Extreme Danger

by Shannon McKenna

  He whacked his knife down on the board. The two halves of the guillotined onion flew off the board and rolled to opposite corners of the room. “Christ,” he said, in a savage undertone. “What a fucking mess.”

  “Tantrums do not help,” she pointed out sweetly.

  He collected the onion, chopped it with a glower that would have intimidated her if she had the time to be intimidated, which she did not. She stared at his chopping technique. “Finer,” she said snippily.

  “What do you mean, finer? Any finer than this, and it’ll be paste!”

  “Finer,” she reiterated. “Then put them in the saucepan, and stir them constantly. Do not let them burn. They need to caramelize.”

  He muttered, dumped, stirred. She turned her back to deal with the eggs, sifting through the words he had just said as she separated the whites from yolks.

  She dropped the yolks into her bechamel, stirred them gently into the mix until the mixture was tinged with bright sunny yellow. “So, what you’re saying is…last night you were trying to scare me away? You didn’t want me and I just didn’t catch on?”

  He grabbed a paring knife off the counter and stabbed it into her cutting board, in the midst of her heaps of chopped herbs. They scattered. She stepped back with a soft gasp.

  “Wrong,” he snarled. “We did what we did because we both wanted to. But I sure as hell didn’t think you’d come back. I hoped you wouldn’t. Now shut up, do as you’re told, and do not fuck with me. Clear?”

  She plucked the quivering knife out of the board, and delicately reassembled her piles of herbs, before sprinkling them into the mix.

  “I think all this macho bullshit is just for the camera,” she whispered. “I really think it is. You’re as scared as I am.”

  “Fuck and double fuck. On top of it all, you’re delusional. For the love of Christ, Becca. Shut up and cook.”

  Clink, clink. The utensils against the china made a delicate, musical sound. Becca bent over Zhoglo’s plate to lay another slice of ham on it, at such an angle so that her tits practically fell out of her blouse. Her face was pale, but composed. Eyes demurely lowered.

  Mouth closed, for once. Zhoglo’s poisonous vibe shut even her up.

  She had class, he had to admit. Iron self-control, too, except when Nick needled her. Most girls he knew would be curled up in the fetal position sucking their thumbs under this kind of performance pressure.

  The meal had gone well, so far. The fragrant, steaming food had been completely demolished. The platters were bare.

  Becca leaned over again with the crystal pitcher of mixed fruit and fizzy wine, filling champagne flutes with a geisha’s detached but sensual grace. Four sets of male eyes fastened onto her body. Five, if he counted his own. His jaw hurt from clenching so hard.

  She’d make a good undercover agent, he thought. Who would guess what lay beneath that sex bunny exterior? Watching the woman put that meal together had been like watching an Olympic sporting event. Every gesture choreographed for maximum efficiency.

  So far, so good. The cook ruse was holding. The meal had been consumed. They had made another shuffling step forward on the tightrope over the pit of man-eating lions. If only she weren’t so fucking pretty, she might have a chance in hell of getting through this alive.

  Zhoglo polished off the grilled ham, wiped his mouth, and turned his pale gaze upon Nick. “Does she understand this language?” he asked in Ukrainian.

  “No,” Nick replied.

  “I would like for her to satisfy some other appetites, after I digest, of course. The food was delicious. I was betrayed by greed.”

  A fist grabbed Nick’s vital organs and squeezed. “That wasn’t part of our understanding when I engaged her services,” he said. “My first priority was to make sure the food would be good, Vor—”

  “And your second priority was to have something pretty to fuck while you waited on the lonesome, boring island, no? You simply do not want to share. You do not impress me, Solokov.”

  Nick opted not to reply. There was nothing he could say.

  “But after such a tasty meal, I can be reasonable,” Zhoglo went on. “If I am sufficiently entertained.”

  Nick’s dread deepened, widened. “Entertained?”

  Zhoglo’s eyes sparkled. “We have nothing to do this afternoon but stare at this oppressive greenery. So entertain me. With your little friend.” He jerked his chin at Becca. “I like spectator sports.”

