by Olivia Chase
He rooted around inside and pulled out my phone, then handed it to me. “Tell your friends you’re okay, that you left the party and went home.”
I took my phone from him.
I had it in my hands.
I could call 911.
I could text Maddie, tell her where I was, that I’d been taken by Liam Rutherford, that I was at his house in the city.
And then your father will be killed.
But did I really even know that for sure? It could have been something Liam had made up, something he’d told me to keep me from trying to get away. And even if it was true, why did I care if my father was killed? It wasn’t like he’d ever been there for me, wasn’t like he’d ever done anything for me.
I remembered something I’d told a therapist once, back when I believed that therapy was something that could actually work:
He was worse than her because he let her get away with it.
I pushed the button on my phone for my text messages.
Three texts from Maddie, all of them asking where I was, the last two sounding slightly frantic.
Went home, I texted back while Liam watched me carefully. Sorry, got tired. Will call you in morning.
I sent it.
“Nice touch,” Liam said, taking the phone from me.
“What?” I asked innocently, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was referring to the fact that I’d told Maddie I would text her in the morning. Which meant someone would be keeping tabs on me, expecting to hear from me.
But Liam stayed silent.
I picked up the clothes he’d set down on the bed and clutched them to me.
“So, what? You’re going to watch me change?” I imagined his eyes on me as I removed my jeans and t-shirt, and my nipples instantly felt hard and swollen again, a dull ache settling between my legs.
“No, Emery, I will not be watching you change.”
I swallowed.
My body was on fire, still scorching from the inside out. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to feel his tongue sliding into my mouth, parting my lips, the faint stubble on his cheeks rubbing against my skin.
I looked away.
“Good night, Emery,” he said. And then he was gone, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. A second later, the sound of the door locking from the outside echoed through the room.
I changed in the bathroom after quickly surveying the room and making sure there were no cameras or recording devices mounted on the walls.
I didn’t see any, but I knew that didn’t mean anything. Liam Rutherford was head of a multi-billionaire dollar tech company -- if he wanted to outfit the place with hidden surveillance equipment, I’m sure it wouldn’t be difficult.
The t-shirt he’d given me was a Stanford University Cardinals shirt. I knew Liam had gone to Stanford, so it must have been his.
A secret little thrill ran up my body at wearing his clothes, but I pushed it away then stepped into the blue cotton pants, tying the drawstring tight. He was so big that his clothes hung on my body, bagging around my hips.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face, then returned to the bedroom.
I glanced at the door briefly, wondering why Liam had locked it if I was free to go, as he’d claimed.
My head felt heavy and there was a scratchiness behind my eyes. If I had any chance of getting out of here, of figuring this out, I was going to need sleep.
I scanned the room, thankful to see a thermostat mounted on the wall by the door. I couldn’t sleep if a room was too cold or too light. I liked it warm and dark.
So pushed the button on the thermostat until the digital display glowed 75, sighing in relief as warm air began to flood from the vents.
Then I closed the heavy drapes and groped my way to the bed.
I shut my eyes, praying that tonight, I wouldn’t dream.
But the nightmares came, just like they did every night.
It was a retread of an old one, one I’d had many times before, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying.
I was on a gurney, being wheeled down a long hospital hallway, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air.
I kept trying to get up, but my limbs were like lead. I kept trying to talk, to tell the doctors that I was fine, that I wasn’t sick, that I didn’t need a surgery, but they couldn’t hear me.
They couldn’t hear me because I couldn’t open my mouth.
They wheeled me into an operating room, the lights glaring down from above, almost blinding me.
They lifted me from the stretcher and placed me onto an operating table, the cold from the metal underneath me seeping through my thin hospital gown. A nurse in a white cap tried to put a mask on me, to give me anesthesia, but I turned my head.
The walls were mirrored and immediately, I was face-to-face with my reflection.
My eyes were wide and frightened, and there was a zipper where my mouth should have been. I tried to scream and the zipper burst open as blood poured from my mouth.
I screamed and screamed and screamed.
I woke up to Liam’s voice.
“Emery,” he was saying. “Emery, it’s okay, you’re okay. It was a nightmare, just a nightmare.”
He was in bed with me, his arms around me, and I knew I should have been pushing him away, knew I should have been railing against him, but something about him felt strong, sturdy, and so when he pushed into me, I pushed back.
“Shh,” he said, and he was stroking my hair. He pulled away and looked at me. “You’re burning hot.”
He was right -- my skin was hot, and I felt sweaty and feverish.
He left the room and when he returned, he was holding a fresh t-shirt. For the first time, I noticed he was shirtless, naked from the waist up.
His body was spectacular, cut and muscular, his biceps huge, the expanse of his chest smooth and chiseled, his pecs defined.
His hips narrowed into a V around his six-pack, a thin line of hair starting at his belly button and disappearing into the waistband of his black athletic pants.
