Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  “Better.” He nodded his approval. His gaze finally diverted from my face, and he reached for a damp cloth that he’d placed beside me on the bed. “You’re still bleeding,” he told me. “I’m going to clean you up. This will sting a little. Stay still.”

  I couldn’t have moved away even if I still possessed any willpower to do so. One of his hands remained bracketed at the side of my face, his thumb hooking beneath my jaw to hold me steady.

  The cool cloth gently touched my cheek, and I hissed in pain. Just as he’d warned me, the solution that soaked the cloth stung, and I knew it was more than water.

  “Good girl,” he said, the warm praise in his tone fucking with my addled mind. I only recognized the comfort in it, unable to process the twisted nature of how he was manipulating me. Anything was preferable to the unrelenting terror that had utterly sapped my will and smothered all thought of resistance.

  He continued his gentle ministrations, his dark eyes completely focused on his task as he cleaned the cut on my collarbone. Keening sounds eased up my throat, and he softly shushed me.

  When he finished, he sat back and considered me for a long moment, his black eyes searching mine. Instinct urged me to look away, to escape his probing gaze. The intensity with which he watched me made it impossible for me to break eye contact. I shuddered violently, unable to bear his scrutiny.

  His grip on my face shifted, and his calloused fingertips smoothed over the furrow in my brow.

  “You’re hurting,” he remarked. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

  He reached for something else on the bed beside me, and I cringed when my gaze fixed on it: a syringe. I didn’t want to be unconscious again, helpless and unable to defend myself.

  “My brother gave me this in case I needed to subdue you, but it will take away your pain. I told you, I’m a fair Master. I won’t hurt you if you don’t earn a punishment.”

  “I don’t want it,” I managed to whisper.

  “I decide what’s best for you from now on,” he declared calmly.

  “Please,” I begged uselessly as he carefully slid the needle into my arm.

  “Hush now, cosita,” he murmured. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

  “No,” I slurred, the drugs making my tongue heavy within seconds.

  His long fingers smoothed over my hair, petting me as I fell into darkness.

  Chapter 3

  A pleasant, warm weight pressed against my chest. I snuggled into it, finding comfort in the weighted blanket that helped calm my anxiety. I’d bought it three months ago, and I’d found that it helped soothe my racing thoughts enough so I could actually sleep through the night.

  I certainly felt rested, even if my mouth was too dry. Like the time I’d binged on Smirnoff Ice and woken up with a wicked hangover. This time, the headache was mercifully absent.

  Although my eyes were still closed, my brow furrowed. I didn’t remember drinking last night. What did I…?

  My eyes snapped open, and my body jerked bolt upright. Andrés’ corded arm fell from my chest, where it had been draped across me. I gasped and scrambled away from him, tumbling over the edge of the mattress to fall on my ass. Terror ripped through me as reality slammed back into place.

  I pushed up onto my feet and backed away from the bed, desperate to put distance between us. His dark gaze fixed on me, but he didn’t so much as lift his head from the pillow. I expected him to come after me, to attack. But he simply watched me with mild curiosity, as though interested to see what I would do next.

  I became very aware of his eyes on me, and I realized cool air kissed every inch of my skin. I instinctively covered my breasts and sex before my mind fully processed the fact that I was completely naked. I remembered the needle sliding beneath my skin while I was bound to his bed, helpless. He’d drugged me, stripped me when I was unconscious.

  Then he’d spooned me.

  And I’d cuddled closer.

  Tears burned the corners of my eyes as panic overwhelmed me. I was naked with my captor. He’d touched me while I was drugged and unable to defend myself.

  I shuddered at the thought of him touching me. He could have done anything to me, and I wouldn’t know.

  How could I have rested comfortably beside the monster for even a moment?

  “I thought you were my blanket,” I blurted out, needing to justify my actions to myself but not meaning to speak the words aloud.

  One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Excuse me?” he asked, his accented voice colored with amusement. He propped up on one elbow, his gaze sharpening with interest that had become something more than idle curiosity.

