by Pam Godwin
She threw herself forward, her heels landing with a clop. She bent over, hands on knees, and whispered, “Four.”
The light from inside outlined the cuts of muscle in her calves, thighs, and ass. Muscles that quivered so violently he was surprised she could stand. But the girl was built. Not an ounce of fat. Perhaps too thin, like body-builder dehydrated, but Christ, she worked it with those huge tits and tiny waist.
And she still hadn't noticed the pervert rubbing his dick behind her. She cracked her knuckles and shook out her arms, seemingly lost in her head. Then her shoulders jerked back and her chest heaved. He leaned forward. What was she up to?
She took off. Amazingly fast in heels, she sprinted down the driveway, her ass flexing with her strides. She slammed to a stop in front of the mailbox and yanked out the envelopes. Her free hand covered her mouth, and the muffled sound of her sobs reached the porch.
What was wrong with this girl? The intensity of her fear resonated deep within the depraved part of his being. It was as intoxicating as her beauty, but where did it come from? What was she afraid of? How the hell did she live in this house? That would mean she never left. Watching her stagger up the driveway, it made sense. Kind of.
She was heading back to the door, and however breathlessly and hunched over, she would surely see him. He tucked his semi-hard dick in his pants and shoved his things in the bag. The side windows on Liv's house glowed from within, the rooms empty. He needed to get the fuck out of there.
Wobbling, she squeezed the mail to her chest, eyes fixed on her feet as if willing them to keep moving. Her shoulders curled forward and seemed to be dragging her toward the ground with each step. She didn't look like she'd make it to the porch.
A few steps away, her attention jerked up, fixed on the cracked door. As she inched toward it, her gaze cut right, then left and collided with his. The anticipation in his stomach coiled into a knot, and he stared right back, daring her to look away. Would she scream? Run? Or confront him? Fuck if he couldn't wait to find out.
Color bled from her face, the whites of her eyes rounding with terror. Her muscles spasmed, shaking her arms and loosening packages from her grip. Several dropped around her feet. Was she having a seizure?
She reached back, squatting, as if she knew she was going to fall. Fuck it. He jumped off the porch and closed the distance in three strides.
Sweet God, why was there a man on her porch? Oh fuck, a murky, fast-moving wall of man. He charged toward Amber in a blur of dark clothes and unimaginable purpose. Why was he running toward her? She didn't need help. She just wanted to be left alone to return to her house.
The door was so close. Eight feet at most. But convulsions shook her hands so uncontrollably she lost her grip on the remaining envelopes.
Silver eyes stabbed from the depths of his hood, seizing every cell in her body. She couldn't look away, couldn't breathe. Not when her stomach bucked and her chest simmered with bile. And not when his hands shot out and locked around her elbows, preventing her fall.
Saliva rushed over her tongue, and vomit hit the back of her throat, hot and humiliating. What if he was trying to help her? She couldn't puke on him. Please, no. She swallowed past the burn and breathed through her mouth as bursts of black dotted her vision.
The man's fingers clamped her arms, his chest too close to hers. She needed air, tried to jerk back. Her knees buckled. No, she wouldn't let her panic beat her. Not when she was so close. But she couldn't stop it as the assault bore down in crippling dizziness, the path to the door whirling around her feet.
Another surge of nausea ripped chills through her bones and liquefied her joints. She twisted to face away, stumbled, and fell into the darkness.
The steel brace of his arm caught her mid-section, and she hung there, mucus and anxiety spewing from her mouth and stringing over the mail at her feet. Thank God there was nothing in her stomach to eject. The saliva on her lips was embarrassing enough.
He bent over her, his body surrounding her back, hard thighs supporting her butt, his arm hooked beneath her folded waist. “There you go.” His low, steady whisper sounded like a shout in the wind, snuffing out her surroundings. “Better?”
Her vision tunneled. Ringing blared in her head. She couldn't focus. “I'm fine. You can let go.”
“Do you have meds? Do you need a doctor?”