  Nick’s eyes flicked to Becca. She’d sensed the vibe, gone on alert. Her hands wound together, white-knuckled and pressed against her belly. Her mouth was tight, her eyes big. Silently beseeching him.

  “Vor,” he said slowly. “This woman is not a professional prostitute. She is not prepared to perform in this way. She will not be able to function as your cook if I do as you propose.”

  “No?” Zhoglo’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Then what good is she?”

  “What’s on the menu for dinner, Becca?” Nick asked in English.

  “An appetizer of spicy Calabrese sausage and an assortment of fine cheeses, to start. Vegetables, roasted and au gratin. Tuscan crostini, with paté, tapenade, roasted red peppers and porcini sott’olio,” she said, with reassuring promptness. “Pepper-rolled beef, accompanied by a Montepulciano red. Herbed baby red potatoes, glazed carrots. Fresh sliced exotic fruits with crème Chantilly, coffee, Grand Marnier Chocolate Torte, and an assortment of digestive liqueurs.”

  Zhoglo blinked a few times. He let out a sigh, and gazed at his plump, steepled fingers. “Very well,” he said, sounding faintly petulant. “I will compromise, for the sake of a decent meal.”

  Nick was about to sigh in relief, but the man kept talking.

  “Take her to one of the bedrooms and fuck her there,” Zhoglo went on. “We will watch on the monitor in the security room. Will that sufficiently insulate our little dove’s delicate female sensibilities? She will still be functional afterwards, no?”

  Zhoglo’s eyes shone into his, bright and blank and impenetrable. He jerked his chin, a what-the-fuck-are-you-waiting-for gesture.

  “If you doubt your ability to perform, one of my men would be happy to screw her in your place,” he added softly. “They would be most enthusiastic at the prospect.” He paused. “All of them would be.”

  “What’s up?” Becca asked. “Was something not right with the meal?”

  “The meal was superb, my dear,” Zhoglo said in English. “I’m just waiting for the entertainment, that’s all.”

  Becca looked from Nick to Zhoglo. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Zhoglo snickered. “By all means, Solokov. Enlighten her.”

  Nick seized her by the arm, and towed her out of the room.

  Becca scurried to keep up with him. His grip hurt her arm. Something was up. Something bad. When Mr. Big bitched and grumbled, she could relax and breathe. But when every trace of emotion vanished from his face, and his eyes went dead and flat, her guts knotted up, her knees started to knock, and spots danced in front of her eyes.

  Entertainment? She didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  He dragged her up the stairs. She got even more nervous, although logically speaking, she should be happier the more distance she put between her and the scary, slobbering guys with guns.

  She stumbled on the carpet runner, and he jerked her up to her feet, without even looking at her face.

  He slapped the door open into a big, bright bedroom. A picture window looked out over a waving sea of endless evergreens and a heavy gray sky. The glass was beaded with raindrops.

  He wrenched off his shirt. She stared at him, speechless. Terrified by the shuttered, implacable look on his face.

  He pushed her up against the wall, his big hands stroking her shoulders as he leaned to whisper in her ear. “Showtime, babe. See the video camera mounted up in the corner?”

  His meaning sank in. “No way,” she said. “You can’t be serious.”

  He unwound the knot of h
air at the nape of her neck, and smoothed the tangled strands down around her shoulders, the gesture oddly tender. “Dead serious.” He whipped the blouse over her head before she had time to react.

  She whacked frantically at his hands. “No! You can’t! I have absolutely no intention of letting you—mmph!”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth. “I bartered him down to this,” he muttered into her ear. “It’s me, for the camera, for their viewing enjoyment, or all of them, on the dining room table. Get me?”

  She stared at him over his hand, hitching desperately for breath.

  “The only reason you’re not on that table right now is because that bastard loves to eat. He doesn’t want to incapacitate the cook, and compromise his fucking gourmet dinner.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, this is not happening.”

