Going Down (9 page)

Yes, there was the beast beneath the civilized veneer he'd shown her earlier. She felt the wild animal in his body as he repeatedly strained toward her, sensed it clawing its way to freedom via his powerful grip on her hips.

Over and over again she slammed herself at him. Damn the potential for damage to his cock! To hell with giving too much away. This was fucking, fucking on the ocean while the drifting boat contributed its own nonrhythm. There was them and the stars and moon and maybe night birds, sweat and summer's breeze and that distant, lonely foghorn.

The horn's whisper seeped into her to quiet a little of her frenzy. And yet she continued to work. The hot, wet burning in her pussy was as old as time and as necessary as breathing. It became her. She had no existence beyond the sleek scrape of cock against cunt.

Wanted no other existence.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Each curse announced the start of a downward plunge. It, like her movements, started strong and hard only to slow as she neared her destination so she could concentrate on the full and beautiful sensation. She wanted her breasts to be free instead of imprisoned inside her bra and yet their confinement added to the experience.

Her thighs were on fire, endlessly burning. She might be able to keep up the pace for the rest of her life, but maybe her muscles were on the brink of collapse, kept going only because her pussy demanded satisfaction.

“Ah! Ah.”

His voice. Raw and wild sounds torn from an equally raw and wild throat.

“Fuck me,” she begged.

“I am. Goddamn it, I am.”

Her hands were against his shoulders without her knowing how they'd gotten there, and although she needed to anchor herself to him, she yanked on his shirt's neckline and dug into his newly exposed skin. She scratched and raked, growling as she did. He answered her attack by kneading her waist with such strength that she guessed he'd leave bruises.

Bruises were good. They spoke of frenzy and fire, of a man and a woman each determined to fuck and be fucked.

That's all this was, she mused, grateful for the breeze on her buttocks and legs. Fucking a man who turned her on.

When he reared back and bared his teeth, she switched her attack from his throat to the hard plane of his belly. Although she continued carving white lines in his flesh, she took care to gentle her attack. Watching his reaction, she worked her fingers closer and closer to his groin. She was within inches of the base of his cock when he snagged her wrist and forced her arm behind her.

Both loving and fearing the restraint, she turned her full energy to burying him as deep and full as she could in her weeping and ready sex. The sweet burning sensation kicked up notch after notch. She'd been swimming, but now a powerful current controlled everything. Tossed about by incredible strength, she closed her eyes. A wave rose up over and around her to steal her strength.

Utterly spent, she collapsed on him. At the same time her cunt began a familiar and equally powerful drive. The finish line! Nothing existed except the waiting explosion, compelling her to sink into its bloodred depths. This was what it was all about, the goal! The reward.

The end.

It lapped at her with a heated tongue, but although she struggled to find the strength to meet it, she'd lost all control over her muscles. It would come; she had no doubt of that. But all she could do was wait and pant and sweat.

Something started shaking her, forcing her to lift her head above the current. The
something
turned out to be Reeve. He was doing all the work now, his much-stronger muscles powering him in and out, up and down, ruling not just her cunt but her entire being.

There! Fast. Hard! Lingering.

Delighted, she dove unafraid into her climax. It came at her in waves, sometimes mountaintop high, other times barely simmering, but for as long as it lasted, there was nothing else.

And she screamed.

Her throat was still raw when she dragged herself off Reeve and all but collapsed at his feet. He'd helped guide her off him, but now he sat slumped in the fighting chair with his fingers clutching the armrest.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “You—I don't remember—did you—”

“Yeah. Hell yeah.”

B
astard. Damn bastard.

Although they were now below deck with the tiny bathroom a step away, Reeve had no intention of going in there and turning on the light because if he did, he'd have to look at himself in the high mirror. Knowing what he was about to do to the unconscious woman sprawled out on his bed was bad enough and tomorrow soon enough for asking himself why the hell he'd had sex with Saree when that hadn't been part of the plan.

The plan. Damn it, focus!

Instead of mentally checking off the list of what he had to accomplish before daylight, however, he sat next to the limp figure, slumped forward. He was so tired that if he didn't know what was expected of him when and why, he'd have already stretched out next to her. If nothing else, then he wouldn't have to face what he'd done.

Well, he wasn't asleep. She was, not that
sleep
was the accurate term. Thanks to what he'd added to the glass of water he'd given her some twenty minutes ago, she was down for the count. And even when she woke up, she'd barely be able to move until the drug was out of her system.

The drug's muscle-weakening properties were part of why he saw himself as a complete bastard. To be awake and aware but unable to fight had to be a terrifying experience, but it was part of the plan he'd committed to.

A plan he'd approved before he'd known that this supposedly oversexed means to an end had nursed her parents through lingering illnesses, not because the duty had been forced on her but because she'd loved them.