A paralyzing freeze spread through her veins, sucking heat from her face in tingling waves. No doctor. No medication. None of that fixed a damned thing. She clutched the muscled forearm at her belly, pushing at it, dry heaving.
Who was this man? No way was he just passing by in the middle of the night. Was he going to hurt her? Rape her? Or do something that would disfigure or permanently damage her body? Did he have a gun?
She choked. Why her? The rapid wallop of her heart accelerated. She yanked at the arm, an unmoving restraint, and forced bravado in her voice. “What do you want?”
He leaned in, his chest heavy against her back and his breath feathering her hair. “You live here?”
His gentle tone conflicted with the pressure of his fingers. She rammed her head backward. He dodged her strike, and the cage of his body curled around her, straightening her with his arms around her chest.
Blood thundered in her ears, and her heart hammered to escape, to give up, to shrink and die. She stretched her jaw and wheezed a pathetic shout. “Help.” Need air. The door. She angled toward it, throwing her fists behind her and colliding with nothing.
“Easy.” The coil of his arms held her upright, his body a brick wall at her back. “If there's no heart condition, no epilepsy, then what's wrong with you?”
She might've laughed if she weren't failing to breathe. This man didn't give a shit about her condition. No one did. With his arms wrapped around her and his exhales on her neck, she'd never felt more helpless. She wanted to drop to the ground and retreat into herself, but she was better than that, dammit. “Let go.”
He didn't. She might not be able to overpower him, but she still had her voice. If all he wanted was an answer, she could give him a revolting one. “You want to know what's wrong with me? My genital herpes has flared up. You know, blistering sores, cracked open and itching? My Valtrex prescription is in one of these packages.” She scanned the ground, gasping, humiliation screeching through her voice. “To make matters worse, I started my period. I can feel it dripping down my leg.” There. That would send any guy running.
He laughed. The motherfucker laughed. Either he knew she was lying or he was a sick fuck.
Somehow, her struggling only shifted her closer. A waft of cut hickory and citrus flooded her nose as his lips brushed her cheek. “You are a captivating surprise, Amber Rosenfeld.”
Oh my God, he knew her name? Her muscles heated, more desperate than ever to get away from him. She threw an elbow, and it bounced off his rigid stomach. “If you don't let me go, I...I'm—” She sucked in a breath, her voice gravelly and broken. “I'm going to bleed all over you.”
He chuckled. “I don't mind a little blood.” He tightened his grip. “Besides, you can't even stand on your own.”
Ragged sobs swallowed her breaths. She lurched forward, hands slashing at the air, reaching for the door, going nowhere. “How do you know my name?”
He kicked at the scattered envelopes. Her name and address labeled overdue bills, fliers, and catalogs in block print, glowing in the stripe of light that escaped the crack in the door.
Okay, so he knew her name. She just needed to grab the package with the dye and hustle her ass inside. She twisted in his arms and swept a foot, toeing for an envelope with bulk. Her lungs burned with exertion. Fucking shit, where was it?
A renewed bout of panic hiked her pulse and sealed her airway. What the hell was she thinking? Fuck the package. She had to break free. Lock the door. Call the cops. She could reach the door in one or two running leaps.
Her heart raced, nearly exploding, as she thrashed against him. His arms pinned her biceps, s
o she swung her fists, aiming for his groin and missing. He wrestled her hands to her sides, everything moving too quickly to process. She simply reacted, slamming her head back again and collided with his chest.
The grunt of pain that followed resuscitated her flight response. She thrust all her weight against his arms, her heels scraping the concrete. “Let me go, you psycho.”
His exhales grew heavy, curling over her shoulder and pitching her into a breathless frenzy. The more she shoved against him, the tighter his arms constricted, lifting her until her feet kicked air. “What are you fighting? Fear?” His mouth touched her ear, his timbre a silken noose around her neck. “Fear is an imposture, little girl. It doesn't bruise or thrust or bite.” His grip tightened. “Fear is not your Master.”
