Capture (Siren Book 1) (6 page)

Better to leave the door open, just in case. “We'll figure something out.”

His lips curve into a smile, tickling my forehead. “Good.”

Is he just making the motions, because he thinks that's what a woman'd want to hear, after screwing him? “Why're you so determined?”

“I fight for things I want, birdie. You're intense, but I like that. And I don't want to talk about it much, but things are crazy at work right now. It'd be great having something simple. Something that I could pursue without it being a fight or a negotiation.”

I raise an eyebrow at that.

“I mean—I like the fight, too. But you've got the safe word. It's different. It's a chance to get rid of that irritation without actually having to solve the problem. And sometimes problems aren’t so easy to solve, especially work ones. I needed that.” He squeezes me, his forearm strong against my back. “You'll keep me on my toes, I know it. And lest you think I'm a one-trick pony, here—”

He rolls toward me, pinning me beneath him and shifting his weight between my legs. My breathing hitches. His arms surrounding me, his calves against mine, his thighs sliding against me, and his hard chest... I'm in trouble. Serious trouble.

His eyes capture me, despite the shadows darkening his face. My hands tremble, both from leftover anxiety, and newfound anticipation.

He lowers himself to me, dropping his weight to his elbows to free up his hands. His lips find mine and tease them apart, slowly and softly. His fingers caress my forehead and stroke my hair.

That tenderness... it cuts through my defenses. I can't find anything to do
but
to kiss back, letting him ease me toward a state of relaxation, no longer the huntress on the prowl. He kisses me like he
cares
. And we both know that's a fallacy. I'm
no one
to him, but a fun lay. But that he can fake it that utterly... it reminds me why I'm here, even as his eager body dares me to forget.

No matter how his newest touches haunt me, no matter how gingerly he handles me, it's all an act. And the quality of it, no matter how stunning, only worsens the transgression.

He kisses down my neck, bringing each nerve ending in my body to life, one at a time, as though he were plucking harp strings. A gentle stroke, fading away to let the sensation decay. His lips trailing along my skin, his eyelashes tickling it when he turns his head to the side to look up at me. The heel of his palm pressing into the side of my breast to guide my nipple to his warm mouth.

I never thought I'd admit it, but it leaves me pining for the violence in how he handled me before. How can I fantasize about killing a man whose little moans echo mine, making it clear that he needs my pleasure as much as I do? Who admits his own weakness and assuages it by making someone
else
feel good?

Damnit
, Calder. Point, you.

His palms press into my hips, closing the last little distance between his lips and my stomach. And his hands ease lower, catching on the sides of my now-defunct panties, and guiding them down.

His warmth pulls away from me. He's retreating so I can bring my legs together enough to help him. And then his lips are on my thigh, and he's guiding my legs toward him.

I gasp, against myself. I should be desperate to get away. To say I'm not up to it after earlier. But his touch smooths away every thought that might interfere with his worshipful attention.

His lips caress my inner thigh, his fingertips carrying the motion toward my knee. If I move, I'll break whatever spell he's casting on me. I'll still be trapped here with him, but I'll be struggling against myself, remembering the vitriol that felt so second-nature just ten minutes ago. But I'll still be unable to show it.

No, for the moment, I need to let myself play into his desires. I need to let go and believe that he's someone who
could
have my trust.

I'm in over my head, trying to work him face to face. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can be rid of the damn confusion.

Calder's lips press against my clit, gently teasing a reaction out of me. I let out an encouraging moan, one rather louder than I intended. Point two, Calder.

He gasps, just a bare hint of a hum that pushes through me, heightening the feeling of his soft lips and firm tongue driving me higher.

“Aren't you
exhausted
?” I manage to say, though the words are breathless and loopy.

“What can I say? You're
addictive
.” He grins at me, his chin glistening with my arousal, before ducking his head back down to lick me from lips to button. I'm reduced to mewling, halting cries under the onslaught, my legs tightening around him like he
belongs
there.

If he makes me come, I'm done for.

I sit up, crawling back from him, and tug him down to the bed. His eager cock bobs and dips as he lies back, sneaking a lick as my breast passes by his head.

There's a condom in my nightstand drawer. And I need to keep him distracted. I pull the little latex circle out, and settle the reservoir inside my mouth, sucking lightly to keep it in place. I bend forward, taking him into my mouth, and as he presses into me, the condom unrolls in front of my lips, blunting the feel of his skin.

My jaw strains to contain him, my tongue stroking the underside of his shaft. But my plan was misguided—even the rare touches that remain, his hand resting on my shoulder, or tracing along whichever parts of me he can reach... they're still too much. Still keeping me too close to that untenable edge.

