It’s not something I haven’t done.
It’s something he has.
Chapter Nine
I almost don’t get into the car. There’s something satisfying about the idea of strolling past, like I can’t even see this huge gleaming eyesore stretching out across the car park. I’m not aware that anyone is waiting for me, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. I’m oblivious; I’m aloof; I’m completely cool.
I’m not the least bit furious about any possible interference into my life. I don’t even believe he has interfered. That would just be the craziest thing anyone has ever done for me, and I’m not prepared to entertain the notion. It makes me too mad. It makes me too excited. And the two conflicting emotions are having a fight inside me, quite possibly to the death.
I’m going to die of not being able to decide how to feel. Does he know that he keeps doing this to my feelings?
I’m betting he does. I’m betting he’s sitting inside that car as laid-back and louche as a lord from the seventeenth century, laughing about the brilliant act of puppetry he’s just possibly done. Only he won’t be laughing, naturally. He’ll just be smirking with one side of his face, in that infuriating, smouldering manner.
And yet I still get into the car.
‘Hello, Alissa,’ he says, the second I’ve shut myself inside. It’s like closing the door on a leather-lined cocoon, which doesn’t make me any more comfortable about this situation. Nor does his greeting. Somehow I always forget just how good his voice sounds, until it’s filling up my head and my senses and any remaining resolve I might have had. It just curls around my name like a lazy cobra, and I go completely limp.
Though I at least try to keep true to my course.
‘You did something, didn’t you,’ I say, which isn’t half as direct as I wanted it to be. I was aiming for how dare you call my boss, but I just have to veer left at the last second. There’s still a strong possibility that he didn’t. It could be that I’m crazy for even imagining he would do this.
And besides … at least I get actual words out.
I’m proud of myself for getting actual words out.
‘Define what you mean by “something”.’
‘You know what I mean by “something”.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘You do.’
OK, the words are starting to fail me a little now. Somehow I’ve plunged into playground talk, which only serves to amuse him. His eyes are bright with laughter he’s not quite spilling, and as I watch he settles back into his seat – the way people do when they’re thoroughly enjoying a show.
I’m putting on a show for him.
And, of course, that idea only makes me angrier.
‘Christ, you really did call my boss. You called my boss and scared the life out of him and made him do things like some … some … insane Svengali.’
‘Why on earth would I do a thing like that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a complete control freak?’
‘I think “control freak” is a little strong.’
‘You do? So you didn’t mess around with my life and my job and my boss in a really frightening way? Because I have to tell you, Janos … he looked scared. What did you say to him to make him that scared?’
Instead of answering right away he examines and then straightens his cuff, even though his cuff doesn’t need any straightening at all. Of course, I’ve seen him make a similar move before. He searched for lint that wasn’t on his immaculate trousers – and once, I think, he smoothed his hair, despite there being no hairs out of place.
It’s a stalling tactic.
But it’s not going to work on me.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t sort out things that don’t need sorting out. Just tell me straight: what did you say to him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. That I’d pull out his fingernails with a pair of pliers?’
‘You did not say that.’
‘No, I didn’t. But I do so enjoy seeing that appalled shock all over your face.’
I do my best to rearrange my features immediately. It isn’t easy, though. They seem to be stuck on open-mouthed horror.
‘Well, can you blame me?’
‘Of course I can. You honestly think I’d threaten someone in such a way?’
‘I don’t … that’s not … I was just …’ I say, stumbling and fumbling through all possible variations, until I suddenly hit on the right one. In fact, the right one explodes out of me. ‘Hold on a second – we were talking about you, not me. You’re the one who did a scary thing, whether pliers were involved or not.’
It’s strange to see him look busted. It doesn’t quite suit him, and I think he knows it.
The expression is gone as quickly as it came.
‘I simply suggested to your boss that he stopped speaking to you that way. I’d hardly call that scary. And, in truth, I thought you’d appreciate the change.’
‘I do appreciate the change. I do. You’ve no idea how amazing it was to see my awful boss actually grovelling – and you did that for me. You did something that no one else ever has, and you did it just because you didn’t like how someone spoke to me. That’s an incredible thing, no matter which way you cut it,’ I say, and I mean it. But I also mean the next part – the one that I kind of have to work up to. He’s staring and staring at me with his midnight eyes, and I’m sweating in their glare. It takes a hell of a lot of effort to get the words out, and when I finally do my voice is shaking. ‘But at the same time it’s kind of crazy.’
‘It’s crazy to want people to treat you with respect?’
‘No, that’s the cool part. It’s the other part that’s causing me some problems – you know, the one that makes you think it’s a good idea to mess around with my life.’
‘I don’t want to mess around with your life, Alissa.’
‘OK, maybe you don’t exactly want to mess. But you can’t deny that you only like everything when it’s precisely as you want it to be.’
