by Pam Godwin
His luggage lay open behind her. From the large case, she carefully removed a button-up shirt. No reason to snoop through his belongings. The cartel would’ve already searched it and removed anything useful.
Backing away on tiptoes, she closed the buttons on the shirt and slipped into the main room. The door to the other bedroom stood open, giving her a view of Tomas’ bed.
The sheets lay crumpled on the empty mattress. No sounds came from the bathroom. The bodyguard wasn’t here. Perfect.
She hurried on silent feet toward the exit. By the time she gripped the door handle, her heart had clawed its way to her throat.
I’m not running.
That would be against his rules. She just needed… What? Clothes. Coffee. A morning walk. Space.
With her defense prepared, she swung open the door and gasped.
Brown hair, crooked nose, steroid-induced torso, and eyes as black as night. Hateful eyes, burning with manic rage.
“Alejandro.” She sucked down her panic and faced him with her chin raised. “What are you doing here?”
He’d been gone for several weeks, which meant he’d just delivered a new batch of trafficked girls. And not only to this property. The youngest La Rocha brother sold slaves all over California and elsewhere.
“Imagine my disappointment,” he said in scathing Spanish, “when I arrived this morning to discover that my whore was whoring for someone else.”
“Marco allowed—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” His hand shot toward her neck.
She ducked, slammed against the door in her attempt to escape, and tried to flee into the breezeway. He reached for her again, and she threw herself forward, knowing there was no way she’d make it past him.
Except he didn’t stop her.
Glancing back was a mistake. She should’ve kept running. Eyes forward. Always straight ahead. But stupidity swung her gaze around and slowed her steps.
A broad muscled back swallowed her view. Freckles she hadn’t noticed before on the bulging ridges of shoulders. Corded neck, red hair, and a fist that reached back and captured her wrist in an unbending grip.
“You must be John Smith.” A sneer edged Alejandro’s broken English.
“And you must be Miguel.” John’s head dipped down and back up, taking in the man’s massive size. “Or are you the youngest brother?”
“I’m Alejandro, vato, and she belongs to me.”
“I see. Well, then…” John ruthlessly dragged her forward, making her trip. “Take her. Since you’re not interested in my business, I’ll leave this morning. You can speak to my assistant about refunding my down payment, as well as the obscene amount of money he wired last night for the time I won’t be spending with my purchase.”
He pushed her toward Alejandro, washing his hands of her. She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or punch his balls into his throat.
“You paid for her?” Alejandro jerked his head back. “For a used-up whore?”
“I paid six digits for a week with her.”
Her stomach sank. She knew the buyers dropped serious cash on the virgin girls fresh off the truck. But six digits in exchange for her? It was preposterous. Why would he do that? He didn’t even fuck her last night.
Alejandro glanced at the workout shorts that John had shoved on. Then his gaze traveled over the stolen shirt she wore. He was a possessive son of a bitch, and it showed in the hard brackets around his scowl. His nostrils widened, and he gripped his nape. Then a decision settled on his face.
The cartel valued money far and above their women. Her fate was sealed.
“I misunderstood.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and backed away. “We honor our deals, esé.” His Adam’s apple bounced, the flat line of his lips barely concealing his displeasure. “Stay. She’s yours for the week.”
“You hear that, darling?” John grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back against him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go with Alejandro? Your choice.”
What the ever-loving fuck? After all that posturing with Marco last night, he was changing his tune? Talk about whiplash.
Maybe it was a test, but she wouldn’t fall for it. Whomever she chose, the other man would find a way to make her pay for his embarrassment.
“What’s behind door three?” She jerked at the hair in his fist, unable to free herself.
“I’ll show you.” John hauled her back into the room. Then he faced the doorway, blocking her view. “Will there be anything else?”
“There’s a private dinner in my quarters tonight.” Alejandro cleared his voice, his English thick with resentment. “I expect you to be there. Bring the whore.”
Fuck no! She didn’t want anything to do with that.
With a nod, John shut the door in the cartel jefe’s face. Then he slowly turned toward her and lobbed a glare so frightening it sent prickles from her nape to her toes.
“You’re feeling better.” His voice was cold. Terribly so.
She shook her head and retreated around the couch.
“You’re recovered enough to run.” He prowled after her, eyes locked.
“I wasn’t running, idiota. I needed clothes and coffee and—”
“Shut the fuck up.” His words didn’t match the oh-so calm delivery, which made him even more fearsome. He paused at the side table and removed something from the drawer, concealing it in the palm of his huge hand. “Your disobedience will not go unpunished.”
“El burro sabe más que tú. Do you hear yourself?” She shook violently, and that just made her madder. And louder. “I bet you were the school bully. The guy who shoved around the smaller kids because your dad took his fists to you? You were hiding your own bruises, weren’t you? And the only control you had in your life was beating the shit out of those who weighed less than you.”
She was angry and scared and talking out of her ass, but the instant his face paled, she knew she’d touched a tender nerve.
“I warned you.” He followed her through the sitting area, his gait too casual for the fists flexing at his sides. “Every foolish action will result in another girl taking your punishment.”
