He grabs my wrist roughly. “It’s not a fucking joke, little girl. You think you’re smart, and I know there are a lot of motherfuckers out there that will fall for this bullshit, but in case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t like other guys. I can see right through this act of yours. I ain’t buying it. So, I’ll warn you one last time before shit gets real and your pussy is too full of cock and your head too full of regret. You can’t buy your freedom with pussy because your freedom ain’t. For. Sale.”
“It’s not an act,” I lie, defensively. I try to yank my wrist from his grip, but he holds me tighter, his fingernails biting into my flesh.
I gasp.
A current passes between us and I know he feels it, too, because our eyes both drop to where he’s holding me. It runs through my skin then back to his.
Smoke releases me so suddenly I fall back onto the carpet.
“Fine, have it your way. I’m calling your bluff.”
He reaches down and grabs me again, forcing me to stand. He rips my panties down my legs and groans when he sees the wetness on my thighs. He leans back on the couch, arms spread across the cushions. His deep voice lowers to a rumble.
“Take my cock out and ride me,” he orders, his voice low. Rough. Demanding.
Chills dance down my spine. I glance down at the large bulge between his legs and swallow hard.
“I-I…” I stutter. I’d hoped to turn him on, but I never expected to be turned on myself. Plus, I kinda forgot the part where, when it comes down to it, I don’t know what the hell I’m actually doing.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” Smoke asks, grinning. “Change your mind?”
No, I just don’t know what to do.
I shake my head and try like hell to get a grip on my breathing.
Smoke crooks his finger at me. “Now,” he orders.
I come closer, standing in front of him with my knees against the cushions. He reaches out, grabs me by the waist and sets me on top of him so I’m straddling his large body, my legs spread impossibly wide while his hard bulge nudges my naked entrance from within his boxers.
The current between us sparks again, except this time, it courses straight through to my center. I close my eyes and groan at the sensation. I blink them back open and find Smoke staring at me with both confusion and wonderment.
There’s a shift in the air all around us and right now I imagine that in this moment he’s not my captor and I’m not his captive. He’s just a beautiful hard man and I’m just a lonely girl starving for human contact.
"What…what was that?" I ask. My voice is shaky. My breaths are short. Real true fear and lust break through the mask I’ve been wearing, and I squeeze my thighs around him because I HAVE TO.
Smoke’s mouth falls open. His fingers dig into my hips. He can see it now. He can see me. The real me. I’m both terrified and excited. My skin is flushed. My wetness is soaking through his boxers. He takes my wrists and binds them with his hands behind my back, keeping me in place. He gazes deeply into my eyes like he can see my every thought, my every dream, my every nightmare.
My every lie.
My nipples are impossibly hard. Painfully hard. He blows a breath across them, and I drop my head back at the sensation. He pulls me against him, and when my nipples meet the warm soft skin of his muscular chest, I groan.
“Fuck,” he swears, releasing my hands. I place them on his shoulders. His hands go to my hips again. He moves me. Rocking me against him. His hard cock rubs mercilessly against my clit sending that same electric current zapping over and over again with each glide. My lower stomach tightens.
My thighs flex involuntarily around his muscular thighs, and the groan that leaves his lips vibrates to my very core.
Fuck games, even if I’m the one who started it. Now, I only want more.
So much more.
I want him.
My body can’t lie. My reactions to him are real. Primal. My need is real. The pressure building in my lower stomach threatening to explode is very, very real.
“This is so fucked up,” I whisper.
“Makes it even better,” Smoke says, his lips on my collarbone, his hands on my ass.
I know it’s fucked up. I know it’s wrong. And he’s right. The wrongness of it is only making me want him more. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to do it without ever knowing what it feels like to have a man inside my body.
This man.
This monster.
I’m your monster.
His words echo in my brain.
The pressure is building. Smoke’s muscles flex underneath me, my nipples rub against his chest. My clit is aching. “What…what’s happening?” I ask although I don’t know what it is I’m actually asking.