  I took a hasty step back, clutching my hands tighter against my most vulnerable areas. Fear spiked, instinct driving me to keep as much space between us as possible while trying to cover myself.

  “I have a weighted blanket. At home. It helps with anxiety,” I babbled, the words spilling out of me as panic addled my mind. “Your arm was heavy. I thought it was my blanket. That’s why I… Stop looking at me!” I shouted the last, unable to bear the intensity of his black eyes studying my naked body.

  “I like looking at what’s mine,” he said, his voice deep and even, as though he wasn’t saying something abhorrent.

  “I’m not yours,” I countered, my voice high and thin.

  His eyes darkened to flat black as his pupils dilated. He finally stood, the sheets falling from his powerful form. Every inch of him was sculpted, every muscle defined. He wore only sweatpants slung low on his hips, so I got a clear view of just how hulking and strong he was. More than a dozen raised, pale scars crisscrossed his torso and abs, standing out against his tanned skin. They weren’t as deep and puckered as the wicked furrow that had been carved into his cheek, but they were no less intimidating. How many times must he have fought and won to bear so many marks of violence on his skin?

  I shrank back, feeling small and horribly vulnerable. I might be a field agent, but I wasn’t equipped for this. No one had trained me for this terrifying scenario; where I was naked and outmatched by at least a hundred pounds of muscle, facing off against a man who was clearly a ruthless fighter. A man who’d easily wrestled me down and bound me to his bed. A man who had slapped my bare breasts and said I belonged to him.

  My flesh tingled with the memory of his harsh rebuke, and a light tremor raced over my skin, making it pebble.

  “My brother was right,” he said, still studying me intently. “Your eyes are lovely when you’re frightened. Wide and blue. Like a pretty doll.” He took a step toward me. “Am I so terrifying, sirenita?”

  I dodged back, and my bare butt hit cool glass. I glanced behind me at the shock of cold, and my stomach instantly dropped at the view. The Chicago skyline stretched out before me, and the people dotting the sidewalk below were far too small. Familiar fear twisted my gut at the sensation of being too high up, adding a fresh layer of terror to my overloaded system. I tried to push away from the floor-to-ceiling window, the only thin barrier between me and a long fall to my death.

  I smacked into a wall of warm, hard muscle. Andrés had closed the distance between us swiftly and soundlessly, trapping his prey with ruthless intent. And just like a small, cornered animal, I lashed out at the threat in an attempt to save myself.

  My training kicked in without thought, and I swung my fist at his granite jaw. The blow connected, sending pain radiating through my knuckles. He barely flinched. I didn’t pause, intent on inflicting as much damage as possible. I brought my knee up, desperate to hit him where he was most vulnerable.

  He shifted, his rock-hard thigh blocking my knee before I could make contact. I had a split second to register his disapproving frown before my entire world tilted and spun. His big hands were on my naked body, taking me down to the plush carpet. My hips hit his thighs, and the air rushed from my chest as his palm pressed down between my shoulder blades, pushing my breasts against the floor to the point of pain. My fingernails scrabbled against
the carpet, struggling for purchase as my flight response kicked in again.

  A high, feral sound left me when his hand left my back, only to catch my wrists. He encircled both with his long fingers, pinning my arms behind me so all I could do was thrash wildly, gasping and kicking my legs at nothing. I was trapped again, unable to fight, unable to flee. My heart fluttered against my ribcage, and I gasped for air as panic clogged my throat.

  I heard the crack resound against the high ceiling just before the shocking sting bloomed on my upper thigh. I shrieked and writhed, trying to escape the burn of his palm. A twin hit landed on my other leg, and my shocked cry turned to a furious scream. Impotent rage seared through my veins alongside white-hot mortification. He was spanking me.

  “Don’t ever try that again,” he admonished in even tones as he delivered another cruel blow, just beneath the lower curve of my ass. “You will not fight me.” Another burning hit. “You belong to me. You will accept your place.”

  “Stop fucking saying that!” I shouted, tears of frustration and pain pricking at the corners of my eyes.