My body flooded with desire.
“Here,” he said. “Put this on.”
He turned around, and I slipped my sweaty t-shirt off and put the fresh one on.
Liam was over by the door now, turning down the thermostat. He’d left the door open, and the cooler air in the hallway already beginning to bring down the temperature of the room.
He came back to the bed and sat down next to me, handed me a fresh bottle of water.
I took a sip. “Thank you.”
He nodded, then turned on the tiny reading light that was on the nightstand. The light was muted and soft, and it illuminated his strong features. “You get those a lot?” he asked.
I took another sip of water and thought about lying, thought about telling him no, I didn’t the get nightmares a lot, that they weren’t a big deal. I was what I’d told Maddie when she found out freshman year, the first time we’d shared a dorm room together after an adolescence spent convincing her that my parents wouldn’t let me have sleepovers.
But something about the darkness, and something about him sitting there and me not knowing him, made me want to tell him. What the hell did I care what he thought of me? It would serve him right to think he’d kidnapped a crazy girl.
“Yes.”
“Every night?”
“Almost.” I twirled the plastic cap of the water bottle between my fingers nervously, and he reached out and took it from me, then placed it on the nightstand. Electricity zinged through my body from his touch, and I shifted away from him on the bed.
He didn’t ask me what the dream was about. Which was the first thing people always asked when they found out about my nightmares -- doctors, therapists, Maddie, my roommate first semester of junior year when Maddie was studying abroad in France.
The silence stretched between us, and I felt the need to fill it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” His
eyes were on me now, smoldering, and I slid further back against the fluffy pillows behind me. But the covers stayed where they were, dropping down and pooling around my waist.
The t-shirt he’d given me was white, and I’d made the mistake of taking off my bra when I’d gotten ready for bed. My nipples poked through the material, even more prominently than they had earlier.
His eyes raked over my body, lingering on my breasts, and I grabbed at the covers and went to pull them up over me, but he put his hand on mine, stopping me.
He pulled the covers back down to my waist.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured.
I laughed. “Right.”
He frowned, his eyes knitting together in disapproval.
“I’m not beautiful. If you think you have to say that in order to get me to sleep with you, you don’t.”
“I know,” he said simply. “You’ll sleep with me anyway.”
I looked away, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Look at me.”
I shook my head no. I couldn’t look at him. I was way too embarrassed. Embarrassed that he’d caught me having a nightmare, embarrassed that he thought I was stupid enough to believe he thought I was beautiful, embarrassed that I was turned on, that he’d taken me here against my will and still my body was responding to him, to his built body, his dark features, his cut shoulders, and his chiseled jaw.
“Emery.” He cupped my chin in his hand and turned my face so I was forced to look at him. “When I tell you to do something, you will do it without question. His voice was a sexy, low growl, and warmth settled deep in my belly.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, but the way he was looking at me was pebbling my nipples even more, as hormones raged through my body.
“Do you understand?” His thumb brushed my bottom lip, sending jolts of electricity soaring through me. And before I knew it, I was nodding.
Something about his tone was so commanding that it made me feel the need to obey him. The weird thing was, I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t scared at all. In fact, it was the exact opposite. The way he was talking, the dominance in his voice, was making me feel safe.
I waited for him to say something else, but instead, he took his hand from my face. Instantly, I wanted his hands back on me.
“Are you dealing with it?” he asked.
“Am I dealing with what?”
“Whatever is causing the nightmares.” He reached over and handed me the water bottle and I took another long, slow sip.
Again, I thought about lying and again, I thought, what the hell. I didn’t know him, and something about that felt much safer than telling someone like Maddie, who would look at me with sympathy and ask me why I’d never told her, why I’d kept it a secret all these years. And then she’d never look at me the same again. I would never be normal, whole. I’d be the girl who’d Gone Through Something Traumatic.
“No,” I said. “I’m not dealing with it.”
“Why not?” Liam pressed.
I snorted. “Trust me, it’s not something you can just deal with. It’s not that simple.”
He took the bottle of water from my hands and took a sip. Something about the gesture was very intimate, the two of us sitting here in the dark, sharing a water bottle. I inched away from him on the bed, suddenly needing to put distance between us, not because I really wanted to, but because I needed to prove that I could.
“You can deal with anything, Emery,” he said. “It’s whether or not you want to that’s the question.”
“I don’t want to,” I said automatically.
He set the water bottle back down on the nightstand and stood up, and I felt like I’d disappointed him in some way.
He crossed the room and shut the door, then checked the thermostat again. “You shouldn’t sleep with it so hot in here. It’s not good for you.”
Then he was back at the bed, sliding in under the covers next to me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, panicked.
“Going to bed.”
“In here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to leave you alone.”
I snorted. “You don’t find that ironic?”
“What?”
“The fact that you’ve kidnapped me, but you think you’re going to make me feel better by staying with me?”