Smoke’s eyes grow impossibly dark. He drags the pad of his thumb across my lips. "I have no fucking idea," he says, pushing his other hand into my hair. He tugs on the back of my head, pauses for a moment, then presses my lips to his.
A kiss.
Smoke is kissing me. His lips are hard, yet soft. His facial hair tickles my cheeks. His tongue seeks entrance, and when I give it to him, we moan into one another’s mouths while our tongues dance an unfamiliar dance where they already know all the moves. It’s rough and hard and tender and needy. He pulls my hair harder, and the searing pain gives way to even greater pleasure.
I grind myself shamelessly against his lap.
Our connection is like TV static. Loud and confusing. A million buzzing black and white dots flying into each other all at once. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to. I’m not in control.
And for the first time in my life.
I don’t want to be.
I’ve never felt anything like this.
It feels too good to stop.
Too good to be real.
I’m sure now that I’m not kissing the man who kidnapped me. I don’t have to pretend anymore. Because I really am kissing the man I saw across the street. The one who captured my attention without saying a word.
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
I’m desperate to give my body to the man who may very well be the one who takes my life.
And right now, I don’t fucking care.
Because in Smoke’s arms, I’ve come alive.
Smoke
I know there’s no limit to what Frankie will do to gain her freedom. As much as I tell her otherwise, I know she’s smart, capable, and I just learned what else she is when she came out into the living room wearing next to nothing.
The girl is cunning as fuck.
She wasn’t waiting for me to toy with her. To mind fuck her past the point of no return. Not when she has a mind-fuck of her own planned.
It’s a show. A scam. I should toss her off me and give her what she doesn’t realize she’s asking for. I should fuck her up her perky little ass without preparing her first and show her that tricks aren’t going to get her anywhere or anything, but truly fucked.
But I don’t. At least not yet. Not when the smell of her fucking wet pussy hits my nostrils and renders me stupid. It’s a mistake to go along with her, but god fucking dammit, mistakes shouldn’t feel this good. I want inside Frankie’s sweet innocent pussy. I want to pound into her with every bit of hatred and desire in my veins.
She’s playing you, and you’re letting her.
Fuck my inner voice. Fuck everything except the here and now. Because in the now, I’ve got a hand threaded through Frankie’s thick, silky mane. I tug on it, and she gasps into my mouth, making my cock jump in response. I deepen the kiss, plunging my tongue into her mouth because I want more of her lush lips and soft tongue.
I’m harder than I’ve ever been. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted a piece of ass. I lie to myself. I say that I’m going along with her seduction to teach her a lesson not to toy with me. To show her that I won’t be manipulated, but those thoughts fade as she grinds against my cock with her hot, soaking, wet pussy.
She
’s fucking dripping for me.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Frankie hates me. As she should. But trick or not, she wants me. She wants this. Maybe, she didn’t mean to want it, but there’s no mistaking the lust in her eyes. Her gasps of pleasure. The parting of her thick lips I imagine wrapped around my cock, taking me deep into the back of her throat.
My balls tighten. My spine tingles.
I’m downright ravenous for her. Her smell, her taste. Her fucking insubordination.
Her fear.
I want all of her and I want all of me inside of her. I’m going to explore every inch of her perfect body with my mouth, fingers and aching cock. Her nipples are hard and in my face, creating an urgency to dominate her body, her mind, her fucking soul, that’s about to detonate.
I’ve jerked off three times since the shower incident, picturing her ass in the air, her back arched as she leaned against the shower wall.
“I need more,” I groan.
“More?” she asks breathlessly.
I grab her by the waist and dig my fingers into the curve of her hips. I guide her to grind her hot pussy against me harder.
“I need it all,” I rasp.
We’re breathing in each other’s exhales. Devouring each other’s mouths. If the world burned down around us, I wouldn’t notice.