What was that like? How did someone go about loving a parent so deeply that that person's own life came in a distant second? True, he'd once had feelings for his parents, intense emotions that had nearly destroyed him in the aftermath of what—No, damn it, no! Don't go there!

Straightening, he turned toward Saree. He'd given her the doctored drink while they were still on deck, but fortunately she'd had to go to the bathroom before it had kicked in. Otherwise, he wasn't sure he could have safely carried her limp body down the steep, narrow steps. She'd gone to the bathroom, slipped back into her shorts, and washed her face before her eyes started glazing over.

“I'm exhausted,” she'd said. Then, swaying, she'd taken a step toward the bed. She'd collapsed on it and rolled onto her side, looking up at him with innocent confusion clouding her eyes. “What…”

Down and out. His. About to enter an existence that he hoped would save lives. That's what he had to focus on, not her strong and healthy body locked with his and not her compassion for her dying parents but how he intended to manipulate and use her before eventually returning what was left of her back to her world.

I'm sorry,
he nearly said aloud. Instead, he knotted his hands and squeezed until he'd cut off his own circulation.

Then, shaking life back into his fingers, he stood and stepped over to the built-in dresser. Teeth clenched, he opened the top drawer where he'd stored what he needed to do his job.

Bastard. You're a damned bastard.

 

She was dreaming, had to be.

No matter how hard Saree mentally pushed against it, the fog surrounding her refused to lift. Only a couple of things made sense. One, her memories of the evening she'd spent with a man she'd just met. Two, she couldn't move her arms.

Wait, there were three things, weren't there. Her eyes were closed.

Although she had no doubt that a great deal more about whatever was happening would start to fall into place once she opened her eyes, she held off the moment. The problem, the goddamn scary problem, was that she could no longer delude herself into believing that this was a dream. Not only could she now feel soft but thick leather straps around her wrists, she knew she was on a bed—a bed that smelled like Reeve.

Panic filled her throat, but if she gave into it, she was lost. She had to remain strong and in control, at least as in control as someone who'd been anchored to a bed could be.

Oh God, was this what had happened to Amber Green? Instead of having run away with the man of her dreams, her fellow bondage model had been kidnapped? What happened after kidnapping? Imprisonment, but where? Why? And for how long?

Was Amber still alive? No, she couldn't be dead!

Unable to stop herself, Saree slowly, laboriously opened her eyes. She managed to lift her head, but the effort caused her vision to blur and her muscles to shake. Bile rose in her throat. Drugged. Damn it, she'd been drugged!

Clamping down on panic with every bit of will she possessed, she let her head fall back and breathed through her nausea. When it receded, she turned her attention to her surroundings. She was in Reeve's bedroom all right, or more accurately what passed for one on a boat. The bed was against a wall, a dresser had been built into another wall, and a lamp hung from that wall. Light from the compact fixture was directed on her.

Thank goodness she was still dressed, not that she could stop Reeve from changing that condition when and if he wanted to. Knowing she was the center of attention so to speak made her long to return to the forgetfulness she'd worked so hard to remove herself from.

Why? That was the question that ran endlessly through her—why had he done this?

Testing her ability to track without making herself sick again, she slowly turned her head to the right and then the left. Even as she did she knew she wouldn't see Reeve because her nerve endings told her that she was alone. How long had she been like this?

A humming sound penetrated her racing mind. Listening intently, she determined that she was hearing the boat's motor, and unless she was mistaken, the boat was moving slowly through the water. Where was he taking her?

The tumbling questions without answers threatened to push her over the edge, and yet in a way she found her state laughable. After countless sessions of planned helplessness, shouldn't she be accustomed to having no control?

But those had been
sessions, make-believe.
This, whatever it was, was the real thing.

“Reeve? Reeve, where are you?” Shaken by the fear in her weak voice, she wished she hadn't said a word, but of course it was too late. When he didn't reply, she tried to tell herself he hadn't heard her and she was safe, but she wasn't, was she?

Although she knew what the result was going to be, she nevertheless tested the strength of her bonds, or rather she tried to. Had she ever been so weak? Her arms had been positioned over her head in a classic pose, and even as panic again took a chunk out of her sanity, her body remembered the things that had been done to it countless times in the past when she was like this. He hadn't anchored her legs, not that he couldn't when the mood struck him or the time was right. Maybe she'd tell him that the image of a naked woman tethered spread-eagle to a bed was much more erotic and saleable than the way he'd left her.

The way he'd left her.

All right, she was still clothed, and he hadn't taken away her ability to call out for help. Damn it, why hadn't she focused on those things before now?

