Slowly, I turn the lock, then slide back the deadbolt. Anyone could come in now.
I walk into the bedroom and turn off the one lamp on the nightstand. Now there’s just the dim light from the living room slanting across the floor. Lots of people might leave that much light on so they could find their way around in the dark, if they wanted.
Now Jonah will be able to find his way to me.
Every second is exquisite torture. I lie on my side, covers tucked up around my ears, as if I could possibly pretend to be asleep. Really I’ve never been this awake in my life. Every sound seems unnaturally loud in this silence—the wind through the trees outside, the distant rumble of a truck on the road, the soft creaks in the walls natural to any old house. Surely I’ll hear Jonah’s car pull up . . .
. . . but no. Jonah’s sedan was out front before ten o’clock; I know that as surely as if I’d seen it myself. He would be watching my door from the first moment I unlocked it, to make sure no one else tried to get inside.
A creak from the kitchen first seems normal enough, until I hear another. Footsteps. My entire body tenses in the best possible way. He’s here, now.
Should I get up to investigate? Surprise him in the front room? No. This time I want him to find me in bed.
I close my eyes.
The footsteps come closer. He’s wearing soft shoes, or none, because he walks so quietly that I think if this were real, I’d sleep right through it. By now adrenaline courses through me, setting every single nerve ending on fire.
If I even put my hand between my legs—just that contact, not even a stroke—I swear I’d come this second.
Now the footsteps are right next to me. I feel the foot of the bed sink down, the unmistakable sensation of someone sitting on the mattress. It’s so hard not to open my eyes, so hard to pretend—
His hand closes over my mouth, hard.
My eyes fly open to see Jonah leaning over me. He’s dressed in black, and his face is almost unrecognizable. This is hardly a human being I see. This is . . . a predator.
He hisses, “Don’t scream.”
I don’t scream.
I strike.
My hands close around his wrist, yanking it away from my mouth, and I pull both knees up to my chest, then kick. My feet thud into Jonah’s chest, knocking him completely off the bed.
Instantly I scramble across the mattress, as if I were trying to reach my cell phone (charging in its dock, a few feet away). But Jonah’s hand closes around my ankle and tows me back toward him.
“You hurt me.” His hand pulls at the strap of my tank top, yanking it down to expose one of my breasts. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
“No!” I shove my hands against his chest, hard, and then the battle is on.
No broken bones. No visible wounds. Those are the rules we agreed on in the beginning—permanent rules, which neither of us will ever, ever break. But that doesn’t mean we can’t fight like hell.
I shove him away again. Slap him hard across the face.
Jonah slaps me right back. The force is enough to send me staggering against the wall. Hearing the thud, feeling the sting of my skin, shakes me—this is so real, so fucking real—and for the first time since our inaugural night at the hotel, the safe word comes to the tip of my tongue. Silver.
I don’t say it.
Instead I run at him for a full-on tackle. Jonah didn’t expect that; I can tell by the way he staggers backward. We both land on the bed. I use my momentum to roll me over him until I fall off the far side. Now I’m free, and—holy shit, will I actually get to the phone? Not sure what to do then—
But Jonah’s up. He grabs my arm and throws me bodily onto the bed. Before I can scramble backward, he’s on top of me, his knees pressing down on my arms. I try to kick at him, but from this angle it’s almost impossible. So I writhe, twisting from side to side, until one of Jonah’s hands closes around my throat.
Instantly I go still.
“Now you’re going to behave.” He laughs, a sound as sharp as any switchblade. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”
Would he like it if I begged? “Let me go. Please.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You—you can take my phone, and my laptop. My purse, too, and I’ve got a lot of cash in my wallet. Just take it and go. I won’t be able to call the police, because you’ll have my phone. So you could get away.”
“I’m going to get away just fine.” Jonah straddles me, his erection clearly straining at the fabric of his black sweatpants. I can feel his balls against my belly; they’re tight, ready. “You don’t get away. You do what I tell you.”
“Please don’t. Please.”
“Will you ask me politely?” Jonah’s hands find my breasts—both exposed now as he plays with them, squeezing hard, then soft, then hard again. He tugs at one nipple, forceful enough to make me whine.
“What—what do you—”
“We’ll make a deal.” He leans over; I realize he’s seen the scarf I left out for him. “If you can suck me off, I won’t put it in your cunt.”
Next time, I’m going to come in your mouth. I want him to. But I want to get fucked too.
“No,” I say. “I won’t do it, I won’t—”
Jonah slams down on top of me, hard enough to make me cry out in genuine shock. “You don’t get to say what you will and won’t do. That’s not what this is about.”
I’m shaking so hard. My panties are soaked. I want to cross my legs, just cross them, because I think I could come by merely clenching my thighs.
Yet I keep fighting. I thrash beneath him, frenzied enough to make him swear in what sounds like genuine frustration. Then Jonah grabs the scarf. I think he’ll tie my hands, but instead he winds the scarf around my throat. One hand closes around the fabric right in front of my windpipe as he tugs me off the bed with the other, until I tumble off the bed onto the floor.
I use my feet to push myself away from him, but Jonah drags me back and slaps my face again. The very real pain brings tears to my eyes, but it only sharpens the desperate hunger inside me. His grip on the scarf around my neck strengthens.
“You fight me, I’ll tie this tighter,” he says. “Are you done?”
I nod, defeated. All I can do now is lie on the floor and wait for whatever Jonah has planned next.
His cheek is flushed from where I struck him. My face must be too.
As I pant for breath, my exposed breasts rising and falling with each gasp, Jonah starts going through my nightstand. To my astonishment—and embarrassment—he pulls out my dildo.
My lone sex toy. It was a gift from Geordie. We tried using it a time or two, but mostly it made us crack up laughing. It’s been languishing at the back of the drawer for months.
“You don’t get enough dick?” Jonah says as he inspects it. The thickness and length of the hot pink silicone would intimidate most men, but Jonah puts that toy to shame. “Well, you’re gonna get some tonight. You’re gonna take it all.”
“Please,” I beg. He likes it when I beg. “Please, no.”
“I said, you’re going to take it.”
That’s when he pushes down the front of his black sweatpants, revealing his erection—blood dark, fully stiff, jutting out at me and wanting release.
He’s even more turned on than I am. I didn’t think that was possible.
Jonah shoves one of my legs up until my knee nearly touches my chin. Now my crotch is exposed, and his hand closes around that wet strip of my panties and pulls it aside. Two of his fingers push inside, and I whimper. He won’t stop for a condom this time; this will be the first time he fully feels how wet he makes me. How hot.
“Not enough for you, huh? You want some cock?”
“No—”
“No? You don’t? Too bad I don’t give a damn what you want. Shut the fuck up before I shut you up.”
Jonah lowers himself over me and pushes inside.
“Oh, God,” I whisper against the floor as he starts to thrust. Though I try to brace myself against the floor, every move he makes rocks me. My legs splay open wider, as if that will somehow make my body ready for the enormous length and girth of him. Nothing could do that. “Please—please—”