He doesn't deserve that much of me. And it won't do him a lick of good. But it's still an anxiety-inducing reminder that no matter how my body trembles, need roaring through me, I don't dare let him make me come.

His fingers tighten in my hair as he watches me. I can barely spare the attention to note his eyes on my lips, matching sight to sensation.

I need to end this.
Fast
.

I suck harder, closing my eyes so I won't miss out on any little tells. Maybe I just need to pare back everything in my head, until there's only his cock sliding along my tongue, pressing into the back of my throat. Only his moans, and the way his fingers curl against my bare skin.

A little vein pulses, and I know I'm getting closer. His fingers catch in my hair, stilling my motions.

“If you think that I'm
not
gonna come in that sweet pussy, Rachael, you're dead wrong.”

The soft burr in his voice, that rumble... it could have a hint of threat. And so long as I focus on that, I can ignore the fire it lights in me, roaring through my blood like a contained explosion. I pause, his cock an inch away from my lips, undecided whether to humor him or ignore him.

He makes up my mind for me, pulling me on top of him until he's hard between my legs, sliding against my slit.

The pressure's nearly enough to send me over the edge. In the seconds it takes me to catch my breath, I've lost my focus. I still need this
done
. I'm not giving him more than I absolutely have to. Obviously he likes the dirty talk. I can oblige. “You're assuming that I don't want to feel you come in my mouth.”

His lips part, his eyes fixed on mine.
Bingo
. Point,
me
.

“I'll tell you what's gonna happen, Calder. I'm gonna ride you a little here. But you
are
gonna come in my mouth. I insist.”

I raise on my knees, slightly, sliding the head of his cock against my throbbing clit. It's both for myself, and also to let him know that this is about control, not about withholding either of our pleasure. I don't dare let him know that it
is
about withholding mine, not sharing something so intimate with an enemy.

He grabs my hips to readjust himself, sinking into me as much as I'll let him. That faint impatient flush staining his cheeks, the abandon in his eyes...
Fuck
that man's beautiful. It's not fucking
fair
.

I give in, taking him into me fully, letting him stretch me as his eyes roam my breasts, and his hands guide my rhythm.
Just a little longer
. I only have to wait a little longer before I can touch myself, alone, and do what I brought him here to.

Calder clutches at my hips, and somehow even giving him
that
control is unpalatable. He doesn't know it yet, but I've already won.

I seize his hands and bring them above his head, leaning forward. He clutches me, ceding power to me for the first time. He just has no idea how
much
I really have.

A sly smile tugs at my lips, and that awareness stokes the flames inside me to new levels. I don't just want to break him, I want to
consume
him. I want to own every piece, just to watch it crumble.

Starting with him now, coming to pieces underneath me. Arching into me, eager to feel our heartbeats against each other. Gasping a nonexistent woman's name as he lets me under his skin.

I memorize every facial expression, every moan. From here on out, he only exists for
me.
He's signed his own death sentence in semen.

His eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and his fingers slack in mine, I release him. “No fair.
I
said I wanted to suck you.”

“Later, birdie. A million times later.” He smiles, halfway to giddy, and pulls me down beside him. “Whenever you want.”

He kisses me, and his lips still taste of my arousal. It rouses me, reminds me how far I've come for this. Only a little left. I can rest easy by his side, knowing what's coming next.

His breathing evens out; between the booze and the vigorous sex, he's obviously out of it. Time to get to work.

The air itches my tender skin, a reminder of the marks I'll have in the morning. Calder's soft breath stirs the pillow next to my face.

I want the tears to stop. But at least they're silent, either that or he's drunk enough that a foghorn couldn't wake him. I try to pull my shattered mind together, to calm the flurry of neuroses and despair coursing through my veins, at receiving such pleasure from someone capable of such horrors.

I slide his arm off me, gently, so it won't disturb him. As stealthily as I can, I pad into the front foyer to get the syringe from my purse. When I return, a stream of light cuts across his face, highlighting his relaxed mouth, dappling his eyelids in an unearthly sheen. He's even more beautiful up close. The kind of man a woman could follow into hell, just to see the colors the flames paint in his eyes.

Insecurity makes my hand shake, turns my conviction to weakness. Am I really gonna do this? Can I really afford
not
to?

He stirs, and to buy myself time, I slide back into bed next to him, and stroke his cheek, hiding the needle behind my back. He mutters quietly, his lips curving into a serene smile that drops away as he slips deeper into sleep. I pull the needle out, looking from it, to him, and it's thirty seconds before I can convince myself to bring it down, stabbing the drugs deep into his neck.