“Do you always see things in such black and white?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I stayed quiet, waiting for him to say something else, or to reach for me. When he didn’t, I turned around to face him.
We stared at each other in the dimly light room, and I bit my bottom lip.
My heart was beating so fast I was terrified he would hear it. “If I stay here with you, for the week, what will you make me do?”
His eyes blazed. “I’ll start slow.”
“With sex?” I asked.
He looked amused at my use of the word. “With fucking.”
He reached for me and rested his hand on my hip. His touch made me feel hot, even though the air temperature of the room was already starting to drop.
“I’m not experienced,” I said, because I needed him to know.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Your body was made to be fucked, Emery,” he said, and his hand slid up my side, over the curve of my breast through the thin t-shirt I was wearing. “Your tits were made to be sucked and fucked and played with.”
I shivered.
“It’s okay to be nervous.”
“Will you be gentle?” I whispered. I wasn’t sure why I was whispering. It was only the two of us here, both of us alone in the dark. But something about the whispering felt safe, almost like if I didn’t say the words too loud, they weren’t real.
I fully expected him to say yes, that he would be gentle, but Liam shook his head. “I’m not into gentle.”
“What are you into?” My heart was still beating a steady rhythm against my rib cage, so intense in its ferocity I was afraid it was going to jump through my skin.
“Whips.” He ran his finger over my nipple, tracing it through my t-shirt. “Chains.” His hand palmed my breast and his thumb brushed the raised peak. “Punishments.”
The words should have made me scream and fight, but I was mesmerized.
“Like you would tie me up?” I whispered, horrified.
“If you were bad.”
“What would… what would I do to be bad?”
“Anything that displeased me.”
He was still kneading my breast through my shirt, and a strangled moan escaped my lips.
“Does that feel good, baby?”
I didn’t answer him, my face burning with humiliation at the way he was manhandling my body, at the way he was talking to me, telling me he was going to keep me here, that he was going to tie me up and whip me.
“Does it?” he pressed.
“Yes.”
“Tell me where my hand is.”
“On my breast.”
“On your tit.”
“On my tit.”
“Where do you want my mouth?” he whispered, and the first thing that came to my mind was, between my legs. I got wet, and he grinned as if he could tell exactly what I was thinking and feeling. “You are dirty, aren’t you, baby girl?”
“No.”
“Oh, I think you are.” He lowered his head to my neck, his lips brushing my skin softly. “I think you’re so dirty, aren’t you, Emery? You’re thinking about my mouth on your pussy, aren’t you?”
I moaned, not wanting to admit it, hating and loving the way his lips felt against my neck, and not being able to help but think about them between my legs.
“Have you ever been kissed on your pussy?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He lowered his head to mine, licking my bottom lip, then sucking it between his lips before parting my lips with his tongue. My body instantly relaxe
d into his, melted against the strength of him, and he was pulling me toward him as his arms encircled my waist.
I could feel him hard through the thin material of his pants, against my thigh, and his cock felt so big and thick I almost gasped.
He kept kissing me, his tongue taking my mouth, claiming me.
“Fuck, baby, where’d you learn to kiss like that?” he asked when he finally broke the kiss.
“I don’t know.” My face flamed.
He went to reach for the bottom of my t-shirt, but I grabbed his hand.
“I’m not… I’ve never done this before.” My voice caught on the words.
His eyes darkened. “You’ve never done what before?”
“Had sex.”
“You’re a virgin?”
“Yes.” I twisted my hand against his. “What did you think inexperienced meant?”
Indecision flashed over his features, but then it was replaced with something else, something primal and masculine and possessive. “Your body will respond to mine,” he murmured. “It will know exactly what to do. Like I said, Emery, a body this beautiful was made to be fucked.”
He began to lift my shirt again, but I stopped him again. “There’s something else.”
He raised his eyebrows. “More than that you’re a virgin?”
“Yes.”
“What?” he asked, sounding slightly impatient now, the tone of a man who wasn’t used to any kind of obstacles being in his path, the tone of a man who was used to getting what he wanted and wouldn’t be stopped no matter what.
“I have scars,” I whispered.
“What?”
“On my legs.” I reached down and tugged at my pajama pants, pulling then down just the tiniest bit and showing him the raised red scars that criss-crossed the tops of my thighs.
His breathing quickened, and his hand reached down and touched my skin, tracing the ugly marks. “Who did this to you?” he growled.
I closed my eyes and stayed quiet, the emotions that were welling inside of me making it impossible to talk.
“Does this have anything to do with your nightmares?”
I opened my eyes and nodded slowly.
His hand pushed at my pajama pants, tugging them further down my thighs and pulling them off, until I was wearing just his t-shirt and my panties. His hand grazed my cheek and then his mouth was back on mine, kissing me, his hands sliding up under the back of my shirt as my skin burst into flames and tiny little firework displays exploded all over my body.
