I can feel his throbbing cock push against me through the crotch of his pants. He leans down and kisses me, then runs his mouth down my neck, suckling lingeringly at my pulse. When I’m starting to breathe heavily again, his mouth continues its trek and he runs the tip of his tongue down my skin toward my breast.
I feel faint as he sucks my nipple into his mouth, my head falling back and a shuddering moan escaping me. He keeps suckling gently, stroking my other nipple with his fingertips. My eyes close and I lose track of time, barely aware of anything beyond pleasure as he starts tugging at my skirt.
I lift my hips and pull the heavy velvet off, taking my plain panties with them. It’s brazen—risky—and I peek at him, shivering. He smiles against my breast and starts stroking my belly in circles with his free hand, slowly moving downward.
When his fingers start caressing my pussy the sensations double, making all my muscles shake and tighten. A wild sense of anticipation fills me. Then he slips two of his fingers in between the top of my pussy lips and starts to delicately stroke.
My voice goes hoarse, low, purring moans vibrating my throat as my hips roll in time with his sucking lips and stroking fingers. I can feel something building fast in my core, my whole body feeling like it’s tightening up as I pant and gasp and struggle to beg for more. “Please ...”
“Shhhhh,” he rumbles softly and moves away just enough that he can shuck off his pants and underwear. I roll over to watch—and stare at the huge tool that he frees from his fly. I don’t have much experience with cocks, but this one is hefty and long—a little intimidating, in fact. My breath catches and my eyes widen slightly as I wonder how this is going to go.
His eyes gleam with amusement and desire as he catches my expression. “Just relax,” he purrs, as my whole body trembles on the edge of something. He is pulling me back onto his lap, facing him this time, as he spreads his thighs.
He props my legs apart against his chest and takes his cock in his hand, his eyes locked on mine. I feel the head of his erection against my lower lips and take a deep breath, bracing myself.
The silky head parts my tight, tingling flesh and slides into my cunt, slow and easy, as my fingers curl against the bedspread. He pants through his teeth, his breath shuddering, and pushes on until his cock is completely inside of me. Then, pinning my legs against his chest and shoulders with one arm, he reaches down and starts stroking me again.
My head falls back and lolls from side to side against the bedspread. When I manage to look up, I see him looming over me, belly flexing magnificently as his cock disappears into me over and over again.
It doesn’t hurt. Not really. The little edge of pain just gives the pleasure teeth. I claw at the bedspread, writhing, hungry, needing ... something.
He speeds up, lips parting and eyes closed, low, rumbling groans bursting out of him every time our hips meet. His fingers never waver in their caresses. And suddenly, it becomes urgent that they don’t.
My body gathers as if to leap somewhere, every muscle tightening and drawing up, my mind blurring. And then—
I hear my cries as he grinds against me and my muscles clench around him in waves. Ecstasy bursts through me again and again—and as I’m reaching my absolute peak I hear him shout with pleasure. We’re grinding against each other now, and suddenly I feel his cock start to spasm.
I look up at him, his back arched, head thrown back, his chest heaving as his cock jolts and releases a hot rush inside me. I hear him groan with joy a last time ... and then his head droops over me and he sighs with contentment.
We have to catch our breath before we gain the strength to disentangle. I curl on my side, skin tingling, body loose, astonished. After a few moments, he curls up behind me and tugs me back against him.
I doze. Sometimes I wake up suddenly, disoriented, and look around the room before his breath blows warm on my nape and his arms tighten a little around me. It makes me feel safe, and I drift off again.
At least, no matter what happens, I will have this to look back on, I repeat to myself over and over again as I fall asleep.
Chapter 10
Aaron
We make love twice more before I finally wear her out, and then I watch her sleep. She looks so innocent and relaxed, her long lashes resting against her cheek and her breathing gone soft and slow. The scars on her wrists tell a story that I hope she will never have to revisit again, and the love bites on her and the scratches on me tell a story I hope she will remember fondly.
I know now that I want to keep her in my life, but until her captor is caught, that might be ... problematic. She doesn’t want to be anywhere close to the area where I live and work, and I can’t just walk away from my life. But I can’t walk away from her either.
There’s so much we don’t know about each other—so much that I want to know, and want her to know too. I want to see how she is when she has healed. When she feels better and isn’t constantly afraid of being sent back to that place.
And of course, I want to get whoever did this to her put away. I don’t want him to get away with this, and I don’t want him to get a chance to do it to anyone else.
I sleep for a while as the sky lightens. When there is enough light to see by, I sigh and get up, heading for the bathroom. I’ll shower off, get dressed, find us something for breakfast, and then wake Madelyne with it. Then we had better get moving.
As it turns out, everything goes as planned until I’m getting dressed and glance out the window—just as two cop cars pull into the parking lot. I watch them as they slow—and then see the old man running out in his goddamned housecoat to get their attention.
