Tricked

He regarded her with a tilt of his head. “Too bad you couldn’t hang on another couple of seconds. I was that close.” He shrugged. “Ah, well. You know what they say—the third time’s the charm. Take another breath. One, two, three…”

Down she went again, plunged into the watery silence.

Determined to get it done this time, she accepted his shaft, keeping her lips pursed tight as he slid once more to the back of her throat. This time, he held her head in both hands as he fucked her face.

Her heart thumped loudly in her ears. The pressure behind her eyes was nearly unbearable. Her lungs felt as if they were about to burst. It was no use. She couldn’t stay down another second.

She tapped his thigh.

But instead of pulling her up, he thrust faster, his cock buried so deep in her throat she wouldn’t have been able to breathe even if she weren’t under the water. As he pummeled her, a strange lightness pervaded her being, as if she were floating away from the world. Maybe this was the only way to be free of him. She could just open her mouth and drink in the promise of oblivion.

The wet, soothing silence closed around her like a shroud, enveloping her in a dark, perfect peace.

It would be so easy to just… let… go…All at once, she was above the water, again sputtering and coughing as she sucked in mouthfuls of life-giving air. Tears mingled with the water streaming down her face. Chlorine combined with the bitter aftertaste of his jism at the back of her throat. Her entire body shook with shock and exhaustion.

“Poor baby. You look like a little drowned puppy,” Damon said with what seemed to be a genuinely sympathetic smile. “You should be proud. That was fucking awesome.” He pushed the wet hair from her face, tucking it carefully behind her ears.

Then he pulled her up into his arms, cradling her gently against his chest.

It was the unexpected tenderness that undid her. It felt so good just to be held. She was so, so tired… Unable to stop herself, she began to sob in his arms.

He continued to hold her, rocking her gently as she cried. She hid her face against his chest, actually grateful for his warm, strong embrace.

“There’s a good girl,” he cooed softly. “You almost make me want to keep you. Too bad this can’t last forever…”Chapter 13It was another “French Maid” day. Callie had gotten reasonably adept at walking in the too-big high heels as she ran the stupid feather duster over various surfaces. She moved through the living room. At least this time he wasn’t breathing down her neck.

Instead, he was lounging on the smaller of the two sofas as he watched her, a strange smile on his handsome face. He had pulled one of the throw pillows onto his lap and his hand rested on top of it. “You’re from Wisconsin, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

His mention of her home state triggered a fresh wave of anxiety. Her parents and brother, Harry, had to be aware that something was very wrong by now, as their texts and phone calls went unanswered. They must be sick with worry. If only she could get word to them somehow. If only she could get away…

“Everybody’s got a gun up there, right? God-given Second Amendment rights and all that crap?”

Where was he going with this? Was this a trick question? Was there a right or wrong answer? “Um, I’m not sure, Sir,” she hedged.

He laughed. “Your daddy has a gun or two, I bet. A hunting rifle maybe, and a little handgun by the bed to keep his family safe from intruders?”

“He does like to go hunting,” she said warily.

“Taught you to shoot, too, did he?” Something in his tone made alarm bells go off in her head.

Instinctively, Callie lied, “No, Sir. I was never interested in guns. They scare me.”

He reached under the throw pillow and pulled out a small handgun. He slipped his finger into the trigger, released the safety catch and pointed the muzzle at her.

Callie froze in place.

She forgot how to breathe.

Was this it?

In a way, it was almost a relief. At least it was a concrete way out of the nightmare her life had become.

But no—her will to survive was too strong. She would never give up.

Several possible scenarios crowded into her fevered brain. She could rush at him, catching him by surprise as she wrested the gun from his hand. She could fall to her knees and beg for mercy. She could try to make a run for it.

She did none of those things. She remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the lethal weapon.

“Guns are scary,” he said, waving the weapon lazily in her direction. “But sometimes that little element of fear can heighten a scene, don’t you agree?”