“I know I’m pretty great,” I said blithely.
He grinned. “A saint.”
I rested my forehead against his the way I had in his truck. It brought me closer to him, like I could pull the pain from him and take it into my own body. He did the same for me, really, and we were both conduits for the pain, the currents between us grounding us together. He was the god of thunder, retreating from the world that had rejected him. I was the maiden he’d caught going over the edge, who he’d secreted away in his lair beneath the falls.
“Sometimes I think Norm was a bastard. A stupid, horrible person,” he continued, “and I curse him to Hell. Then other days…I knew my friend too well. He believed her. Maybe he was blindsided by her looks or interest in him. Or maybe he was too messed up by what he’d already seen. But either way, he truly believed it of me and that hurt the worst. He’s been out there, somewhere, feeling like shit, and I can’t stop it. I don’t even want to care about that, but I do.”
I knew the feeling exactly. My mother wasn’t the best, but she hadn’t wanted me hurt. She hadn’t realized what Allen was doing to me until it was too late. Like Hunter, too late.
And yet, here we both were. Two second chances. Almost a miracle.
“Forgive yourself. It’s the only way we can be together.”
His lip quirked. “Are you preaching to me, Evie?”
“You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, preach.”
“Do they say that?”
“I have no idea. I’ve spoken to approximately five people my whole life.”
He grinned and kissed me, his lips curved as they pressed against mine.
It was the first time we had really kissed. His tongue met mine in a sensual meeting, a languid caress followed by another and another. He explored me there as thoroughly as he knew the rest of my body, learning each contour and sweetly sensitive shadow.
Though I felt the usual heat flaring between us, there was no urgency, no expectation that it would turn into more. It touched me that he would spare me sex now when he thought I was weak, but he still didn’t quite realize that sex with him strengthened me. It was the most intimate of embraces, a show of support and desire unequaled.
Anticipation warm in my belly, I began to kiss my way down his neck, his chest, and lower, lower, but he stopped me.
Glancing up, I asked, “No?”
He shook his head. “You don’t need the added salt intake when you’re already dehydrated.”
I snorted, then licked the curve of his abs. “You’re not that salty.”
“Not yet.”
My laugh was cut short by the shock of cool water on my belly. He had found that damned washcloth again and he used it to full advantage this time, rubbing it along my body and limbs, over my hardened nipples and down into the soft, damp valley below. He teased me through the rough cloth, dragging me higher to a sharp-sweet crescendo.
I shook in his arms, until he released me and moved downward.
His tongue replaced the cloth, a caress infused with the absolution we needed in the past, a prayer spoken against tender, swollen skin. He took me to heaven and then pulled me back down again with the sharp, swift thrust of him inside me.
It would always be this way, the ecstasy and the pain. They twined together in a path we would walk, unknowing and unseeing, each glad to have found a friend. All I wanted was to be with Hunter wherever his rig should take us. Across the country, around the world.
Like chasing rainbows and capturing each one in the smile it gave us.
The End
Epilogue
‡
In French, the word “salut” means both “hello” and “goodbye”.
The only thing I could see was a long row of red No Smoking signs. The cabin had gone dark after dinner—which had tasted surprisingly good. Paneer masala and saffron rice. Not food I expected on Air France, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to experience everything the world had to offer, even if it came in small plastic trays from a rolling cart.
My skin had permanently pebbled in the cool airplane. A sandpaper blanket did little to warm me. And the bucket seat had stopped being comfortable around the fifth hour of flight. The man in front of me had reclined his seat so he was almost in my lap. A woman behind me tap-tap-tapped her foot against the back of my chair.
And beside me, the little boy managed to flick me with a rubber band. Again.
I tried to give the women on the other side of him a glare that would seem both understanding and firm. Yes, kids would be kids—but if anyone was going to deal with it, shouldn’t it be his mother? Unfortunately, she seemed to have fallen asleep.