“What the hell?” I mutter, feeling a surge of apprehension. I look back at Madelyne. It might not have anything to do with either of us but ... “Maddy, baby, wake up. You need to get dressed. We’re leaving.”
Running from the police has never been on my radar for this trip. I watch as she opens her eyes and sits up instantly, looking around disoriented. I start helping her into her clothes while she blinks up at me, like she’s starting to realize that neither last night nor this rude awakening was a dream.
She scrambles into her clothes as soon as she can, and I give the room a once-over before we walk out the door. She doesn’t ask me what it is, but her face is white and she’s very quiet. Her eyes are full of terror.
I remember what she claimed about the local police being wrapped around her captor’s finger. I had dismissed it as paranoia or fearful ramblings, but right now I know she has some reason to fear the cops wherever she goes. But ... is it the reason that she gave me, or is something else going on?
“I don’t know why the police are here, but we should leave. You don’t need the drama, and I don’t need the delays.” I push open the door to the back stairwell—and nearly run into a burly black cop with a bemused look on his face.
Madelyne lets out a squeak of dismay and I reach back to grip her hand. “It’s okay,” I try to tell her, though really I have no idea whether it is or not. I make eye contact with the cop. “Sorry, Officer.”
“That’s no problem,” he says in a deep, calm voice. Then he looks down at a photograph in his hand ... and up at Madelyne. His deep brown eyes narrow.
“Madelyne Deacon, I’m going to need you to come with me,” he says in an emotionless, authoritative tone.
“What the hell—?” I start—and then Madelyne takes off with a cry of horror and starts running down the hallway so fast she leaves one of her outsized shoes behind.
The cop pushes past me and chases after her, calling “Miss Deacon! We’re not going to hurt you! We just need to return you to the hospital! You’re not well!”
I freeze, and my heart sinks into my shoes.
How’s this for a news headline? Escaped mental patient cons clueless, horny doctor into aiding her in escaping from an involuntary hold. She is a danger to herself and others, but in a misguided attempt to help her regain her lust for life, he crosses state lines with her
and even ends up fucking her. He doesn’t even realize that he’s being manipulated and used until the police show up on their doorstep.
It’s ironic. She told me the truth in many ways. Held against her will, drugged, abandoned ... the common lot of psychotic people. All she wants is to be free. I gave her that for a little while, and she was happy. But that’s not a cure for psychosis.
I should have known when I figured out that other pill was Seroquel. It’s anti-anxiety, yes, but it’s mostly used as an anti-psychotic. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the world, I watch as two cops emerge from the far stairwell and catch the sobbing, struggling Madelyne in a firm grip.
“Aaron! Don’t let them take me!” she calls in anguish, and I feel my throat choke up with shame. She trusted me. But I can’t do anything! “Please, please don’t let them take me back to that place!”
I move forward. “Officers, please, what’s going on?”
“Just stay back, sir,” the first one snaps in a voice of cold authority. “This woman is an escaped mental patient. We need you at the station for questioning, and in return we’ll answer all your questions there.”
“Officer, wait, please. There may be more to this story than the doctor caring for her has told you.” It is a long shot, trying to appeal to their empathy, but it gives all three of them pause, and they turn to look at me.
“I’m a medical doctor. This woman reports excessive tranquilization and has scars on her wrists and ankles from excessive and improper use of restraints. There may be abuses going on at the facility where she is being held. It might not be safe to return her to that environment.”
The first cop stares at me thoughtfully while Madelyne sobs behind him, each of her arms held by a bored-looking female cop. Then he nods once. “Be that as it may, our hands are as tied as yours are. And according to her doctor, the restraints are needed. She’s reported to have bitten her stepfather severely.”
“That’s because he tried to rape me! I was ten! Dear God, why do you listen to the doctor and not me?” Tears stream down her face as she pleads with the police. It hurts to watch.
“Even if what you’re saying is true, doctor,” the man says smoothly as he turns back to me. Over his shoulder I can see them cuffing Madelyne while she pleads for them to stop. “You’ll have to talk to the local medical board, and maybe help her to retain a lawyer.”
“I don’t even know the name of her doctor,” I start to protest—and then I close my mouth. Yes, I do.
It all fits. The abuses, the overuse of drugs and restraints, the mix of arrogance and incompetence. Not to mention where I found Madelyne.
It’s Dr. Westridge.
“May I talk to her before you take her away?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“No, that’s not a good idea.” His smile is tight, and I stare at him in disbelief.
“Please, I just need to reassure her.” I move forward, but he steps in front of me again.
“Doctor, you need to know how bad this looks right now. You were caught assisting a fugitive from involuntary care in crossing state lines. Now, I’m willing to cut you a break, but it depends on your cooperation.” He stares me firmly in the eyes, and I hitch in a breath and nod.