  He unhooked her simple cotton bra and tossed it away. She shrank to cover herself. He caught her arms, pinned them wide, to give anyone who cared to a good, long look. “Sorry, beautiful, but this is part of the script,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  He popped open her jeans, yanked them down along with her panties. She looked wildly from him, to the camera, back at him, trying to cover her naked body. But what horrified her most was the cool, businesslike air with which he was unbuckling his belt.

  She gathered her breath to scream. He covered her mouth again, leaning in close. “Don’t panic,” he murmured, his voice a hot tickle in her ear. “We’re going to do some theater for those scum-sucking shitbirds, and you need to make it convincing.” He lifted his hand slowly off her mouth, and gave her a hard kiss. “I’m going to put my hand on your crotch,” he breathed against her ear. “I’ll be gentle. When I signal with my hand, scream like I’m hurting you. Like I’m doing something horrible. Got it? Shake your head, now. Say no, like I’m threatening you. Go on. Do it.”

  She did so, frantically. “No,” she gasped out. “No, d-don’t do that. Please, don’t do this. Please, please, please.”

  She listened to her own voice babbling, and observed that this was not theater. Never had words more sincere come from her mouth.

  “Good girl,” he murmured. He gripped her bottom, hoisted her up so she was straddling his hips, her back pressed against the wallpaper.

  He slid his hand between their bodies, cupping her labia with his fingers. Tenderly, as if he were protecting them. He patted her there.

  “Now,” he whispered. “Go for it. Scream. Fight me.”

  She did. Oh, did she ever. She struggled and writhed, slapped and scratched and bit. She couldn’t hold back an explosion of anger and shame. She was a natural disaster, a shrieking catastrophe.

  He held her, contained her with his unrelenting strength. He clamped her wrists together, pressing them against her chest. She felt folded up, squished and breathless against his rock-hard bulk.

  She exhausted herself in the end. She could have been screaming for hours. Days. He would have held her for as long as she needed it.

  She dissolved into silent sobs.

  He let go of her hands, tilted her chin up so she was staring into his eyes. She panted. Blood trickled out of his nose again. There were angry scratches on his cheek, his chest, his shoulders, but he didn’t look angry at her for savaging him. Just quietly intent. He fumbled with his jeans, rearranged her body against his, and slammed his hips upward, hard enough to make her cry out. But he wasn’t inside her. His erection bobbed against her inner thigh with each thud of his body against hers.

  Theater.

  His eyes demanded that she play along. She could do nothing else. She was as shaken as if it was for real, anyway. Her fingernails dug into the thick muscles of his shoulders. She whimpered with each hard lunge. They weren’t actually having sex, but this rough faking it was the most intimate act she’d ever engaged in. He was inside her mind. She could feel him. His iron will held her together—he sustained her with his fierce energy. Under impossible circumstances, he was trying to protect something intangible and precious.

  Her sense of self.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. It was a hopeless attempt, doomed to failure, but it made her feel absurdly cherished. She loved him for it.

  Something strange was happening to her, as if she were a radio tuning into a brand new frequency. She forgot about the lust-crazed spectators downstairs. An enormous heat was building up, burning in her throat, her chest. Something twisted open inside her. It hurt. And it shone.

  She couldn’t tell if it was an emotion or a physical sensation that was clawing through her body. Too intense for pleasure…it was a shrill, piercing rapture, charged with terror. It took her, shook her. She screamed, and fainted.

  When her eyes fluttered open again, he was very still. He was soaked with sweat, his big, hot body vibrating with tension.

  His eyes were wide. He looked shocked. Almost afraid. He scooped her up again, carried her over to the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the wall. He bumped down onto his knees, then gently set her down on the thick white carpet. He braced himself over her, lying between her splayed legs, jeans halfway down his thighs. His arms shook. His erection rested, feverishly hot, against the curve of her groin.

  She gasped for air, smelled dust, paint, carpet. She reached up to his face, touched his bloodied nose, then the scratches on his jaw.

  Sorry, she mouthed.

  He shrugged. It’s OK, he mouthed back.