Because she'd been remembering a million other things. All those bondage sessions with her tied to a bed had wound up with a common result—she'd climaxed. Sometimes the explosions had been forced from her via toys, while sometimes she'd happily spread her already-spread legs wider so she could take a man's cock into her.

This wasn't real after all, she told herself, at least not the unnerving reality she'd allowed herself to be sucked into when she was regaining consciousness. Instead, she'd been scheduled for a bondage video without being informed of it. Reeve was in on the joke. In a few minutes he'd walk in with a cameraman in tow and what was familiar and exciting and safe would begin. She'd pretend to be furious at whoever had pulled one over on her, but when Reeve started performing magic to and on her body, she'd relent. More than relent, she'd throw herself into the scene.

The boat lurched and slowed, shaking her loose from delusion. And as she waited, she turned her back on the desperate explanation that hadn't been one. Those who ran The Dungeon would never start a session without letting the model know; it was written into every contract.

Listening to the motor growl, she longed to be able to do that. The motor sounded so smooth and strong. It was doing what it had been designed to do while she—she what?

The door opened. Horrified and fascinated, she stared at the newly created space. For too long she saw nothing except the darkness beyond, but then the expected and feared form materialized. Again unable to stop herself, she yanked on her wrist restraints. Nothing.

“Don't bother,” Reeve said from the shadows. “They're not going to give, particularly with your muscles as weak as they are.”

“What is this?” Oh no, not panic in her voice! “What are you doing?”

“What I must.”

Much as she wished she could hang hope on the regret in his tone, to do so would lead to even more insanity. A scream crawled up her throat, but she fought it down. Even if someone heard, which she doubted, her cry would reveal too much about her emotional state, and she wasn't about to give Reeve more of an advantage than he already had. “This isn't a joke, is it? You're serious, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Panic again threatened to take over so she gulped in air before continuing. “You don't have to do this. With your money, you can have any woman you want.”

“Not want, Saree. Need. You're the one I need.”

Don't do this!
About to throw the words at him, she pressed her lips together. She didn't know nearly enough about what was happening, but she was already sure of one thing. He'd tell her what he wanted to when he wanted, and nothing she said or did—not that she could do anything—would change that.

She wasn't going to play into his hands, damn it! If he wanted a sobbing, sniveling captive he was going to be disappointed. Instead, she'd watch and listen and learn, and when the opportunity presented itself, she'd forcefully separate him from his cock and shove what was left of it down his throat.

Irrational strength and courage flowed through her at the thought of exacting revenge. He was into some sick game while she was serious, deadly serious, about tearing him apart.

“What do you mean, need?”

“You'll learn in time—at least you'll learn as much as I believe you should. For now, however, I have to start your education.”

She was about to point out that she had three years of college behind her and would have graduated if she'd seen a reason for it, but she decided to keep her mouth shut. The more she tried to get to the point of all this, the more nonsense he'd probably throw at her. She was absolutely positive of one thing—no amount of begging, arguing, cursing, or pleading would loosen his tongue.

Perhaps he'd guessed what she was thinking because he slowly shook his head. “We're going to be back in the marina before long. I need to make sure no one knows what's taking place.”

Another wave of dread flowed through her, followed by the absolute certainty that he was going to make good on his declaration because she couldn't do a damn thing about it. He'd been a good lover, a great one if truth be known. As she'd been coming down from her postclimax high, she'd debated suggesting they spend the night together, something she almost never did.

How wrong she'd been about him! How dangerously wrong.

Hayley, wake up! Or if you're in bed but not sleeping, stop what you're doing and listen to me. I need you like I've never needed you before. Somehow I'll let you know where I am so you can round up the cavalry. Please, please, get this message!

Reeve had turned from her and was taking something from the dresser. Sweating, she fixed on what was in his hand. Oh shit, a long strip of cloth! Easily killing the scant distance between them, he sat beside her. Although she turned her head to the side, he gripped her chin and forced it back around. She screamed as the cloth descended, only to hear her cry end abruptly as he forced the fabric into her open mouth. Leaning over her, he kept the pressure going while lifting her head so he could wrap the strip around her a total of three times. When he was done, her mouth was full of dry cotton. He tied the ends off at the side of her head.

She had to be mistaken of course, but she could almost swear he'd held her longer than necessary and there'd been a gentleness to his fingers on her cheeks.

Standing, he returned to the damnable dresser. She had no trouble recognizing the pieces of leather for what they were—ankle restraints. So that's why he hadn't spread-eagled her, because he wanted to bind her legs together. Guessing that his ultimate intention was to prepare her for transport, she prayed for the necessary muscle strength to fight him. She held no delusions that she could outwrestle him, but if she could make enough noise—

“To let you know, you're going to be weak for approximately an hour.”