The boy grinned at me, clearly expecting a response. I probably wasn’t allowed to flick him back…
Kids were another thing I didn’t know about, like Indian food and international travel. The massive circular X-ray scanners at check-in had seemed impossibly futuristic. Conveyer belts in the middle of hallways and an artistic lighting display overhead, as if O’Hare were a museum instead of an airport. Everything new and exciting and secretly scary.
Flick.
That was enough. I stood and stretched, hoping the mother would wake up from the daggers from my eyes. No such luck. I slipped my phone into my jeans pocket and made my way toward the back, feeling unsteady on my feet. Floor lights lit the way, a miniature runway leading to the back of the plane.
Everyone I passed had their eyes closed, sleeping probably. Some people wore the sleep masks provided by the airline. Others slouched over in their chairs, leaning on their neighbors—or in one case, hanging perilously into the aisle. I nudged the older woman with my hip, careful not to wake her as she slid back into place.
When I looked up, I met the gaze of someone in the very back aisle. I could see the whites of his eyes. A shiver ran through me. Was he some sort of security agent? What had Hunter called them? I had asked tons of questions, making him chuckle. Air marshals. That sounded futuristic too, as if they were shooting through the sky in one-man spaceships. Instead they were ordinary men authorized to carry guns on a plane.
He watched me silently, unblinking. Creepy.
Ignoring the twinge of nerves, I lowered my gaze and continued past him. There was a tiny bathroom that looked mildly suffocating from outside the door. I didn’t have to use it anyway; I just couldn’t deal with sitting down anymore.
Stop being grumpy. This wasn’t my first flight. Small spaces and hard chairs were par for the course on airplanes. I knew the real problem.
I missed Hunter.
Farther back, a small area connected the two parallel aisles. The galley, the flight attendant had called it. They’d said we could come back here for short periods of time if we needed to stretch our legs. Apparently, no one else did. The dim lighting and loud hum of the plane had lulled most everyone to sleep.
Except for Mr. Air Marshal. But then, it was probably his job to stay on alert.
I paced back and forth in the tiny strip of empty space. Was this how it felt to be caged? I had a sudden image of Hunter trapped in a space this small—not only for a few minutes. For years he’d been locked up. Imprisoned. Goosebumps rose on my skin.
A small room was off to the side, some kind of storage closet with a dark blue curtain for a door. The bins all had a special latch, probably so they wouldn’t slide open.
I read off the labels, whispering to myself. “Napkins. Sleep Masks. Sporks.”
Hah. Sporks.
God, I was tired. I should be sleeping, but I couldn’t when I kept getting flicked with a rubber band. Maybe I could fall asleep here, in this tiny space. There was a thin counter. I could wedge myself onto it, somehow strap myself in like I was luggage in a compartment.
A slight smile curved my lips. I was getting silly, the lack of sleep messing with my brain. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I pulled out my phone. It was allowed to be on right now for listening to music or reading, but no phone calls. No signal. I snuck a gla
nce down the aisle—empty, dark—and switched the airplane mode setting to off.
Nothing.
Maybe it wouldn’t work. We definitely weren’t supposed to be doing this. The flight attendant had made that very clear, along with the pre-flight safety video.
Ah, there they were. Three bars.
Hunter’s number was first in the list, most important, but he wouldn’t even get this text. Miss you, I typed. I pressed the Send button and waited.
Nothing again.
That should have discouraged me, but instead it felt like a blank check. I could say anything. He wouldn’t respond, couldn’t respond, and it gave me carte blanche to be playful. How much should I say? How graphic could I get? Maybe the boredom pushed me to the edge. Or maybe thinking about Hunter always put me on edge.
And thinking about kissing you, I typed. If you were here, I’d kiss you everywhere.
Send.
Oh, he’d be mad about that. Naughty texts when he couldn’t even get at me. Maybe it wasn’t that dirty in the realm of sexting, but he would know how hard it was for me to say the words. He would know exactly what I meant when I said I’d kiss him everywhere—and that was dirty. The thought made me laugh under my breath.
A sound came from outside the curtain. I froze, listening. One second passed, then two. The screen of my phone went dark. Only the slightest whisper alerted me to the movement of the curtain. Then someone was inside with me, their heat and presence soaking up all the air. I gasped and shoved myself back into the corner, but there was nowhere to go.