His breathing slows, even and shallow to the point where it's hard to tell he's alive. And, for the first time alone, I lay next to him, and slide my fingers down to
finally
get some satisfaction that doesn't come with vulnerability or regret. It takes barely three strokes, after how long he wound me up. I press my face into his arm as I come, fingers pressed against my oversensitized clit, still slippery with his spit and my own need.

And as I catch my breath, as the weight falls off my chest, I rise to begin what has to happen next.

I climb out of bed, the chilly evening air tickling me as it rushes in where I just felt his warm skin against mine. The change startles me, the sudden sensation rendering me vulnerable. Just as helpless as I was, restrained in my own bed while he took what he wanted from me.

And now it's
his
turn to be helpless.

It's gonna be
fine
. I'm shaken, but not broken. And I've got the upper hand.

Game, set,
match
.

Eleven

Calder

I come to with metal against my cheek. Not a smooth, flat sheet, but rough grating with a serrated edge that cuts into my skin. The air smells of rust and mold, and there's a faint
drip
that I can't quite place.

My ears ring, the beginnings of a hangover settling behind my eyes. The low light seems a blessing, though one that gets more and more worrisome as my wits come back to me.

How did I get here? There's nothing from yesterday, past a mahogany bar counter.

How much did I
drink
?
I only remember a few. I've gotten blackout drunk before, but never woken up anywhere weirder than a stranger's couch. It would take
lots
more than that to blank me that completely.

And
where the fuck
is
this
?

The space is about the size of my closet; there's room to walk, but only a little. I grope along the walls, my fingers probing along cool metalwork, along valves and pipes, and some kind of  tank. A cool handrail pushes into my midsection as I work. After a moment of worry, I kneel down and try to see if I can reach the floor below my grating. My fingertips just barely make out more flooring, and damp. There's at least
some
water below me, though I can't say how much.

All this metal... the grating... it has to be industrial. That means... I wrack my brains. Ernie, maybe? Or Petrov? Have I forgotten any payments, or knocked up the wrong person's kid? Some of our business acquaintances are rough types, who might do something like this as a lesson or an example. No one's started any pissing matches with me, though, and if it's something Mom did...

Lucy. Who knows how the
fuck
many toes she stepped on, while Mom looked the other way? Who knows
what
the fuck she wanted me to keep my nose out of. Could she do this?

No. She's an administrator; she'd have to have help. No way in hell she'd think of something this bizarre. And no matter what, Mom never would have broken Dad's adage that you don't shit where you sleep. Everyone else can speak on your behalf, so long as you put the words in their mouth.

It's gotta be a message. The only question is to whom it's addressed. If it's a negotiation tactic, an attempt to scare me, someone'll be along shortly to let me know the terms of my release. If it's directed at
others
, to punish me, I'm
fucked.
Who knows when the hell they'll be along to retrieve my body, or hasten my demise along?

I can't make myself believe it's a punishment; I'll be
damned
if I know what I've done to be punished for.

The thoughts make it easier to keep the fear at bay. So long as I'm soul-searching for any detail that might help me prepare myself, I'm not wallowing in the probability that
none
of it will do any damn good.

I've gotta get out of here. My feet slide in loosely laced shoes, not properly tied, and I nearly go flying. The light catches on a round wheel, the locking mechanism for a door, and I hurry over to test my weight on it. It won't budge, but I don't let that prevent me from trying, again. The world spins around me, disorienting me far more than any hangover has a right to.

Only when my arms are weak with the strain do I let myself lie back on that cool grate. It's not exactly a bed, but just being supine helps stop the world from spinning.

*              *              *

There's no sun filtering through, only one dim bare-bulb light. I have no sense of time. My belly grumbles loudly, and that's the only thing that tells me I've been here for hours, at the very least. I ran out of names, cliff notes, trying to figure out who put me here. After going over them several more times to be sure I hadn't forgotten anyone, the production's lost its luster.

Instead, all I can do is try to focus on happier times.

Few are coming to mind. It's surprising how fast the good times fly out of your head when you're surrounded in decay. My breath catches in my throat, and I have to fight back the urge to retch; if I do, it's staying with me for the foreseeable future. Adding
that
to the reek is the
last
thing I need. The air's almost thick enough to taste; I can't remember the last time I smelled something so foul.

Unfortunately, just the thought of it pushes me over the edge. I manage to heave myself onto my side before the retches hit full force. Bile and the remains of a
lot
of liquor burn in my nose and throat.
Shit
.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse.

At least now I know
something
. There was enough booze in my stomach to explain the hangover. One mystery down, I guess.

I'll take what victories I can get.