Oh, holy mother. What was he saying? The terrible dread that occupied her belly bristled with thorns, impaling her with nightmares of public places, crowds, nowhere to hide, loss of motor control. And now her superficial fears embodied a very real, in-the-flesh threat.
He was going to take her, discover all her imperfections, and reject her. Abandon her somewhere away from home. Or kill her.
A furor of tears shot through her eyes and soaked her lashes. She clawed at his arms and stabbed her heels at his shins. If she could refill her lungs, she might be able to muster a scream big enough to wake the neighbors.
But she’d never seen a single person who lived on her street. How judgmental were they? If they came out, would they just stand there and gape? Oh God. “I have nothing you want.” She panted, choked. “I'm nothing. Let me...go.”
“As you wish.” His arms vanished.
The concrete stoop crashed against her knees, and pain ricocheted through her legs. Oh God, maybe he'd only been trying to help her stand? She'd overreacted, made a freak of herself.
She gagged on a sobbing exhale, and her fingers scraped the ground, searching for the package and coming up empty. Another torrent of nausea gripped her body, singeing her insides and spinning the ground beneath her.
She pushed through the disorientation and crawled toward the door as fast as she could. The metal threshold sliced her knees, but she was too numb and dizzy, seconds from fainting. She could feel him behind her, a thick cloud of judgment with eyes scorching her skin, witnessing her shame.
You think they don't know how fucked up you are? Everyone knows. You're a fucking embarrassment.
Oh, if Brent could see her now, dragging her body, snot dripping from her nose. What a fool she was. Maybe the prowler would shoot her and put her out of her misery.
She gripped the doorjamb. Fuck Brent. Fuck all of them. She pulled her legs inside and glanced at the blockhouse of muscle behind her as she swung the door. And froze.
The interior light caught the face within the hood. Her heart constricted, and her hand stopped the door, just a crack.
He hadn't moved from where he'd released her. Hands in his pockets, he regarded her with a lift of one dark eyebrow. His full lips pursed around a toothpick, hollowing his cheeks. A strong jaw and hard gray eyes roughened his model-like prettiness. But the thick scar bisecting his cheek was what stayed her hand, pinning her to the floor and summoning the deepest, most troubled part of her.
The gash curved from the outer crease of his eye to the crook of his mouth. It should've impaired his confident gaze and brutalized the symmetry of his deep-set eyes and chiseled nose. It should've made her look away.
Instead, it demanded tolerance, homage even, and fortified the savagery of his beauty. He was a perfect imperfection.
Her ogling had only lasted a heartbeat. Perhaps, another second drinking in his good looks wouldn't hurt, but as she leaned in, the door swung closed and erased him from view.
The air returned to her lungs. She locked the dead bolt four times and collapsed onto her back.
Who was he? How did he get the scar? What did he want? She replayed the potency of his voice, the strength of his arms, and the flaw in his flawless face. He was fascinating. Though to be fair, she hadn't been outside in two years. A stray dog might've been just as enchanting. Actually, what was more fascinating was that she was thinking about him and not her lost mail.
She sat up, her pulse redoubling. Her mail. Her fucking package. Goddammit, she couldn't go back out there. It was a guaranteed panic attack, one she might not survive. She gripped the middle row of knuckles and exhaled with each crack. If she didn't go back out there, she wouldn't have the dye to finish the leathercraft orders. She wouldn't get paid. Wouldn't be able to stop the water from being shut off.
She released a heavy sigh. She'd made it to the mailbox, albeit ungracefully and shamefully. She could make a few more steps to gather the packages. She rose, exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
God, her silly fears had such incredible power over her. Just a quick sprint right outside, and she'd have what she needed to finish her orders.
With a spike of courage kick-boxing her heart, she placed a trembling hand on the knob—
A fist pounded on the door.
She jumped, rattling her teeth.
“Amber?”
His voice shivered through her, and her breaths burst in and out. Why was he still here? Should she call the cops? Would they force her outside or to the station to make a statement? She faced the door and shouted, “Go away.”
More pounding. “Amber, if you want your mail, you're gonna have to open the door.”