“No! This is between you and me, goddammit!”
He paused, tipped his head. “Then you better run.”
Her pulse exploded as she spun and bolted toward the door. His footsteps pounded after her, flooding her system with adrenaline. She passed a chair and yanked it behind her. Same with a small table. A glass lamp crashed to the floor, followed by a masculine curse.
She made it halfway to the door when it opened. Tomas stepped in, holding a tray of food and a bag of clothes.
Fucking hell. She swerved, aiming for the bedrooms, but John was too close, breathing down her neck. He swiped at her, his fingers snagging the back of the shirt. She whirled, stomped a heel on his foot, and drove a fist into his gut.
He grunted, and she dropped to the floor, scrambling around his legs to evade the long reach of his arms. All those muscles made him strong, but they also slowed him down.
She could’ve outrun him if she had somewhere to go. Tomas blocked the exit, and there was no other way out. Not that leaving this room was an option beneath the gravity of John’s threat. He’d told her to run because he clearly enjoyed the chase. She was playing right into his games, but what else could she do? Just stand there and let him punish her? Not a chance.
So she sprinted around furniture and tossed vases and decorative knickknacks at him, recklessly trashing the place. He caught her several times, but she hit, kicked, and bit her way out of his clutches.
Part of her suspected he was giving her those little victories. The other part just didn’t care. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
And down was exactly how it went as he tackled her to the floor. The full force of his weight crashed onto her back and knocked the air from her lungs. They landed in a sweaty pile—his bare chest, her kicking legs, their arms slick and wrestling.
She panted uncontrol
lably and attacked with elbows to his ribs. He chased her hands, trying to restrain them. She threw back her head, aiming to break his face. He dodged, grabbed her throat, and sank his teeth into her neck.
Her screams rang out loud enough to reach far beyond the walls, but no one would come to her aid. She was on her own, crushed beneath two-hundred-pounds of roguish male hunger. Her pleas and objections weren’t just ignored. They were laughed at.
Yeah, he was laughing and groaning through labored breaths. And fully aroused. His erection jabbed her naked backside, with the shirt tangled around her waist.
“You’re a sinful goddamn turn on, Gina. Can’t remember the last time I needed to be inside a woman this badly.” He lifted a hand to his mouth and tore open a square packet with his teeth.
A condom. That was what he’d removed from the drawer.
“No, no, no! Fuck you, cocksucker! Fuck you!” She bucked beneath him, breaths wheezing and heart rate in overdrive. “Wait! Just wait. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t run again. Don’t do this!”
“Too late for repentance, baby.” Lust thickened his voice as he raised his hips and rolled on the rubber. “Time for that punishment.”
She didn’t stop thrashing, didn’t for a second make it easy for him. But he was bigger, stronger, built with the right equipment and the cruel agility to take a woman from behind.
In one thrust, he stabbed past her opening, driving hard and spearing her to the very hilt of himself.
Tears hit her eyes as a strangled groan sounded in his throat. He rocked against her, picking up speed, digging deeper, violating, ravaging, and grunting in her ear. She wanted to die.
He fucked into her over and over like an animal, opening her legs wider with the spread of his powerful thighs. His hands were on her everywhere, grappling, stroking, and mauling while at the same time holding her immobile.
The condom must’ve been lubricated, because the initial burn dissolved into slippery wet strokes. He was thrusting savagely, jerking out, slamming in, and building a rhythm that made her writhe in agony.
It didn’t hurt, and she hated him for that. She hated that he fit inside her just right and that he moved his body so sensually and obsessively, suggesting he was fully engaged in this, physically and emotionally.
This wasn’t like the three-minute ruts she endured from the brothers. He fucked her with passion and filled her with fire, penetrating her body with his entire being, forcing her to feel him beneath her skin, taking over every cell, and delving deep into her core.
She gasped and clawed at the floor, frantic to escape the overbearing onslaught of his fervor. Gaining a few inches, she saw Tomas watching from the door before she was dragged back beneath John and utterly devoured.
That was the only way to describe it. His lips locked onto her nape, tasting and consuming, his tongue laving at her damp hairline, only deepening the fevered kisses on her neck, then her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
Her senses swam, her breathing unmanageable. She tried to struggle, but he only buried himself deeper, stretching her, stuffing her, nailing her to the floor, and rendering her even more helpless.
“Goddamn, you feel unreal.” He surged harder, his fingers wedged beneath her chest, tormenting her breasts. “Fucking incredible.”
He attacked the shirt, the material ripping and pulling in a flurry of urgent movements, buttons breaking, and her arms forced from sleeves. Her whole body jostled with the frantic piston of his hips and the tugs on the fabric, causing her bare nipples to scrape against the coarse rug beneath her.
She tried to push up, to crawl away, but her arms gave out from under her.
“All that straining and fighting makes your pussy clench.” He lurched back with a sudden outward pull, only to ram back in, stretching her wider around the slick steel of his cock. “Christ, you’re tight. Hot. Wet. I want to feel you bareback.”
“I hope your dick rots off.”
“Give me that fucking mouth.” His arm banded around her chest, holding her tight as he gripped her chin and fused their lips.