  “I get to say what I want. I get to do what I want.” Each statement was punctuated by a slap. “You will learn to mind your tongue. You will learn to behave. You’re mine, cosita. Mine to play with. Mine to punish. Just mine.”

  “No.” The refusal came out on a low moan. My flesh was on fire, my mind flooded with fear and humiliation. My naked body was draped over my captor’s lap, and he was making it clear that I didn’t have a hope of fighting him. I didn’t realize that I’d stopped thrashing, but a harsh sob tore from my chest.

  The blows stopped, and he smoothed his palm over my heated skin. It prickled with awareness, every nerve ending on fire.

  “There,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Isn’t that better? Don’t try to hurt me again, Samantha.”

  He continued to stroke my aching ass, and I groaned in relief. The light caress helped soothe away some of the pain.

  Fresh shock tore through me when he touched two fingers against the seam of my sex.

  “You’re wet,” he said in a low rumble. “We are going to get along, sirenita.”

  I stiffened in his hold. He was touching me there. No one touched me there. Not even me.

  Horror washed over me, smothering awareness of what he’d said. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. Fear clouded everything, seeping into my mind like dense fog.

  “Don’t,” I squeaked out, renewing my struggles. I became very aware of the hard rod pressing into my belly. His erection throbbed and jerked as I twisted on his lap.

  He hissed out a breath, and his hand tightened around my wrists, holding me securely in place. “Stop grinding against me,” he said tightly. “You want me to touch your little clit, greedy girl?”

  You want me to touch your secret place again, don’t you, dirty little girl? a long-forgotten, phantom voice whispered across my mind. Terror and shame mingled in a sickening cocktail, making my stomach clench and my head spin. I couldn’t think; I couldn’t think about the voice. All thought blanked out, overtaken by pure, icy panic. The cold sank into my bones, and I shuddered violently.

  Warmth enfolded me. Slowly, the ice ebbed away. I became aware of a low, lilting voice saying words I couldn’t comprehend. A few seconds later, I realized they were spoken in Spanish, but I still didn’t understand more than a word or two dotted within the comforting litany.

  “You’re okay. Don’t be afraid,” he finally said in English as he continued to smooth his big hands over my body, warming my frigid skin. I realized I was cradled in Andrés’ strong embrace, but I couldn’t bring myself to try to fight my way free anymore. I felt wrung-out, weak. Small and helpless.

  Tears streamed down my face, and my brain whirred back to life. I was naked and crying into my tormentor’s chest. The voice in my head was gone; wiped away, forgotten. All I knew was that my captor had tried to touch me sexually, and I’d freaked out. I didn’t want to be raped.

  “Let me go,” I whispered brokenly.

  “That’s not going to happen” he told me in that same sure, calming tone.

  “Stop touching me,” I begged. I couldn’t bear the feel of his hands exploring my naked, vulnerable body, stroking me like he was soothing a frightened animal. Or a favorite pet.

  “I will touch you whenever and however I want.” He paused and sighed. “We will work on this later,” he declared ominously, but he released me.

  I shoved up onto my feet, willing my shaking knees to support me as I put several feet of space between us. My eyes flicked to the closed door across from the bed, which I presumed was the way out.

  “No,” he said sternly, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Don’t try it, or I’ll spank you again. Go wash away those tears.” He gestured at an open door to my right, which led into a bathroom.

  I became suddenly, acutely aware that my basic needs hadn’t been met for long hours, and I darted into the bathroom without any further thoughts of defiance. As I moved, I noticed the slickness between my thighs.

  You’re wet. We are going to get along, sirenita.

  Mortification burned through me at the memory of Andrés’ words. I might not have considered myself a sexual person, but I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew that a woman got wet when she was aroused, so her body would be prepared to accept a man. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten wet, either. Watching Dex’s BDSM porn had aroused me, even though I hadn’t been brave enough to act on my desire. Whenever I’d gotten too turned on, I’d thrown myself into a particularly challenging task, usually involving hacking. Using the analytical side of my brain helped cool my animal physical responses.