‘That’s simply not true,’ he says, but it’s not the tone or the sentence itself that makes me spit something out. It’s the way he shakes his head slowly, in this wise, paternalistic manner. You’re so silly, that head shake says. How could you possibly think such a thing? that head shake says.
But I know why I think such a thing.
Because he’s a –
‘Liar.’
The word is like a gong ringing, inside the silent cocoon of this car. We’ve started moving, but you can barely hear a thing through the tinted windows and the glass partition behind his head. We might as well be in outer space for all we can see or hear or feel, and I’m sure that adds an ominous air to my pronouncement.
Or is it his resulting expression that adds the edge to it? His eyes widen just a touch, which is bad enough on its own. But there’s also the slight intake of breath, and the way he leans back minutely. All tiny things, and yet so enormous on him.
He doesn’t like the game being turned around on him, quite clearly.
‘Are you really so sure?’ he asks, but I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to say. A ‘no’ would fly in the face of every scrap of evidence he’s ever offered me. I can’t possibly give him anything other than this.
‘You actually abandoned me in a hotel room because you didn’t like it when things weren’t perfectly within the boundaries you set. Everything has to be played by your rules, and at your discretion, and in the exact manner you think it should be done. Anything else and you run for the hills.’
Though I honestly don’t expect him to be so blasé about it, once I’ve forced all of those accusations out. He seemed ruffled by that one little ‘liar’, so I’m expecting big things. I’m expecting an explosion, and at first it seems like I’m going to get it. He wrestles with himself for a moment, quite visibly – his jaw tightens; he sits up in his seat. It’s akin to watching a boxer sizing up his opponent.
Only to have it all come to nothing.
‘Perhaps you have a point. I confess, I’ve become very set in my ways,’ he says finally, in a way that suggests the boxer found a sniper rifle, and decided to blow off my head before the match could ever take place. His expression even matches that rather unsettling assessment – it’s all sharp and satisfied, like he’s found his footing again.
He doesn’t have to worry about little old me digging down to the heart of him. I have no weapons; there are no tools with which I might do such a thing.
Or so he thinks.
‘Well, that’s good of you to admit,’ I say, as a seed of an idea begins to germinate in my mind. I can’t come at him from that angle. But there might be another one I can work my way through. All I have to do is lead him in the right direction … ‘And perfectly understandable.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘And I’ll be honest: I do like you taking the reins.’
‘I had noticed,’ he says, and now he’s really comfortable. He leans back again in that deliberate, near-prowling way of his, sure and certain in his own strength. He’s not really the sort of person to run for the hills – oh, no no no.
‘Yet one thing is troubling me …’
‘Then please, share it. You know you can tell me anything that might be bothering you. In fact, I would prefer it if you did,’ he says – so confident in himself. He has absolutely no idea what I’m planning, which of course makes it all the sweeter when I say it.
‘I think you secretly enjoyed going to pieces,’ I tell him, and then just let it linger for a fraction longer than is necessary. Just to give it a little more weight – though somehow I don’t think I need it. That unsettled look crosses his usually so ordered features before I’ve even finished.
With a little flourish, of course:
‘True?’ I say. ‘Or false?’
* * *
He is quiet for a long time after that. Though really he doesn’t have to be anything else. He doesn’t need words. His heavy gaze is enough, as it holds tightly to mine. We simply sit there in the strange silence of the car, staring and staring at each other like two kids playing chicken. Whoever breaks first loses.
So naturally I don’t expect it to be him.
I give a little start when he suddenly speaks.
‘I always knew you’d be the death of me,’ he says – intending a joke, I think.
But it doesn’t come out that way. It comes out like he really means it. I’m somehow deadly to him, as if my eyes are actually knives and my skin is suffused with arsenic. And though I have the strongest urge to reassure him on that score, something else comes out of my mouth instead.
Something probably poisonous.
‘That’s not answering the question,’ I say, and that look all over his face deepens. It’s impossible to describe – a study in contrasts and all of them clashing violently. His eyebrows are almost raised, but there’s no surprise in his darkly gleaming eyes. And though he seems to be smiling ruefully, there’s something pained about it.
Like it hurts to move his muscles that way.
‘And you really think I’m going to?’
‘You could try. I tried for you.’
‘Oh, I see. And now the tables are turned?’
‘Probably not. But the illusion of it is nice.’
‘You’re enjoying yourself.’
‘I’m enjoying something.’
‘Please – a little more specific.’
‘I will be,’ I say. ‘But after you.’
He makes a sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a snort of frustration. And he glances away when he does it, too – just to give it that extra edge of I can’t do this.
‘Very well then,’ he says, in a voice like something snapped off. ‘False.’
He looks back to me, but only to give me a challenging stare.
Go ahead, those eyes say. Call my bluff.
So I do.
‘Liar,’ I say, and oh, this time he can’t smother his unsettled reaction. It’s real and raw and all over him. His breathing speeds up in this almost animalistic way, like a bull about to charge. And when he leans forward a little, he doesn’t do it normally.