I wouldn’t stop.
I’m hanging on by a fucking thread. Frankie’s mouth tastes sweet, and I wonder how her pussy tastes in comparison. The taste of her I got in the shower has lingered. No matter how much time has passed or how many times I’ve brushed or chugged whiskey, nothing has been able to rid it from my tongue.
The thought causes me to groan into her mouth, and I rock her harder against me. The warmth of her pussy on my lap is like a fucking drug. Stronger and more addictive than blow.
She’s cocaine with legs, and I’m a fucking addict before I’ve even had a taste.
The phone buzzes on the side table. I reach over blindly to shut it off, but I can’t reach it. I lean over to hit the ignore button when I read the words that slam the brakes on this train before it barrels off the tracks and crashes into the motherfucking station.
GOT A HIT ON FRANK HELBURN YESTERDAY. REMOTE LOG-IN THROUGH DARK WEB. WORKING ON HIS LOCATION NOW. NOT LONG BEFORE THE FUCKER IS OURS. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.
My brain is still processing the text when another bucket of water is doused over our heads as Zelda enters through the front door carrying a steaming casserole dish.
“Fuck,” Frankie curses, pressing herself up tighter against my body to hide her nakedness.
Zelda doesn’t look the least bit shocked. She places the dish on the counter and looks over at us with an eyebrow raised and a fist on her hip.
“Shit, Rage was right. You really did name the bacon.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Smoke took off. Cold hard eyes in place of the ones filled with lust just seconds before. He tossed me off his lap and threw my clothes at me like nothing changed between us when EVERYTHING has changed. He made some excuse about a phone call and having shit to do, leaving me alone with Zelda at her place.
I set out to seduce him, but in the process, I’d managed to seduce myself right into his arms.
Idiot.
I look out over the prison yard and contemplate making a run for it since now I know Zelda wouldn’t be held accountable for my actions, but I remember the ankle monitor strapped to my leg.
Blowing myself up seems a bit counterproductive.
We’re sitting on the back deck in silence, teacups in hand. Zelda’s lips are pressed together like she’s trying not to smile.
“Are we going to talk about what you saw or are you just going to sit there and try not to laugh?” I ask, now fully-clothed. I pull my knees up and sigh.
“Oh, Frankie,” she says with a chuckle. “I’m gonna do what all good Scottish mamas do and weave this situation into a life lesson you won’t understand.” She nods. “Just as soon as I figure out how.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I say.
“While you’re waiting, maybe, you should do something to occupy your time,” Zelda suggests. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know a lot about my mother. She died when I was young but I found a bunch of paintings in the attic once with her name on them. I’m okay at drawing but I’ve always wanted to try my hand at painting.”
“Why haven’t you?” Zelda asks.
“I’ve been…preoccupied.”
A big yellow lab comes bounding out from the weeds with a snake in his mouth, tail swinging proudly from side to side. He’s only got one eye.
“Have you met The Warden?” Zelda asks, leaning down to scratch behind the lab’s ears. She takes the black snake from his mouth. It’s still alive, hissing and showing its fangs. “Oh hush,” she says, plucking the snake from his mouth and tossing it over the railing. “He lost his eye fighting a snake. Looks like he still hasn’t learned his lesson.”
The dog comes over to me next, resting his head on my lap. He closes his eyes and sighs as I scratch his neck. He’s obviously not one of those dogs who needs time to get used to new people.
“The Warden?” I ask, patting his head in long slow strokes. The dog makes a noise that sounds curiously like purring, keeping his eyes closed. “That’s his name?”
Zelda chuckles. “Every prison needs a warden. I named him before I realized that he’s about as stern and watchful as a baby bunny. Good at catching snakes though. Now, if he would just kill ‘em instead of trying to be friends with them…”
My mind wanders back to Smoke.
The dog isn’t the only one who needs to learn that lesson.