  My stomach roiled. Had my obsession with becoming the object of Dex’s darker needs twisted me so thoroughly? I’d just been spanked by an evil man who claimed to own me, who wanted to rape me. And I’d gotten wet, my body responding to his harsh dominance.

  My tears spilled faster as shame heated my cheeks, and I hastily finished my essential business so I could wash my hands and face. I pressed my palms against my flaming cheeks, turning the water colder to help chase away the heat of my humiliation. A few broken sobs heaved from my chest, but I gulped in air and forced myself to calm down.

  In the calm, a single imperative took over: escape.

  I couldn’t wait around for my friends to find me, for Dex to come to my rescue.

  I’m not the damsel in distress, I told myself. I’m the hero. Heroine. Whatever. I’m a badass FBI agent/hacker goddess. I can get out of this.

  I couldn’t take down Andrés without a weapon—something he had made painfully clear. My bottom still ached and stung from his punishment, but that wasn’t enough to deter me. He’d stripped me. He’d touched my sex as though he had every right. I refused to sit around and do nothing to defend myself when he clearly intended to rape me.

  So, I’d have to find a weapon. Or make one.

  I cast my eyes around the opulent bathroom, searching. There, hanging beneath one of the multiple showerheads: a razor.

  I quickly crossed the tiled floor and retrieved it. I glanced at the closed bathroom door, knowing I didn’t have long before Andrés would start banging on it. Possibly even breaking it down. I’d locked it behind me, but that wouldn’t stop him. He’d already proven how strong he was, how relentless.

  Turning my attention back to my task, I tamped down my anxiety and applied pressure to the razor’s plastic casing. After a few seconds, it snapped. I gripped the flat of one of the blades between my thumb and forefinger, careful of the wickedly sharp edge. If I bloodied my fingers, I wouldn’t be able to hold on to my only weapon.

  I went to the bathroom door and turned back the lock, knowing he’d hear the metallic click in the bedroom. I didn’t open the door. I needed him to come to me, and then I’d catch him by surprise. He’d seen a broken, frightened woman dart into the bathroom to hide from him. He wouldn’t expect me to attack again now.

  I’m not broken. An
d I’m not frightened. Okay, maybe that last part was a lie. My hands trembled, and I focused on steadying the fingers that gripped my blade.

  “Samantha?” he asked, his rumbling voice emanating through the closed door. “Come out of there.”

  I made a little sniffling noise to encourage the illusion that I was crying, weakened. Not a difficult feat, considering my tears still mingled with the water droplets that wet my face.

  “Come out here. Now, cosita.” There was warning in the last, a clear threat that he’d come in to retrieve me if I didn’t comply.

  Come on, then, I mentally urged him, my body vibrating with anticipation.

  A heavy sigh sounded through the door. “You will regret this,” he said. “You must learn to obey me, even if you’re scared or upset. I’m giving you one last chance. Come,” he commanded firmly, like he was speaking to a particularly difficult puppy he was trying to train.

  I straightened my spine. I wasn’t going to be trained. I wasn’t going to obey. And I certainly wasn’t going to walk out into his scary, strong arms and allow him to violate me.

  The door swung open, and I launched myself at him. I had the barest moment to register his dark eyes widening with surprise as I slashed, aiming for his throat. I’d never killed a man before, but I had to escape before something terrible happened to me. I tried to find a cold, calm place in my mind, but instead, I attacked with a furious, desperate shriek.

  Maybe my roiling emotions made me sloppy. Maybe I just didn’t have it in me to tear open a man’s throat.

  Or maybe Andrés was simply accustomed to people trying to kill him, and his instincts kicked in.

  He managed to dodge back, and my blade cut a long, shallow furrow into his chest. I paused, shocked at the sight of his blood welling up.

  I’d done that. I’d hurt him.

  I didn’t feel any sense of heroic triumph. Instead, horror washed over me. Violence might be ingrained in him, but it turned out, killing wasn’t in my nature.