Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Amber was the one he’d been waiting for, and considering the irony that she lived right next door to Liv, maybe Amber had been waiting for him.

Van knew the risks in kidnapping all too well, but taking an agoraphobic outside her door? Christ, that was a new one. Were there medical considerations? Would Amber keel the fuck over and die from an aneurysm?

Wait, why did he care if she had seizures and shit? Because he didn't want to kill her. If he managed to successfully move her, she probably wouldn't even try to escape. His muscles swelled with heat just thinking about her locked in his house. Locks optional?

The swoosh of the bathroom faucet interrupted his romantic thoughts, followed by the approaching click of her heels.

“What are you doing?” Her horrified whisper sent a quiver of pleasure down his spine.

Just to rile her a bit more, he didn't stand, didn't turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he pocketed the toothpick, lifted the glass of mixto tequila from the shelf, and drained half. He took his time, drawing out the tension that wafted from her, savoring it. Unlike the piss burning his throat. Lighter fluid would've gone down smoother.

Eventually, he returned the book, out of order, and rose with his back to her. “How long have you been shut in, Amber?”

“You need to leave.” Her voice was so strangled it sounded like she'd lost the ability to breathe.

He shifted to face her, his expression relaxed, his tone more so. “Are you medicated?” An inventory of her medicine cabinet was on his list of to-dos. He needed a better understanding of the disorders.

“Leave right this minute, and I won't call the cops.” She clutched her knuckles and raised her chin, the sinews in her neck pressing against delicate skin.

Was she telling him to leave because he'd discovered her phobia? A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Go ahead. Call in the pigs.” He waved a hand at the door. “If you don't mind them tracking the outside world all over your nice floors.” The self-help text had said, The individual might feel embarrassed. “Maybe they won't jump to conclusions about someone with a mental disorder going ape-shit on her house-guest.”

A noise squeaked in her throat, and her eyes darted from him, to the front door, and back again. Then they lowered, as did her chin. “What do you want from me?”

Ah, fuck, he was screwed. The only thing missing from her response was Master. He drew a deep breath through his nose and tried to calm the fuck-her-take-her-break-her rap against his ribs.

“I'm going to finish my drink” —he raised the glass, his voice soft and casual— “while we wait for your projects to dry. Then I'll drop them in the mailbox when I leave. Isn't that why you invited me in?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands twitching at her sides. So damned beautiful, all dolled up with nowhere to go. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

He leaned against the bookshelf and hooked a thumb in his pocket. “A shallow bastard might've bolted after discovering your disorder, blabbering some excuse as he ran far, far away.” He watched her sharp inhale and suppressed the satisfaction tugging at his lips. “So you have issues. Don't we all?” Fucking understatement.

“I don't want to talk about this.” Even as she said it, her eyes fell on the coffee table, and a tremor overtook her body. She charged toward the source of her horror, sucking air as she realigned the coasters with trembling fingers.

He hid his grin behind the lip of his raised glass.

A gasp followed, and she tackled the pillow on the couch, straightening and fluffing with asthmatic breaths. Then she stood, brushed down the hem of her dress, and leveled a hard stare in his direction. “Stop fucking with my things.”

He stared right back, but what he really wanted to do was yank up that dress and sink his teeth into her twisted panties. With the casual swipe of a hand, he shifted the swollen head of his cock.

She didn't seem to notice, her eyes too busy shooting fire at his face. “And no more personal questions.”

For a little thing, she sure had a big voice when she was angry. It was really quite cute, and he suddenly wanted to know if she was ticklish. What a fucked up thought, and probably not the time to explore it. She appeared to be seconds from self-destructing.

Her heels echoed through the room as she paced, seething through her teeth and wiping fingers beneath her dry eyes. Then she stopped and glanced at the clocks, at the door, back to the clocks. Was she weighing her options? Go to the mailbox herself? Or let him stay to do it for her?

When her eyes landed on him, they had cooled by several degrees. “No more snooping. Don't touch my stuff. Don't even look at it.”

Terrible choice, little girl. He tipped her a crooked smile, made of sugar and shit. “Right on.”

She nodded, her bottom lip caught between polished white teeth. “Then the offer to stay four hours stands. Follow me.” With that, she turned and clickety-clacked down the hall.

He watched her ass until it disappeared within her unlit bedroom. For all his smugness in manipulating her, he knew better than to pursue this. She had some serious dysfunction—perhaps worse than his—and he'd only scratched the surface. He glanced at the front door. He should be the shallow bastard and leave, but the challenge invigorated him. God help him, but he wanted to lose his mind with this crazy woman.

He threw back the remainder of the mixto and set it on the coffee table. Flicking a coaster to the floor, he strolled down the hall, a hand in his pocket and dark dreams in his head.

At the doorway of her bedroom, he took in her most personal space. A dim lamp now glowing on the nightstand, a single blacked-out window, a small TV that should've been thrown out two decades ago. And a stunning woman sitting on the edge of the bed.

She watched him from beneath her lashes, her slender legs dangling off the side, the toes of her shoes flexed above the carpet. Not a single footprint indented the threads between her and the door. Had she hurdled the ten-foot distance? Impossible. How did she erase her tracks so fast?

Her silence pushed against him, scattering into the hallway and pulsing with the faint rasp of her inhales. She sat motionless, eyes lowering, as if held by an innate need to please. As if waiting for her Master to speak.

A warm current ran the length of his body, prickling his skin. Subservient Amber did not help his obsessive thoughts. His cock ached, but the greedy bastard didn't run things. He wouldn't take her impulsively. Not without planning. Maybe not ever.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, subtly scuffing his heels to smudge the vacuumed stripes in his path.

She glared at his tracks, and her jaw clenched. Yeah, her OCD harbored some affection for clean lines.

He paused before her, brushing his knees against hers and coaxing an exhale f

rom her sweet lips. A discreet scan of the room revealed the same rigid order as the rest of the house. But what the fuck was the bizarre display in the corner?

A glass aquarium sat on a stand, brimming with twisted bits of filigree metalwork, broken bronze statues, and beveled gems—some attached to strips of metal, others loose and chipped.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are those—?”

“Those are nothing,” she snapped, meeting his gaze.

Either she designed metal art, or she'd unleashed a pissed-off hammer on a trophy collection. Her locked jaw suggested the latter. Strange she hadn't covered it the way she'd concealed the self-help books, but he let it go for now.

“Why are we here?” He nodded at the bed.

“Why not?”

Because phobic girls didn't invite strangers where they slept. He gave her a human smile. “It wasn't a personal question.” But he hoped it would incite a personal answer.

“Right.” She looked at the bed and smoothed the white quilt beside her hip. “This is part of the offer.”

His head jerked back. What the—

“Sex in exchange for dropping off my shipments.” Her tone was unshakably and incautiously determined. She'd done this before.

The cold splash of realization doused his brain. And his libido. Christ, why hadn't he seen this coming? Of course, her mental condition would force her to depend on people. People with hard dicks weeping to accept her non-cash payments. People like Zachary Fucking Kaufman.

Goddammit, her offer stung. He wasn't some delivery bitch boy, earning pussy for a walk to the mailbox. He was there for his own purpose, not hers, and he'd damned well fuck her on his terms. “No.”

Her face fell. “Oh. I thought—”

“I was so hard-up I had to run errands to get my dick wet?” His tone was harsh, though his anger had nothing to do with being hard-up.

Hell, eight years ago, he had been the whore, exchanging blowjobs for crack. No doubt, he would've been bent under some rutting drug-dealer at that very moment if Mr. E hadn't returned for him. Twenty-five years late, and still, he'd been overjoyed to meet long lost Dad.