Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Her choking gasps were the first indication of his fuck up. Her hands flew to her chest, her eyes darting wildly around her.

He rolled back, landing atop her and covering her thrashing body as best as he could. But he knew he'd lost her the instant she grew rigid. A scream roared from her throat, cut off, and she bucked in his arms.

Just like that, she was back to square one.

Shadows crept from the woods, inch-by-inch, breath by ragged breath, closing in and swallowing Amber's ability to run, to crawl, to scream. The ground spun beneath her, tossing her body and splintering her chest. Her lungs burned, and her bones melted into icy liquid. Too helpless. Too exposed. Nowhere to hide.

The earth began to suck her in, twisting oxygen-depriving tendrils around her neck. As she struggled against the chokehold, a heavy presence grabbed her and pulled her into a prison of strength and darkness.

She curled into that shelter. It felt safe, beautiful, and she didn't want to leave it. How could that be? Maybe it stemmed from her belief that every man possessed the ability to cause wonderment—even dangerous, vicious men. As she flailed through her mind, searching for escape, she found Van's wonder, his hand, reaching out through the terrible noise.

It lifted her, yanking her farther away from the horrors of outside and into a quiet cradle of warmth. His arms folded beneath her back and legs, and his chest flexed against her cheek as he carried her, his body propelling forward.

Overhead, the moon shone bright and full. The sight of it was startling, wonderfully overwhelming, and her emotions poured out in a burst of sobs.

He sped up, running now, as fast, as hard as his breaths. Through the door and up the stairs, he held her like glass. Like her aquarium, fragile and transparent, brimming with brokenness.

The world stopped spinning as the mattress caught her limp body, but her mind continued to trip. She tried to organize the mess of her thoughts, floating through them, unsure where to begin. Where had her brain been the last hour? Skipping around in a nutter's wonderland of slippery delusions? She lay there, numb and empty, as if she'd just been ripped from a drunken haze.

The cool conditioned air bit over her skin, intensifying the heat in the lashes on her back and legs. She was grateful he'd brought her inside, but she needed to lay into him for whipping her.

Maybe later. She couldn't find the energy to be pissed. Exhaustion pulled at her muscles and burned her gritty eyes. But something else muted her anger as well. Curiosity? Or shame.

Once the initial shock of his whip had faded, her body had drifted into a strange weightless suspension of time and place, her mind so centered on the next strike, all the threats of outside had evaporated from her senses. The crack of the whip had stung, sure, but the pain had been fleeting, hypnotic. Nothing like the agony of a panic attack. Even more confusing, it had turned her on.

A jolt of remembered pleasure zinged up her inner thighs. All those floaty feelings had orbited around Van. She'd wanted him so badly, she'd fucked him. No, not fucked. She'd welcomed him like a wanton thing, grinding against his erection, begging. And he'd given it to her, a deeply physical and soulful connection, so unlike the cruelty of the rape. In fact, none of her sexual experiences compared. Not even with Brent. Especially not with Brent.

Had Van whipped his other captors? Surely, they hadn't felt the same profound intoxication? Had he fucked them, too? Her neck stiffened, and her chest ached with an irrationally selfish emotion. They had been sex slaves, normal people forced into a horrible situation, where she was...she was just sick.

The mattress jostled with his movements behind her. He kept the light on as he shifted toward her back. When he touched her, it was with cool, wet fingers. Whatever he was rubbing into the welts was tingly, soothing, and there was way too much care in those gentle strokes.

It hurt to swallow, her throat raw from screaming, so she closed her eyes, relaxing into his touch. Her head grew heavy on the pillow, the aftershocks of the last panic attack still trembling through her veins. Too soon, his fingers disappeared. But he replaced them with his body heat as he tugged the covers up and tucked them in.

Two years of shutting off the lights and closing the shades, and she hadn't been able to conquer the fear. Maybe it needed to be whipped out of her. Inside the house. No doubt he would do it again. She should just wrap her arms around it and embrace it.

With the same illogical impulse that had propelled her to kiss him in the kitchen, she rolled to face him, first to her belly then to her side. When she met a broad hairless chest, her heart stuttered. Had he removed his pants as well? The wall of muscle an inch from her nose tempted her to follow the dusting of hair below his abs and find out.

His arm slipped around her, and his thumb glided lazily over her nape. He smelled of earth and warmth and virility. His pecs twitched and rippled beneath golden skin, each brawny brick of his torso chiseled in a uniform sculpture of strength. Jesus, the man's body didn't know when to quit.

Apparently, hers didn't either, given the sudden throb of heat between her legs. She clenched her inner muscles and shivered. His unlawful beauty and sneaky moments of tenderness both scared and captivated her, but more than that, he compelled her.

She wedged a hand between his bicep and ribs, snaking it around his back and inching closer, so close there was no question about his state of dress.

The short hairs on his thighs tickled as his strong legs intertwined with hers. His cock, soft and thick, laid against her hip. She shivered again and knew he'd felt it when he released a soft hum.

She pressed her lips to his hard chest and savored the catch in his breath. His skin tasted salty, his raw outdoorsy scent chasing the spice of his cologne. He was quiet, perhaps thoughtful, as he snuggled against her, seemingly content with her affection, neither dismissing it nor demanding more. Laid-back, unassuming Van was irresistible.

She wriggled upward along his body, kissing his sternum, the side of his neck, and lingered on the dime-sized scar on his shoulder. A bullet wound? Had one of the slaves or the buyers shot him? Or were there other fragments of his criminal life she knew nothing about? “How did you get this?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart.” The tired rumble of his voice settled over her, and the caress of his thumb moved from her neck, down her spine, pausing mid-way. To avoid the welts?

Leaning back, she peered up into his eyes and found the silvery depths tinged with lazy fatigue. She loved that look on him, but it couldn’t be trusted. “My back doesn't hurt.”

“It will tomorrow, brat. You need to drink water.” He reached behind him and grabbed a plastic cup from the nightstand, knocking random clutter to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up. He simply rolled back and held out the cup with a raised brow.

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God, what must the floor look like? Clothing and crap scattered with no order and configuration? “The mess—”

“The mess is mine. Drink.”

She gritted her teeth. “Last time you told me to drink—”

“I won't drug you, because I'm not taking you anywhere.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You're exactly where I want you.”

Her heart thumped, the foolish, gullible thing. She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I like you.”

She expected a charming grin, but what he gave her was an expression etched with honesty.

“Jesus, you look so beautiful right now.” His timbre was rough, throaty.

Her mouth fell open. She was a fucking mess. Mental issues aside, she didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and her hair tangled around her neck and shoulders from rolling in the grass. She wanted to point this out, but he regarded her with such intense focus, it was easier to drop the subject. She glanced at the waiting cup.

How long had it been sitting on the table, amongst watches and hangers and discarded candy wrappers? Was there dust and bacteria in it? She wrinkled her nose. “How fresh is that?”

His eyes hardened into steel blades. “Too damned tired for this, Amber. Don't test me.”

Just like that, his command was back, a reminder of his volatile nature. She accepted the cup, draining the lukewarm water, her throat tightening in pain and revulsion with each swallow. He took it from her, tossing it somewhere on the floor. With all the other mounting debris. Where there were no lines, no structure, no routine.

Her scalp tingled with rising anxiety. Stop thinking about it. “I'm going to make your life hell.”

His head lowered to the pillow, his eyes closed. “My life is already hell. An eternal dark walk of the damned.”

A bit dramatic, but no question he was damned, as was she. But there was warmth in his dark walk. Intense warmth with rock hard arms that held her close. She couldn't figure him out and, at the moment, didn't have the strength to try.