“What are you—”
A hand covered my mouth, cutting off my question. My heart beat too fast, thumping wildly in my chest. Someone had to hear the rapid beat or my harsh breathing. I tried to pull his hand away. My fingers fumbled, clumsy and stiff with terror. The cell phone clattered to the floor, its sound almost completely enveloped by the roar of the engine beneath us.
We were completely insulated back here. And alone.
“I ask the questions.” The voice cut through the darkness, low and raspy.
I shook my head, whether in refusal or shock I didn’t know. Let me go, I tried to say, but my lips couldn’t even form the words beneath the force of his palm, my throat didn’t make a sound under the threat of his body.
His hand tightened, cutting off the air flow to my nose. I struggled, kicking out and catching him on his leg. He grunted and eased up, enough to let me breath, not enough to let me go. I sank back against the wall, limp with relief, until he picked up my phone.
“What have we here?” Pale blue light from the screen traced broad shoulders and blunt facial features. He looked up. His eyes were impossibly cold, almost reptilian in their unfeeling. An animal. “Are you placing a phone call?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Let’s see.” He still spoke low, barely audible above the rushing sound in my ears. “You’ve sent a text message…two minutes ago. Surely you realize that’s not allowed.”
“I’m sorry. It was just one. Or two! I won’t do it again.”
“Two messages. What could be so urgent?” He pressed a button. “Miss you.” His gaze met mine over the top of the phone. A wicked light danced in his eyes. He was enjoying this. “And thinking about kissing you.”
My cheeks heated beneath his hand.
His smile was sly and calculating. “Lonely, are you?”
I had to look away, humiliated, my innermost thoughts laid bare, flayed open by cold condescension. My stomach tightened into knots. Typing them in the dark, all alone, had been one thing. But I’d never expected this.
“And what’s this? If you were here, I’d kiss you everywhere. Well, well. Was this so important you had to violate FAA regulations? I wonder what the security personnel in France would have to say about that. They would detain you, at the very least.”
A tear leaked from my eye, skating down my cheek and over his hand.
What? Why? My eyes asked the question.
He chuckled. “It’s a safety violation, of course. And this? It could be a code. Suspicious activity. And you’re the perfect cover, all innocent-looking. But you aren’t innocent, are you? Not if you’re sending men texts like this.”
I looked down, ashamed. He reached behind him and produced a strip of fabric. A sleep mask! He spun me around. I barely had time to register that my mouth was free—to beg, to scream—when he had wrapped the cloth around my mouth like a gag. He tied a knot with efficient, practiced movements. My hands came next, trapped behind my back and handcuffed with more fabric. Had he prepared for this?
Or was he always prepared to capture a girl in the backroom of wherever? I struggled, yanking my hands, testing the ties.
“Shh, stop that.” He leaned in close, hands on my hips. His mouth was right against my ear, whispering. Soothing. “Don’t fight me. I only want to have some fun with you. To use you for a little while. You don’t mind, do you? We both know you want it too.”
He reached around and unzipped my jeans. His hand reached inside bluntly, rudely, beneath my panties as if he had every right to be there, in the folds of my sex where the dampness gave me away.
His breath caught. “Oh, that’s nice. Very nice.”
His forefinger dipped lower into a pool of wetness that grew and grew. I imagined a dark stain on my panties. Would it leak through to my jeans? Would everyone know? He drew the moisture up and over my clit, drawing circles that made me jerk in his hold.
He pinched my clit in reprimand. “Take it. Just accept what you have coming and it won’t hurt. Much.”
His other hand drew my shirt up, baring my belly and chest to the cool air. My nipples tightened beneath the lace cups of my bra. It hadn’t been a comfortable choice for a long plane ride, but I’d wanted the lingerie to be a surprise. I’d imagined undressing for Hunter with the skyline of Paris behind me. Not like this, bound and gagged. Not with cruel fingers shoving the thin lace down, exposing my breasts in the small dark room.