She used her teeth, her hands, the last of her strength, but she couldn’t stop his tongue from melding with hers. His mouth ground with maddening pressure, his fist balled in her hair, and he took. Lord have mercy, he took, deep and long and ravenously, while shoving his cock, plunging mercilessly, and groaning with poisonous pleasure.
He was heat and virility, fury and stamina, plundering and claiming with a skill that destroyed everything she knew about sex. No one had ever fucked her so vehemently. Every touch, kiss, and thrust was an effusive blaze, flowing out, over, and through her.
Answering heat simmered her blood. Her insides burned and tightened. Nerve endings sizzled, and her soul shook. She was shook. Mentally unhinged. Damned to eternal hell.
She wanted him to punish her. She needed him to beat her, hurt her, smack her back into reality. Anything but this. What he was doing to her, making her crave it… It was sick.
She was sick.
Faster and faster he moved inside her, sparking pleasure she didn’t want. Their gasps mingled and mixed into one. A moan escaped her mouth, and he faltered above her, recovered, and began to rock almost reverently into her, the cadence strangely slowed, languorously thickened, and weighted with the dragging pull of his lips against hers.
His hands strayed her hips, gripping tightly as he caught a telltale rhythm. His invasion seemed to swell, growing impossibly thicker and harder in that last painful moment, his legs trembling, and chest heaving as he chased his release.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…” He came, driving deep and pounding into her with a growling roar.
As he ground into a slow halt, jerking and catching his breath, a wet sheen blurred her eyes. She felt dirty. Twisted. Used.
He twitched, and her inner muscles spasmed around him in response.
Shame. That was chief of her emotions and the worst feeling of all.
Without a word, he pushed off her, flung the condom at the trashcan, and yanked up the shorts he still wore.
“See that she gets dressed and hydrates,” he said to Tomas. “We leave in five minutes to work out.”
He ambled toward the bedroom, leaving her with a hollow, pulsing ache for something she couldn’t possibly want. Her lips were raw. Her breasts tingled with heaviness. Her pussy throbbed with soreness, and her chest cleaved for want of air.
She’d been violated more times than she could count since arriving at the compound. But not once had she ever felt so hot and needy and fucked-up afterward. What the hell had he done to her?
Anger spiked, coursing through her veins. She jumped to her feet, eying the demon who strolled away without a single glance back at the woman he’d just raped.
She didn’t think. She just ran. Past Tomas, toward the bedroom, she headed off the monster before he turned the corner. With a hard kick to the back of his knee, she caught him by surprise. He lost his balance, gripped the door jamb, and when he spun, she was ready.
Her fist collided with his granite jawline, sending a jolt of pain up her arm. She swung again, faking the hit, while driving a knee into his groin.
He doubled over and wrapped his arms around her like iron bands, slamming her against the wall as he stumbled. Those were the only strikes she got before he subdued her with a hand on her throat and his body planked along the front of hers.
“Do you want a postcoital cuddle? Is that it?” He wet his lips, his fingers tightening against her tender airway.
“I don’t want a coital anything from you.”
“You sure about that?” With his free hand, he reached between her legs and fingered her wetness. “Ah. You want a release.”
She gulped, dragging in precious drops of air and furiously shaking her head. But the tears that sprung were telling.
This need… The awful, involuntary longing he’d woken beneath her skin had teeth. She didn’t know how to fight this new enemy inside her. She didn’t even understand it.
But she needed to. She couldn’t straighten out her head until she figured out the mystery between them.
He watched her closely, his face an inch away. The hand on her throat loosened, melting into fingers that stroked and beguiled.
“Say what you’re thinking,” he murmured.
“You…” Kiss differently. Fuck differently. “You hurt me differently. Not like the others.”
Nothing changed in his hard expression. No surprise. No annoyance.
“You want to know why.” He did something with his finger between her legs, making her entire body bow off the wall and press into his. “Why does my touch bring more pleasure than pain? Why do I kiss with the patience of a man who worships women, not owns them?” He leaned in and slid his nose along hers, his whisper kissing her lips. “The truth is so disturbing you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Let it go.”
He released her and stepped back.
Rubbing her throat, she glared at him, more confused and uncomfortable than ever before.
“You want to come, Gina, even as your brain abhors the idea. That’s your punishment, one that will plague your pretty little mind and pussy all day. Get dressed.”
With that, he stalked into the bedroom, dismissing her.
By work out, he actually did mean jogging.
The man had some irritating stamina, but she was no slouch, either. Dressed in the tank-top, spandex shorts, and running shoes that Tomas had found for her—God only knew whose closet he’d raided—she pounded her feet along the trail.
Sweat dampened her brow. Sunshine warmed her skin, and the light breakfast she’d eaten sat contently in her stomach.
She was glad to be outside, breathing in the open air. The exercise kept her focused on rebuilding her strength rather than falling apart. She even appreciated the view of the two shirtless psychopaths jogging along either side of her. It was better than being confined in a room with them.
Before yesterday, she’d considered herself fairly perceptive when it came to men. She anticipated their intentions, skill sets, and limitations with a high degree of accuracy.