Shit.
I look past him at Madelyne, and our eyes meet. She’s terrified, but resigned as well. She can see the cop keeping me from running to her rescue this time, and with tears in her eyes, she swallows and nods.
“Don’t give up,” I call out to her. “I’ll find a way to help!”
Then they take her away, and a piece of my heart feels like it rips clean out of my chest and goes chasing after her.
I don’t know what to believe. She’s an escaped mental patient. But she may be being abused. She also may be being held illegally. Misdiagnosed, overmedicated. By a guy I already despise.
“Can I follow you in my car?” I ask the officer in a tired voice.
“That’s fine.”
The interview takes two hours, and by the end of it, I swear the cop, whose name is James Adams, almost feels sorry for me. Not because I’m a sap who was pulled in by a sad story and came very close to breaking several laws—though that is true. But rather because by the time we shake hands and I walk out to my car, he knows the kind of fight I have ahead of me.
“Miss Deacon’s juvenile records are sealed except for incidents related to her psych diagnosis. Normally we have to wait for signed permission for medical records, but her doctor just handed us a copy. Yeah, that’s probably a privacy violation.
“Born to Linda and Hiro Deacon of Marin County, she showed no behavioral problems until after her father’s sudden death when she was six. Linda almost immediately remarried to a Peter Sanders and Madelyne’s violent outbursts started five months after that.
“The girl complained of inappropriate touching by Sanders to a daycare worker, who called the police. Her parents immediately pulled her out of that daycare and the investigation turned up inconclusive. After that, incidents of Madelyne becoming violent toward Sanders happened at least twice a week.”
I get on my motorcycle and sit there, feeling an ache run through me that there’s no small, warm body and slim set of arms pressed against me now. I would have taken her anywhere, I think sadly. I still want to. But now there is all this shit in the way.
“Madelyne always claimed that she was protecting herself from Sanders trying to molest her, but there was never any evidence, and her mother always took Sanders’ side. When Madelyne was ten, Linda threw her daughter out of the house due to her ongoing feud with Sanders. Madelyne responded by running into traffic on a nearby highway.”
The engine roars to life and I take off down the highway toward home, a new determination growing in my heart.
“She was committed to the inpatient mental health program at Ravenwood Hospital, where she has remained in the care of Dr. Emmanuel Westridge ever since. No violent incidents have been reported, but Madelyne has now been legally abandoned by her mother.
“Dr. Westridge has deemed her a perpetual danger to herself and others.”
I think back on last night—on her terror and resilience, on the beauty in her face as she found her smile, of her body trembling in my arms as we found ecstasy together. “Dr. Westridge is full of shit,” I growl to myself as the Harley roars along. “And I’m going to prove it.”
Part Four
Chapter 11
Madelyne
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you, young lady,” Dr. Westridge chides, his sugar-coated Georgia accent dripping with long-suffering disdain. “You know you’re not safe in the outside world. How far did you really think that you were going to get?”
I stare at him mutely from inside a cocoon of drugs so thick that I can barely move. I’m in a wheelchair, my calves and forearms bound snugly to it, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I suppose it’s better than the complete breakdown that came before, but not by much.
The doctor is in a white suit today, with a narrow black tie and too many rings. His pale, bald head shines like he polishes it, distracting from the small round spectacles that frame his colorless little eyes. He smiles too much—tiny, nasty little smiles, flashing small white teeth or just smugly curling up at the corners.
“Well, never mind. The point is, you’re back now, and it’s time for you to return to your care regimen.” He removes his spectacles and starts polishing the lenses. “Any questions?”
My chin is wet. My cheeks burn with humiliation, but I can’t even make myself stop drooling, let alone actually speak. I wonder if he knows it, or if he’s so caught up in his own craziness that he imagines me talking anyway.
Aaron promised he’d get me out of this. But he also promised he would get me safely away. He saved me twice ... but when the third time came, he failed. He barely even tried.
I know it’s not rational to expect him to go up against the police, but now, back in my hell, with my own smiling devil walking around and around me wh
ile he looks me over, I wish Aaron had tried.
Except, maybe he is trying. Maybe he’s out there in the world of medical boards and lawyers and things that good doctors use to get things done. Maybe he will save me, after all.
Time starts to wear on. It’s getting cooler outside. Sometimes dead leaves blow past my window. I think they drug and restrain me for a week, maybe two. Immobile and tended to, I’m helpless as a baby.
By the time cardboard turkeys replace the skeletons at the nursing station, they have me swallowing pills again instead of taking injections, and shuffling around on my own. I feel weak and drained inside and say little to anyone, giving every appearance of having gone back to doing everything I’m told.
Dr. Orgasm (A Holiday Romance Collection Book 2) Page 5
