Safe in His Arms (9 page)

This was what it was to love, then. Helplessness. An attachment to something that could be taken away or lost. The ache of it made him feel like an old man.

He didn’t want to lie to her, or even pretend things would be all right. He shrugged. “I’m not supposed to be in your life to begin with. It wasn’t my plan to pop in and out. You’re the one who summoned me here, remember?”

He thought she might cry, but she was braver than that. She sat up, crawled off the bed, and started dressing. “But you’re going to give me a way to contact you?” She’d turned her back to him as she pulled on a pair of pants.

“Yeah. I’ll figure something out. It can’t be traceable, so it will change frequently, but I’ll keep you notified.”

She turned and looked at him, her gaze steady. “I want to see you again.”

The joy her words produced instantly collided with reality. He rubbed his head, wondering how it came about they were negotiating what wasn’t negotiable. “No.” Frustration leaked through. “I can’t, Becca, and I’ve already explained why not.”

She stared at him for a long time, then turned and walked quietly out of the room. Heaviness descended on him like he’d inhaled poison gas. Staying fluid, he took her cue, dressed and slipped out the window, which was how he’d entered.

Back in his own apartment, he checked all communications, then turned on the shower. Standing under the water, he felt his injuries for the first time, rather than just observing them—the sting of the cuts, the ache of the bruises. He was an old man already.

He dried off, dressed, and went to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He ate it, but it did not fill the emptiness within him. His habit now would be to check the video feeds on Becca. It was how he filled the gaping holes of his time and existence. But that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? He was just there. And she didn’t need looking in on. He put on a ball cap and left the building, driving to Pacific Beach, where he locked his gun, shoes, and shirt in the car, rolled up the cuffs of his khakis and walked out to the beach, treading carefully to avoid the broken glass left by drunken partygoers the night before. Once on the beach he broke into a run, ignoring the bikini-clad blondes and the bronzed surfers. He ran long past the sunset, until the sky was black and the moon rose, lighting the black ocean to a shimmering deep blue. He ran until he admitted it hadn’t changed the way he felt, and wasn’t going to, and gave up, his feet raw as he walked barefooted back to his car.

At home, he repeated his earlier actions of showering and eating, then like an addict, opened up the video feed. Parker was home, Becca was just kissing him goodnight. She walked into her bedroom and changed into pajamas, her breasts springing free from her black lace bra before she stretched the thin cotton top over them. She peeled off her pants and looked in the mirror at the marks he’d left, running her hand over her muscular cheeks. Her eyes caught the bag he’d left near the bed and his heart began to beat a little faster. She opened it and pulled out the Lexan paddle, butt plug, and lube he’d bought, examining each one with a stricken look. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the paddle against her forehead, and started to cry.

He shouldn’t have left the items. He hadn’t done it to be cruel; he’d only thought she might have better use for them than he would, but that had been beyond stupid. She was hurt and it was his fault. Again.

He watched as her tears turned into all-out sobs and he jumped to his feet and started to pace. His heart was beating faster than it did in combat. This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t function this way—he was going to get all of them killed if he didn’t get his head together. He picked up his glass and hurled it, taking no satisfaction when it shattered against the wall.

He turned off all the lights and sat in the darkness in hopes it would help him think. His gut was telling him to get back into Becca’s apartment, to wrap his arms around her and take away her pain. But in this one instance, he could not trust his gut. His instincts spelled danger. They were clouded by his own desires, confused by his fears. How long he sat there, he wasn’t sure, but before any coherent thought had formed, his body was up and moving, as it always did—action preceding a plan—and he was climbing out his window, swinging onto the balcony below, then making the five-foot jump to catch the ladder that served as a fire escape. Quiet as a moonbeam, he crawled down on it, then scaled sideways to Becca’s bedroom window, which he easily popped open to slide soundlessly inside.

She wasn’t in her bedroom, but he could hear her coming down the hall. Knowing she would be startled, and not wanting her to scream and wake Parker, he positioned himself behind the door, so she didn’t see him when she walked in. Clapping his hand over her mouth and his arm around her waist, he pulled her body against his.

