“Nora,” he says, and there is a steely note in his voice. “Get up. Get up right now.”
I shake my head mutely, still not looking at him.
“Nora, this can be pleasurable for you or it can be painful. It’s really up to you.”
Pleasurable? Is he insane? My entire body is shaking with sobs at this point.
“Nora,” he says again, and I hear the impatience in his voice. “You have exactly five seconds to do what I’m telling you.”
He waits, and I can almost hear him counting in his head. I’m counting too, and when I get to four, I get up, tears still streaming down my face.
I’m ashamed of my own cowardice, but I’m so afraid of pain. I don’t want him to hurt me.
I don’t want him to touch me at all, but that is clearly not an option.
“Good girl,” he says softly, touching my face again, brushing my hair back over my shoulders.
I tremble at his touch. I can’t look at him, so I keep my eyes down.
He apparently objects to that, because he tilts my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze with my own.
His eyes are dark blue in this light. He’s so close to me that I can feel the heat coming off his body. It feels good because I’m cold. Naked and cold.
Suddenly, he reaches for me, bending down. Before I can get really scared, he slides one arm around my back and another under my knees.
Then he lifts me effortlessly in his arms and carries me to the bed.
He puts me down, almost gently, and I curl into a ball, shaking. He starts to undress, and I can’t help watching him.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and the T-shirt comes off first.
His upper body is a work of art, all broad shoulders, hard muscles, and smooth tan skin. His chest is lightly dusted with dark hair. Under some other circumstances, I would’ve been thrilled to have such a good-looking lover.
Under these circumstances, I just want to scream.
His jeans are next. I can hear the sound of his zipper being lowered, and it galvanizes me into action.
In a second, I go from lying on the bed to scrambling for the door—which he’d left open.
I may be small, but I’m fast on my feet. I did track for ten years and was quite good at it. Unfortunately, I hurt my knee during one of the races, and now I’m limited to more leisurely runs and other forms of exercise.
I make it out the door, down the stairs, and I’m almost to the front door when he catches me.
His arms close around me from behind, and he squeezes me so hard that I can’t breathe for a moment. My arms are completely restrained, so I can’t even fight him. He lifts me, and I kick back at him with my heels. I manage to land a few kicks before he turns me around to face him.
I’m sure he’s going to hurt me now, and I brace myself for a blow.
Instead, he just pulls me into his embrace and holds me tightly. My face is buried in his chest, and my naked body is pressed against his. I can smell the clean, musky scent of his skin and feel something hard and warm against my stomach.
His erection.
He’s fully naked and turned on.
With the way he’s holding me, I’m almost completely helpless. I can neither kick nor scratch him.
But I can bite.
So I sink my teeth into his pectoral muscle and hear him curse before he yanks on my hair, forcing me to release his flesh.
Then he holds me like that, one arm wrapped around my waist, my lower body tightly pressed against him. His other hand is fisted in my hair, holding my head arched back. My hands are pushing at his chest in a futile attempt to put some distance between us.
I meet his gaze defiantly, ignoring the tears running down my face. I have no choice but to be brave now. If I die, I want to at least retain some dignity.
His expression is dark and angry, his blue eyes narrowed at me.
I am breathing hard, and my heart is beating so fast I feel like it might jump out of my chest. We look at each other—predator and prey, the conqueror and the conquered—and in that moment, I feel an odd sort of connection to him. Like a part of myself is forever altered by what’s happening between us.
Suddenly, his face softens. A smile appears on his sensuous lips.
Then he leans toward me, lowers his head, and presses his mouth to mine.
I am stunned. His lips are gentle, tender as they explore mine, even as he holds me with an iron grip.
He’s a skilled kisser. I’ve kissed quite a few guys, and I’ve never felt anything like this. His breath is warm, flavored with something sweet, and his tongue teases my lips until they part involuntarily, granting him access to my mouth.
I don’t know if it’s the aftereffects of the drug he gave me or the simple relief that he’s not hurting me, but I melt at that kiss. A strange languor spreads through my body, sapping my will to fight.
He kisses me slowly, leisurely, as though he has all the time in the world. His tongue strokes against mine, and he lightly sucks on my lower lip, sending a surge of liquid heat straight to my core. His hand eases its grip on my hair and cradles the back of my head instead. It’s almost like he’s making love to me.
I find my hands holding on to his shoulders. I have no idea how they got there, but I’m now clinging to him instead of pushing him away. I don’t understand my own reaction. Why am I not cringing away from his kiss in disgust?
It just feels so good, that incredible mouth of his. It’s like kissing an angel. It makes me forget the situation for a second, enables me to push the terror away.
He pulls away and looks down on me. His lips are wet and shiny, a little swollen from our kiss. Mine probably are too.
He no longer seems angry. Instead, he looks hungry and pleased at the same time. I can see both lust and tenderness on his perfect face, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
I lick my lips, and his eyes drop down to my mouth for a second. He kisses me again, just a brief brush of his lips against mine.
Then he picks me up again and carries me upstairs to his bed.
Chapter 4
When I look back on this day, my behavior doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t understand why I didn’t fight him harder, why I didn’t try to get away again. It wasn’t a rational decision on my part—it wasn’t a conscious choice to cooperate in order to avoid pain.
No, I am acting purely on instinct.
And my instinct is to submit to him.
He puts me down on the bed, and I just lie there. I’m too worn out from our earlier struggle, and I still feel woozy from the drug.
There is something so surreal about what’s happening that my mind can’t process it fully. I feel like I’m watching a play or a movie. It can’t possibly be me in this situation. I can’t be this girl who was drugged and kidnapped, and who is letting her kidnapper touch her, stroke her all over her body.
We’re lying on our sides, facing each other. I can feel his hands on my skin. They’re slightly rough, callused. Warm on my frozen flesh. Strong, though he’s not using that strength right now. He could subdue me with ease, like he did before, but there is no need. I’m not fighting him. I’m floating in a hazy, sensual fog.
He’s kissing me again, and caressing my arm, my back, my neck, my outer thigh. His touch is gentle, yet firm. It’s almost like he’s giving me a massage, except I can feel the sexual intent in his actions.
He kisses my neck, lightly nibbling on the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder join, and I shiver from the pleasurable sensation.
I close my eyes. It’s disarming, that surprising gentleness of his. I know I should feel violated—and I do—but I also feel oddly cherished.
With my eyes closed, I pretend that this is just a dream. A dark fantasy, like the kind I sometimes have late at night. It makes it more palatable, the fact that I’m letting this stranger do this to me.