Van narrowed his eyes at Amber's door as a restless vibration itched behind his ribs. What the hell was this girl's problem? And why was he so hypnotized? Was it her slap-it-hard, fuck-it-harder physique? The breathless waver in her voice? Or the challenge of not knowing what made her freak the fuck out?
Beneath her trembling, however, lay an assload of backbone. And a very, very fine ass. What if every torrid trigger that had ever set him on fire waited behind that door?
He dropped his brow on the weather-beaten frame and tilted his face toward the dark windows next door, his real reason for being there. Liv and the dick monk had moved to the other side of the house and out of hearing range. He should move along, too, return to his cold, empty cabin, and forget all about the fear widening Amber's gorgeous eyes.
And yet, despite the risk of being seen, he gathered the last of her mail and knocked on her door a second time. Christ, he was riding a vicious need to discover her secrets, a craving to break her apart and play with the pieces.
He knocked again and infused his tone with authority. “Amber.”
“You should run,” she shouted. “I've got a gun aimed at the door.”
Sure she did. “What kind of gun?”
“The kind that shoots ball-seeking super-bullets at unwanted visitors.”
Cute. Even if she owned a gun, she wouldn't be able to still her fingers long enough to pull the trigger. He released a slow breath, an attempt to expel the impulse to pop the deadbolt. He should leave the poor girl to deal with her demons, but instinct demanded he take control of this...of her.
He was the worst combination of his parents, his very blood blackened with human slavery. Hell, his moral code was fucking fried the moment he was conceived by a ruthless slave owner and a weak, used-up slave. Besides, it was easier to blame his DNA than to examine the decisions he'd made or, rather, the choices that continued to choose him.
A nice guy—like Saint NinnyBalls next door—would stop, but he ripped the edge of one envelope, slid out the document, and activated the light on his phone. “You should see this, Amber. Looks like your electricity is going to be shut off” —he skimmed the red print— “in five days.”
A thump jiggled the door. Her fist? “Opening peoples' mail is a federal offense, you sick pig.”
He smirked. Couldn't argue with the truth. “Don't insult pigs. It's dirty, and the pig likes it.”
“Until they're slaughtered,” she yelled, “and served with eggs and coffee.”
A smile tickled his cheeks. “You inviting me to stay for breakfast?”
Funny how brave she sounded behind the barrier of a door. A cheap door, in fact, given the hollow rattle and the sorry-ass lock. Didn't she realize one kick would bend it from the casing? He tapped the tarnished kick plate with his sneaker and made it clatter, just to taunt her.
“I'm calling the cops.” Her threat pierced through the door, but the waver in her shriek lacked conviction.
She wouldn't be calling anyone. Was it a general fear of people? Or something far more complicated? He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and thumbed through her bills and leathercraft catalogs. “What would keep a beautiful woman locked up in her house?”
His stomach hardened in anticipation of her voice as soundless seconds crawled down his spine. Her silence deterred him more than the door. What was she doing in there? Texting a friend? The friendly neighborhood delivery guy, perhaps? Or was she pressed against the frame, same as him? Was her hand on the knob? He didn't dare twist it. Didn't want her to flee deep within the house where he couldn't talk to her. Instead, he opened the largest package, ripping through the bubble wrap. Four bottles of...leather dye? “I'm waiting, Amber. What's the reason?”
More silence. He rolled the toothpick between his lips. If she didn't respond in three seconds, he'd simply move the mics to her windows. Three, two—
“Why does there have to be a reason?” Her voice reverberated through the wood, soft, close.
He shifted, his mouth hovering over the seal in the door, and matched her tone. “What's the leather dye for?” He turned the bottles in the envelope, revealing directions on how to dye shoes and furniture. “Fixing up a pair of cowgirl boots?” Fuck, those toned legs would radiate sex in a miniskirt and boots.
She growled, loud and guttural, and the door thumped again. “After I flay the skin from your body, I'm going to dye it and sew it into a handbag. Special order from your momma.”