I glanced back to the curtain. Would anyone come here? I doubted anything could be heard, especially not my whimpers or his groans, but maybe a flight attendant would catch us. Would they stop him? They’d have to. And they’d see me like this, half naked. Worse than naked, my clothes bunched and pinching, framing the most shameful parts of me.
“Then you’d better get me off fast.” He must have read my mind.
I hung my head, resigned to my fate.
That must have pleased him. He turned me around and pushed me down. The floor was some kind of springy mat, surprisingly comfortable on my knees. I could barely see him in the lack of light. He loomed in front of me, my entire world. But I could hear him. His harsh breathing. The rasp of a zipper.
He didn’t even have to say it. I want to kiss you everywhere. I’d written my own debasement.
My mouth and throat were dry when he yanked the gag out of the way. The fleece fabric had taken all the moisture away—but he put it back. With his fingers first, shoving them in, deep enough so I gagged. Then the spongy head of a cock pressed against my lips. I’d been trained well for this. Without a thought, my lips parted, letting him in. He was already slippery, salty, precum coating his cock. The taste of him coated my tongue as he slid deeper.
He cradled the back of my neck, his hands gentle as he held me still for his thrusts. He started shallowly, letting me get used to his rhythm, his size. His hands tightened in my hair. He pressed in deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged, choking, jerking my head away and struggling against the bonds on my wrists as he continued to press deep.
“Don’t whine. It’s only going to get worse.”
And God, he was right. Because then he started to move, fucking my face in a relentless rhythm. I couldn’t time my breaths or make a sound. I couldn’t even think about stopping him. My world narrowed to his cock in my mouth. I became nothing more than something warm and wet for him to come inside. It didn’t even matter if I struggled or passed out as long as he could use me
like this.
Everything blurred. I almost didn’t register when he pulled away. My eyes were flooded with tears. My throat felt raw. He didn’t have to put the gag back in and he knew it. The last thing I wanted was for someone to find me like this. If the French officials minded my dirty texts, they’d definitely mind me naked and shivering in the back of the plane.
“I was going to come in your mouth, but I can’t.” He sounded almost apologetic. “I have to get inside that pretty cunt. It was just too wet. I need to feel it around my dick.”
I blushed furiously. Too wet. As if I’d brought this on myself.
With a gentle shove, he pitched me forward until my face was pressed against the floor. What had seemed soft under my knees felt unyielding against my cheek. The smell of rubber suffused me. How many stewardesses had walked back and forth in their sensible pumps, never knowing what would happen here? How many would continue to do so, stepping on the salt of my tears?
A rough tug pulled my jeans all the way down to my knees. Then he was kneeling behind me. Not between my legs, but with his knees outside mine. I was hogtied, with my hands still tied and my legs locked together by the jeans, unable to even protect myself against what was coming.
“Wait,” I said.
He pressed his cock against my opening and slid home. I bucked against him, twisting away. Even on the inside, my muscles squeezed, trying to push him out. Useless, all of it. He may as well have been a part of the airplane itself, machinery that couldn’t be moved by human strength. Even his cock inside me felt more like metal than flesh, hard and invasive.
He groaned. “That’s right. Milk me. Make me come.”
Those words. I shut my eyes tight, unable to face him—unable to face the floor or the darkness as my body obeyed him. I couldn’t stop milking him. I couldn’t stop making him come, even though I kind of wanted to. That would only prolong this, but I tried anyway. To relax myself, to be passive. But my muscles clenched hard around him, obeying him instead of me, until he gasped and hot liquid bathed my inner walls.
He jerked over me, rocking himself through his orgasm. Even then, I couldn’t stop clenching and clenching. It wasn’t just for him, I realized. With horror, I acknowledged the feeling inside me. Pure, unstoppable arousal. My cunt wasn’t trying to push him out; I was trying to pull him in, deeper, harder, so I could get off too. I felt exposed and dirty, more than the forced blowjob could have done. My own forbidden excitement was the true embarrassment, shining a light on things better left in the dark.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 67
