a solid grasp on the plot, it takes at least a month. In this case, since I have no plot and no thought of continuing the stupid series, I’m in no position to even start writing. And who the hell could possibly write a book in captivity?
This man is deranged.
The tears start to fall, and I drop down and curl up on my side on the narrow bed, hating the smell of the pillow. It’s stiff and I suspect it just came out of the original packaging. At least that means he hasn’t slept on it. Gross.
I start crying harder at the intense feeling of hopelessness. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m so careful. He found me anyway. I should have been smarter. I should have reevaluated after Craig told me anyone could find me if they tried hard enough.
I sob out loud. No one is around to hear me. No one is coming for me. I still have a raging headache making my eyes throb. The crying is making it worse.
I feel so alone. I want Craig. I will him to come for me. He won’t. Not for many hours at the earliest. He has no way of knowing I’m missing. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine him lying here with me, his arms around me, holding me tight like he did Friday night.
I feel vulnerable. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the drug or being trapped in here alone and hopeless. Maybe I deserve this for being so stubborn and independent. If I had listened to Craig in the first place and taken heed of his concerns about the emails…
If I hadn’t dug my heels in and left his house when he clearly didn’t want me to… If I had even gone to his house last night when I really missed him instead of stubbornly masturbating at my apartment alone…
But no… I always have to be so independent and in control of every damn thing. Craig made it clear that he cares about me enough to set his Daddy kink aside for me. I’m foolish. What I should have done is given his way a try.
I curl into myself tighter. I want to go back. I want to do things differently. I want Craig. I make a deal with myself. If I get out of this mess, I will try doing things Craig’s way. He deserves that much from me.
When I’m drained of energy, I fall asleep only to jerk awake later to the sound of knocking on the door.
I jump to my feet, disoriented and scared out of my mind, glancing around in search of a weapon. Why didn’t I think to find something earlier? It doesn’t matter. The only object in the room that could possibly help me is a pencil, and I don’t have one in my hand. Besides, I’m too small to overtake a man of almost any size.
If I get out of this alive, the first thing I’m going to do is sign up for the self-defense classes I’ve been neglecting for my entire adult life. I want to scream at past Leah for stalling on that plan year after year.
My heart is racing as the door swings open. The man from earlier is standing in the doorway. At least I assume it’s him. He has on a ski mask now, which gives me hope that he intends to keep me alive.
He sets his hands on his hips and glances around the room, staring at the desk for the longest time. “What are you doing? Did you sleep all day?” His voice is furious.
I flatten myself to the wall next to the bed. “You fucking drugged me. What did you expect?” Maybe I shouldn’t torment him, but I can’t stop myself. I’m furious.
“You should have been awake in less than an hour, Ms. Richards. You wasted an entire day.” He taps his wrist. “Clock’s ticking. If you want to get out of here and go back to your regular life, you can’t spend all day sleeping.”
I don’t even know how to respond to this insane man.
He looks toward the desk again. “You didn’t even eat your lunch. You have to eat or you won’t be able to write, Suzanne.”
I flinch. I wonder if he knows my real name. It’s interesting that he addressed me as Ms. Richards both in his stupid letter and when he first entered the room. Now he’s decided to get informal?
“You can’t keep me here. By tonight the police will be looking for me. If you don’t let me go before seven o’clock, people will start to worry.” Maybe if I reason with him, he’ll be more inclined to grasp the gravity of the situation.
He chuckles. “No one is going to find you, Suzanne. I didn’t leave a single clue.”
“You can still get out of this if you just let me go now. There’s still time. I doubt anyone has called the police yet, but they will soon.”
He shakes his head. “Not gonna happen.” He points at the desk. “I left you everything you need. You should get to work. I don’t care what hours you work, but I’ll be bringing you food at eight in the morning and seven in the evening. I’ll drop off your breakfast and lunch before I go to work and bring you dinner when I get home. You can decide what hours you work.”
I swallow. “What is your name?”
He shakes his head. “Do I seem stupid to you? All you need is T.”
Yes, he indeed seems stupid to me, but I don’t tell him that. “Okay, T, do you realize how long it takes to write a book? How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“As long as it takes. And the book has to be good too. I sent you an excellent outline. If you use that, it will be an amazing story.”
I consider lunging for him and decide against it. I need to bide my time. Make him think I’m docile and willing to do as he asks so that he’ll relax his guard around me. If I charge at him now, all I’ll accomplish is pissing him off. I’m weak from vomiting and not eating all day. I’m still shaking from the drugs. My head is foggy and throbbing. It’s not as bad as earlier, but I’m not in the best shape.
This scenario reeks of the Stephen King novel Craig mentioned. I’m not going to bring it up. I have no idea if T read the book or saw the movie, but either way, I don’t want him to decide to break both my legs.
He nods toward the desk. “Since you didn’t eat your lunch, I assume you don’t need dinner. Eat the damn sandwich and get to work.” He steps out of the room and shuts the door.
I hold my breath as I listen to footsteps jogging up a flight of stairs. “Fuck,” I murmur. I run a hand through my hair and start pacing. I can’t fathom how I’m going to get out of this mess, but it’s time to assess every single item in the room and come up with a plan.
I rush into the bathroom and start there, opening every drawer and the vanity. There are towels and washcloths. A comb, brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbands, shampoo, conditioner. The man even purchased deodorant. Jesus. No razor. Guess I won’t be shaving, nor will I be slicing his face. Great.
Back in the bedroom, I open the drawers on the dresser. Clothes. He fucking bought me clothes. Mostly sweatpants and T-shirts. Socks, underwear. No shoes. There’s nothing in the bedside table.
The desk is next. Three pencils, all of them short. Lord. Several pads of paper. T
hat’s it from inside. On top, there’s the computer, a mouse, and the damn sandwich he left me ten hours ago.
My stomach grumbles. I decide there’s no way he would drug my food, not if his goal is to get me to write a book. It wouldn’t benefit him to kill me or make me tired.
I’m not going to be able to help myself if I don’t have energy, so I grab the sandwich and take a bite. The bread is stiff from sitting out all day, but that’s the least of my problems. My mouth is also dry. I return to the bathroom, still chewing the first sandpaper bite, to wash the plastic cup out and fill it with water.
I down two glasses. I had no idea how thirsty I was. No wonder I had a headache. I fill a third glass and return to eat the sandwich. All the while, I pace the room. I need a game plan.
For now, I need to follow Stephen King’s path and start working on a new ending to book six. One step at a time. I’d rather not ever think about that series again, but if it’s the difference between life and death, I’m certain I can come up with an alternate ending.
I won’t think past that part. I have to hope I can get myself out of this mess before it comes to me actually writing another novel. The thought makes me shudder, so I put it out of my mind.
Hell, I’ve had writer’s block for weeks just trying to start a new series I did want to write. How could I possibly go back and write a book I do not want to write while under great duress?
I wonder what time it is. I’ll only know day and night based on when T brings me meals. Assuming he wasn’t fucking with me and he really does come at eight and seven.
When I told him people would start looking for me at seven, I was full of shit. No one is going to realize I’m missing until nine. That’s what time I told Craig I would be at Surrender.
I know he will panic. I’m certain of it. He’ll find Eve and Colton too. Hell, Colton works for Black Blade Protection. He has connections. They will call the police when they can’t find me. Eve has a key to my apartment. Will they go there tonight, or will they wait a few days and assume I just didn’t show up because I didn’t feel like it?
Convincing Leah (Surrender Book 9) Page 7