  She glanced up towards the video camera, and back at him, silently asking if they were still in its range. He twisted, shook his head.

  Becca wiggled, positioning herself. Then she seized his cock, fitting the blunt head against herself. Sliding the tip of him between the folds of her labia. He sucked in a harsh breath, as if he were in pain.

  The contact was electric. As if every individual nerve was being kissed, loved. The slow, slick stroke of flesh against flesh was the sum of all those uncountable tiny caresses, all those little tender exchanges.

  You sure? he mouthed silently.

  She lifted her hips, seeking more of him in answer. Sure wasn’t the word for it. She would implode if he didn’t. She needed him.

  He let out a heavy sigh and settled between her legs, letting his weight drive his broad shaft slowly deeper inside her.

  She curled herself up, propping herself onto her elbows to watch. His thick hair dangled, tickling her breasts. A drop of sweat from his forehead fell right over her heart. Hot. She touched his cheek again, soothing those angry marks, soothing his taut grimace.

  He pushed, deeper. The stretch hurt, but she had never felt so open, so yielding and hungry. She let out a low, ragged moan.

  He put his hand over her mouth and shook his head.

  She understood. This wasn’t theater. This was real, and just for them. Stolen pleasure. She kissed the palm of his hand. Arched up to take more of him inside herself. He kept his hand over her mouth and it was a good thing, because she could not stop gasping. The pressure kept building. He rocked and she glowed, soft and liquid around his invasion. Every cautious stroke sent jolts of pleasure sparking along her nerves.

  He folded her legs higher, going deeper still. He was completely inside. The glow got hotter, sweeter. Her whole body flushed with pleasure.

  She’d never given herself to any man on this emotional level. Not from holding back, but simply because she’d never known that it existed. It was like waking up after being asleep all her life. Acquiring eyes, ears, with no warning, no explanation. Everything he gave to her, she wanted to transform and give back to him, tenfold. Blessing him with it.

  Not much time, he mouthed. Sorry.

  She nodded. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Their hips rocked together in a seductive, swirling rhythm that brought her to constant, endless shuddering peaks and crests of pleasure.

  She writhed, body and soul in explosive movement, as energy rushing out of her in ecstatic pulses. Into him, and back again to her, redoubled. And redeemed.


  Chapter

  8

  Back off, dickhead. This is Helsinki Syndrome, or something. A temporary psychological glitch. The woman’s scared, she needs to glom onto something. You’re handy. Don’t get intense about it.

  He need not have bothered trying to reason with himself. Not while his body was trying to get as deep inside her as he could. It felt like lightning, blinding him but blazing into every dark, hidden corner of his mind. His desperation laid bare. Death on every side. Get what he could, while he could. Last chance.

  So he put it to her, just like she clearly wanted it. Her small, strong body heaved and bucked against his. She clawed at his ass, wordlessly demanding. He gave her what he’d never dared to give any woman; his own hunger hammering away at her, unchecked. His rampaging, oversized prick, driven deep and hard.

  She was cushy and tight, milking him with every long, licking stroke, the fantastic friction caressing him, again, again. She took all of him, every inch. Without a condom…God, it felt so fucking good. So hot, so wet.

  The room was silent, just muted thuds, ragged breath. He kept her mewling sounds muffled behind his hand. Their time was up, but it didn’t matter. The drumroll in his balls was already deafening him.

  From far away in his mind, he remembered that he should yank it out before he came, but it was just a thread of thought, and it frayed into nothing when the torrent raged through him.

  His orgasm was a fountain of violent, sobbing spurts that went on and on and on. As soon as he could control his body, he heaved his limp, sweaty torso up off her. She sucked in a gulp of air, eyes fluttering open.

  God, she was pretty. Even with her face ravaged by tears and smeared mascara. The running black paint just accentuated how beautiful she was. How intensely bright the color of her eyes.

  He levered himself away. Her soft thighs were still clasped around his. She flexed them, hung on. Didn’t want to let go of him.

  Her lips formed words, but they were soundless.