I shift in my chair. The Warden glares up at me with one eye open as if to say he doesn’t appreciate being jostled around. I scratch between his ears some more, and his eye closes once again. His hind leg bounces off the floor in appreciation.
“He’s downright menacing,” I joke.
“Not all who appear menacing are what they seem,” Zelda comments. I know instantly she’s talking about Smoke. I stop petting the dog who only stays a second more before darting into the yard to lay belly up in the grass under the bright sun, long tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say. I feel disappointed and stupid and rejected and then stupider still because the whole thing is ridiculous. I’m a captive who’s about to be offered up for slaughter, not some girl whose been ditched before prom.
“Did Smoke tell you how we met?” Zelda asks, then, without waiting for me to answer, adds, “Of course, he hasn’t.”
She sets down her knitting and looks out to the yard where The Warden is now scratching his back against the grass in some sort of weird lying down dance, shifting his hips from one side to the other with his legs up in the air.
“Smoke was just a boy. About nine years old. Barney, my late husband, was a retired Navy man. He found Smoke covered in blood and dirt, wondering around the prison yard. He was half starved to death, and his eyes…his eyes were all wrong. Barney called me over, and I tried to coax the boy into the house, give him a bath and some food and shelter but he looked at us like he was a wild animal. He lunged at me with a knife. Thankfully my husband punched him before he could reach me. Knocked him out cold.”
She laughs like it’s a fond memory and not the opening scene of a horror movie where everyone dies in the end and the serial killer heads to another town to start his murdering spree all over again.
“What happened after that?”
“While Smoke was passed out, I bathed him and washed his clothes but they were so flimsy they fell apart in the wash, so I mended some of Barney’s things, altering them on the fly so they’d fit him. I placed some food by the bedside. When he came to, he disappeared again. The food was gone off the nightstand, but the clothes were still on the foot of the bed.
“Where did you find him?” I ask. On some level, I’m beginning to ide
ntify with the kid she’s describing, and it’s sitting like a rock in my gut.
Zelda sighs, knitting her brows together, still disturbed with whatever it was she was recalling. “He was under the porch in the crawlspace. Naked. Eating the beef stew and biscuits with his hand like a wild animal. He was shoving it into his mouth so quickly he was choking.”
“How did you get him to come out?” I ask, my heart squeezing for a young Smoke.
“He came out on his own, after a while. He let me dress him, but he didn’t speak, just watched me like I was an alien. We tried to get him to tell us who his parents were. When we couldn’t get it out of him, we decided to call the police, but he must have heard us talking about it because he was gone before they arrived.”
The Warden leapt up when a bird landed in the yard. He barked and chased it back into the weeds.
“Over the next few years, he’d come around time and again. Sometimes, he was crazed like we’d found him the first time. Sometimes, he’d just leave wild flowers on the front porch for me. He never stayed the night no matter how many times we’d ask. He never took anything from us more than a meal. I started putting clothes and food in the porch box so he could come and take them whenever he wanted. After a while, I left other things in there. Sometimes he took them. Sometimes he didn’t. Years passed this way until my Barney died. Smoke was a teenager by then. Then, it was Smoke who started leaving stuff for me. Flowers. Cash. Gifts.” Zelda takes a sip of tea. “It’s because of him I was able to keep this house after my Barney passed.”
I know how it feels to grow up neglected. Not on that kind of scale but on some level. My heart breaks for the kid version of Smoke. Out there alone in the world. Having to find his own way. I realize the pain in my chest isn’t just for him.
It’s for me, too.
I reach over and grab Zelda’s hand in mine which she covers with her own. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, a single tear drips down her cheek, getting trapped in the many lines of her face.
“He still takes care of me, sometimes from afar,” Zelda says looking at the screen door falling from the hinge and to the porch railing which was rotting and crumbling before our very eyes. “Which is why I take care of the main house for him so when he’s around, he has a place to stay.”
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