He almost lunges. I feel sure for a second that he’s about to grab me, though I don’t know if I mind. My upper arms are burning, in anticipation of a reckless move he can’t quite make. He can’t quite give in to wild passion.
But soon, soon.
‘How can you be so sure?’ he says, and, though it seems like he’s challenging me again, I can hear something else in his voice. It sounds like he’s leaving the door ajar for me – just a little. From a distance you probably couldn’t see it … and maybe you’d even walk past without giving that tiny invitation a second glance …
Only we’re not at a distance.
He’s leaning forward and I’m leaning forward, and if either of us moved an inch we’d be kissing. In fact, in a way it feels like we already are. The air between us is thick and tension-filled, taking the place of a touch he doesn’t know how to give. And when he turns his head in this certain familiar way, I find myself following.
Just as I would if our lips were pressed together.
‘The same way you always are. I watch you, and your face tells me tales that your words won’t.’
‘So what did my face tell you the other day?’
‘It told me that you wanted me. That you couldn’t wait for me. That seeing me behave like that drove you wild,’ I say. ‘The way it’s driving you wild now.’
‘And if I tell you you’re wrong?’
‘I’ll call you a liar again. And I’ll keep calling it until your debt to me is ten thousand feet high, packed tight with all the things you say you hate the most while inside I know you love it. You want to grab me now, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You want to tear off my clothes with your teeth, and ravage me right here in the back of this stupidly expensive car.’
‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ he says, but each word is imbued with so much charge it’s like he’s saying something else entirely. He’s pushing them all to the surface so I can see the opposite underneath, boiling away insanely.
‘Then when you’re done …’
‘Yes.’
‘When you’re done fucking me and filling me and making me feel all the things you definitely don’t want to, you do something even worse.’
‘Yes, tell me,’ he says, and now his hands are poised around my upper arms. I can almost feel them. I can, I can. Just a little more …
‘I can hardly bring myself to say it.’
‘You have to. You have to,’ he tells me, but he goes one better than that. He goes one better than the brutal, cracking desperation in his voice, one better than his obvious longing and his need: he speaks to me in another language. ‘You have to,’ he says, and then he follows it with a stream of words I don’t understand.
And yet oh, God, I understand them perfectly.
They’re begging me to finish this, each syllable so obviously fraught with need I can’t deny him anything. I have to lean in close, to give him the final perverted act. I have to put my lips to his ear and whisper, as soft as silk and so filled with delight.
‘You don’t leave.’
Chapter Ten
He doesn’t quite savage me. But it isn’t far off, either. The second I’ve said those subversive words, he makes me turn around. And when I say he makes me, I mean he makes me. There’s no persuasion, no precise and deliberate commands. He just gets hold of my waist and manhandles me – like he did on the bed for that brief moment of absolute ecstasy.
Only this time it’s much more obvious.
And much more forceful.
I suppose that’s what happens when you jack someone up to force factor ten before things have even begun. Previously I’d only experienced his sudden storming desire from the mid-point onwards. Now it’s right here from the beginning, and oh, Lord, it’s overwhelming. It�
�s like being mauled by a mad tiger.
His hands feel enormous. They seem to span most of my sides, from my hips all the way up to my ribcage. And he’s gripping me really, really hard. I’ll probably have bruises tomorrow, but oddly I find I don’t care. Instead, my insides sizzle whenever I think about it. I’ll be able to look in the mirror and see where he held me, I think, and then I just have to sag against the back of my seat.
He doesn’t let me hold the pose for long, however. He just hauls me back up, until I’m on my knees. And once I’m in a position he likes – facing the rear window, arms on the back of the seat, legs slightly spread – he does something even better than the rest of this madness.
He shoves my skirt up.
There’s no careful, inch-by-inch removal here. He simply yanks at anything that gets in his way, and that includes my skirt, and my shirt, and my panties. The first ends up around my waist, as I mentioned. But the second, ohhhh, the second one. I could swim around in the way he goes about that.
He gets a grip on one side and pulls – and most of the buttons pop. Then he simply slides his hand inside, roaming over my breasts in this really greedy way. By the time he’s done, the cups of my bra are no longing covering me, and I’m shivering all over.
And that’s before he goes for the third item on my list:
My panties.
I think I expect him to really rip that item of clothing. He’s getting progressively worse as this goes on, so it doesn’t seem like a far-out assumption – and in fact I’m bracing myself for it. I’m imagining the pain of the elastic as it briefly digs in. I’m wondering if that will leave a bruise too.
And that’s when he eases the material aside, and slides his fingers all the way through my soaked folds. Just like that, so smooth and sudden I can hardly accept it. Is he really touching me there, or did I want it so bad I invented his hand on me?
I’m going to go with the latter, because oh, it feels so amazing it can’t be real. There’s just something about the way he did it that flips all of my switches. My panties were a minor inconvenience that he barely registered, on his way to getting what he wants.
Run To You Page 12