“Shh, it’s me,” he said the moment her muffled shriek ended. He removed his hand from her mouth, feeling her breath grow frantic. She squirmed in his arms, but he held her fast, speaking into her ear. “Calm your breath. Make each exhale longer.” He placed his hand on her abdomen, beneath her belly button. “Breathe all the way down here.”

“What—what are you doing?” she gasped.

“This is how it’s going to be,” he informed her, as if he were instructing one of his captives in the rules of engagement. “I will be here when I can. I can’t tell you when or how often. I probably won’t use the front door. You can’t tell anyone about me, and Parker needs to keep it a secret, too. That’s the best I can do, Becca.”

She stood perfectly still.

“Take it or leave it.”

* * *

“I hate you, Zac,” she muttered, and as quickly as he had snatched her up, he released her, stepping back. She whirled, disappointed he’d let her go. His face was stone, his eyes alert on her face. Tears welled in her eyes and she didn’t bother to stop them from spilling. “I hate you for showing up and I hate you for leaving. I was happy—well, maybe not happy, but I was content enough before you reappeared. And now—” she broke off. “You ruined it.” She gave him a shove that didn’t move him.

“Do you…want me to leave?” he asked in a strained voice.

She hurled a fist at his chest. “No, I don’t fucking want you to leave!” She punched his ribs as hard as she could, using both fists, pummeling him, while he put his hands on her shoulders to calm her. “I don’t want you to leave,” she sobbed. “I don’t want you to ever leave again.” She continued hitting him, hurting her knuckles far more than she was hurting him. “And I hate you for turning me into this pathetic female who is hanging on the leg of her man to stay,” she wept.

He released her shoulders and took a step back from her and she launched herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist, slapping at his face and head. “I accept your stupid conditions! Obviously I have no pride whatsoever and I’ll just take any scrap you can throw me!”

“Becca…” his voice was strangled, “you’re killing me.”

The tears in his voice brought her out of herself. She froze, unnerved, like when a child sees their parent cry. She found his eyes and saw they were moist.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That wasn’t fair.”

A dampness on her inner thigh made her look down and she gasped—his shirt was soaked through with blood, which had smeared all over her leg.

“Oh, my God! I’m literally killing you!” She twisted to get off him, but he held her fast.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. Let me go!” She remembered the wound on his side, and realized with horror she had punched him there. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Let me down, Zac!”

“No,” he said stubbornly.

She started laughing—hysterical, tearful giggles. She leaned her forehead against his. “Zac,” she whispered beseechingly.

He released her legs and she pulled her thigh away as she slid down. “You need a doctor.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Do you have any superglue?”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded.

She stared at the growing bloodstain, feeling light-headed. “Yeah, okay,” she said, trying to pull herself together. She grabbed a towel from her bathroom and tossed it to him. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” he promised.

When she returned with the superglue, he was standing in her bathroom, his shirt off, the towel pressed to his gash. “Thanks,” he said, taking it from her, then he pushed the door gently closed. “You don’t have to watch.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “How did you know?” she said through the partly open door, looking purposefully away.

“I’ve got your number.”

Her chest tightened at the reminder that this man knew everything about her while she knew nothing about him, but the sting didn’t last as long as it had before. There was pleasure with it—it was nice to be known, to be understood. And with the creepy vibe diminished, it was nice to know she was watched over.

“But I still don’t know you,” she said softly, leaning against the door frame. His sky blue eyes peered through the crack.

“Yes, you do.”

Her breath left her in the warmth of his gaze and she nudged open the door and walked around behind him, trailing her fingernails over his muscled back, taking care not to look at his wound.

She wanted to know him.

“You know me better than anyone,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror when she peeked around. He shrugged. “If I exist in any form—if there is a man to know—I would want him to be the one I am when I’m with you.”

She rested her cheek against his warm back, her hands at his waist.

“Go and take your clothes off, Becca. I made you a promise earlier I didn’t get to keep,” he said, making her catch her breath.

Her butt was way too sore for more spanking. She leaned around him to look at his face, instead of the mirror. “French fry?” she tried, innocently.

He grinned. “No chance. You’re still in big trouble with me, and I’m not going to let you weasel out of it. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, today’s spanking will just be the warm-up, understand?”

She tried not to show the effect those words had on her—the way her clit spasmed and her panties dampened. The way her knees went weak with instant submission, even as her mind rebelled against any more pain ever again. “Yes, sir.”

“Take your clothes off and bend over the side of the bed.”

“Zac—”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, struggling between loving his dominance and feeling certain she couldn’t take another spanking. “Zac?” she repeated in a smaller voice, when no other words came.

“I’d be scared, too, if I were you,” he said, reading her like a book. “You have ten seconds to get your clothes off and bend over that bed. One…two…”

“Wait! Okay!”

She scrambled out of her clothes and leaned over the edge of the bed as instructed.

“Zac?” she tried again.

He chuckled. “Do I need to find a gag for you?”

“No, sir,” she whispered, craning her neck to look over her shoulder anxiously.

Zac came and leaned on his forearms next to her, mimicking her position. She searched his face, wearing a pleading expression on her own.

“I know,” he said, with absolute confidence. She opened her mouth to clarify what he knew, then shut it.
He knew.
Of course he knew. He knew she was exhausted from it all and couldn’t take much more. He knew she was scared. He probably also knew her limits.

Her eyelids fluttered. “I trust you,” she whispered.

An unidentifiable emotion flickered across his face. “What a gift,” he said, his voice hoarse. He kissed her forehead and retreated, leaving her to listen to his exploration of the implements he’d left there earlier.

She felt something cool and flat press against her sore ass. “This is a paddle made of Lexan. Supposedly it packs quite a sting without leaving bruises.” The paddle left her bottom, and she held her breath, but it was replaced by his hand, which stroked in a lazy figure eight. “Which is good, because you may already be bruised. I tried to give you enough of a warm-up, but that was a pretty serious spanking you took earlier.”

She whimpered, not needing to be reminded of it. “Zac?” she continued her inane repetition of his name, though what she meant to communicate, she couldn’t say.

“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured.

She wondered briefly what other names he went by, but all thought left when he brought the paddle down with a crack. She gasped, then moaned. He hadn’t put much force behind it, but he was right—it packed a sting.

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the next smack. Instead, his fingers slid between her thighs, finding her swollen pussy and dipping into the moisture there, spreading it around.

“Uhhh,” she groaned, hungry for him.

“You’re pretty wound up, aren’t you, baby girl?”

“Mmm?”

His exploration of her pussy seemed without ambition, despite the way she pushed back against him, and waggled her hips from side to side.

“This afternoon wasn’t enough for you, huh? You want to come again?”

“Yessss.”

His hand withdrew and he slapped her ass, surprising her.

“Ow!”

He rubbed the area lightly. “Mmm hmm. Punishment, remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

She sensed him picking up the paddle again and one of her legs began to tremble. He stroked her with the cool plastic, running the flat blade in circles over her antagonized flesh. White hot pain exploded as he gave her two swift smacks.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, doing a little dance. “Oh, oh, oh.”

His fingers entered her hot core again, deeper this time and she moaned with what she hoped was encouragement. When he withdrew this time, she braced herself for more spanking, but he surprised her again with the application of a cool liquid on her asshole. She jumped with a little shriek, her hips swimming away from him.

He made a tsking sound and applied three more slaps of the paddle, causing her to howl in protest. “Naughty, naughty girl. Hold still or I’ll skip the fun and just give you the spanking.”

She whimpered, honestly not sure whether she considered what he had in mind as “fun” at all. He held her hip and rubbed the lube in a circle around her anus. She felt the pressure of a soft bulbous tip and identified it as the butt plug. “Zac?”