SEIZED Part 3: Steamy Romantic Suspense (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) (10 page)

Carrie

I wake up the next morning. I’m reeling. How is a girl supposed to treat a man she allowed to be dominant with her the night before? What exactly am I going to say to someone who I let come on my face? Umm, good morning, Master? Is it supposed to be a continued submissive dynamic between us? Do I need to call him sir now? Will he expect me to make him breakfast when I see him again today?
Dear God, what have I gotten myself into
?

I sigh and roll over. I’m probably seeking solace from the wrong place. God’s clearly not going to be pleased with this type of scandalous behavior. Yesterday I was with two gorgeous men. It wasn’t planned or pre meditated, but WTF! Although both of them showed up unexpectedly, it’s something I would never have done a few months ago. This chaos with April must have me freaking going crazy.

I stretch out in the bed. My body is a little sore. Is enjoying letting someone else be in charge really such a bad thing? All I know about this stuff is what I’ve read about in some shady book. April lent me a copy when it first came out and I read it in one weekend. I don’t think I’d like to be in a whole room dedicated to pain, but it’s lovely to have a man take charge.                            

It was fantastic to unwind after the unbelievable drama surrounding Blake. There was no need to think at all when I was with Jason. Am I scandalous? I don’t know. I wish I could operate this way all the time—no thinking, no feelings, just pleasure without a care. But sex always gets too emotionally tangled. I should make sure last night was a one-off adventure I can always remember, and nothing more.

I grab myself some cereal and climb back into bed. I wonder what Jason was thinking, busting the moves like that. His behavior was a bright hot, neon contradiction. To think only hours before our escapade, Jason had told me about Blake’s inappropriate activity, and showed me his misconduct and criminality in real time on those New Jersey streets.

I need to call him out on it. For now, I’ll just enjoy it for what it was. Oh God, it must be me—the temptress who makes officers of the law ditch their morals and break all the rules. April would tell me I’m a budding legend. I’m sure a therapist would ask me why I seek out this self-destructive behavior when it clearly has no future.

I turn the television on and slump in a chair front of it. I’m stuck for another day in this hotel. It’s another day where I could be working and another day of powerlessness. There’s no plan for me on the FBI team today. I have a serious case of self-pity, and start to worry about April again.

I raid the mini bar for a chocolate bar and sit back, surfing the TV channels. Pretty soon a talk show comes on with that blonde woman. I never get this station in Iowa. She’s so funny. I like her. She’s invited victims of trauma to her show today. I decide to get back into bed to enjoy the show.

One woman talks about having lost her husband in a mugging incident. She escaped, but was forced to watch as he was killed. Another one talks about how she’s still recovering from a near miss during 9/11. When the third opens her mouth I nearly choke on my chocolate bar. She shares that she was abused by a counselor at a summer camp she attended, and that years later, it still affects the way she feels and thinks about herself.

I reach for the remote and turn it up. I’ve always been fascinated with people who share their stories of abuse. The way they can talk so openly about things surprises me. Don’t they feel physically sick, getting so vulnerable in front of a whole audience? Doesn’t it just make them angry?

I’ve asked these questions, and cannot comprehend why abuse victims feel compelled to appear on national television. I once thought it was some sick obsession, or about publicly letting out their anger and rage against their attackers. This last woman seems different. She doesn’t talk about the abuse at all, or her anger. She talks about the way she operates in her relationships with people. She mentions not being able to trust others easily, and about feeling like a fraud.

To hear her, it seems so obvious all of a sudden. I have thought and felt all those things, and wondered if something was wrong with me. Could it be the abuse that makes me how I am? Maybe it’s time to start doing something different.

I look at the chocolate bar in my hand. It’s half gone. I know I won’t be happy later when I think about eating this. It’s just the way I deal with emotions. Get into my bed and eat chocolate. If it weren’t for running and martial arts, my health would be deplorable. I’m sure I’m not the only woman in America doing exactly this. Is it what I really want? It’s comforting, but it does not help.

I put the chocolate down and watch as the host asks questions. The audience applauds. That last woman could easily be me. People seem to like her. It’s a good kick in the pants, seeing this. If I want to stop the pain, I’m the one who needs to do something.

The first order of the day is a proper protein-packed meal. I’m going to head downstairs and restart the day. I’m going to stop judging myself, and do the right thing. I have a shower and get dressed. I grab my purse and leave. The door closes behind me.

Nothing has changed, but I feel better as I walk down the hallway and get on the elevator. I’m alone in here, and take pleasure in my image in the mirror reflecting back at me. I look quite thin, but healthy. I feel powerful.
No wonder I’m bringing the boys to the yard.
My mother would have a fit if she could see me now.

The restaurant is almost empty at this time in the morning. I sit at one of the larger tables. I want to use my laptop and still be comfortable eating. I read a complimentary copy of the New York Times, as I normally do down here. I take my time; there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do. I order another coffee and take out my laptop. I’m planning on escaping into one of the books I recently downloaded. Before I do, I take a look at the KCRG website.

They haven’t emailed me or been in touch. It’s been eleven days. I’m still being paid, so whatever Blake advised them after April was abducted must have been good. Compared to the New York Times I just read, our little Iowan news site seems rather unsophisticated. The big city does this to me. I have a new perspective. The change of pace is extreme. If yesterday’s festivities are anything to go by, I’m doing well keeping up with things. I feel some pride rise up in me for having the courage.

Maybe I should consider moving here with April once this whole thing is done. I could get a job and leave my old self behind. It would be good to have a fresh start—no Blake, no Jason; just my best friend and me in the big city. If I see a therapist, maybe my broken, shriveled up heart will begin to heal. That’s if we find her.

My eggs arrive at the table. I shut down the fear in my head. I refocus on my talk-show-inspired, slightly annoying Pollyanna-style inner rant. It entertains me until about half way through my meal. Some unexplained emotions wash over me again, and I decide I need the privacy of my hotel room again.

I’m upstairs for less than ten minutes and the next thing I hear is a knock on the door. I pull myself up, squint in the light from the unclosed curtains, adjust my hair and open it as gracefully as I can.

              It’s Jason. He’s standing there with coffee. I mumble my thanks and invite him in, taking a seat on the sofa and letting him have the chair. I cradle the cup in my hands and take a sip. Yum, it’s the best kind, and judging from his face, it looks like it’s been delivered without a side of resentment.

“I’m sorry about last night.” I look him in the eye when I say it. I mean it.

I liked him being there, I just couldn’t continue, the way I was feeling.

“I understand. You have nothing to apologize for. Forget it.”

              He neatly dismisses the matter and again, I could hug him. Instead, I restrain myself and take another gulp, letting the caffeine revive me.

Carrie

I don’t know why I turned him away last night. He’s sitting in the chair with his coffee and I want him. I don’t expect him to make a move on me today, after I all but threw him out of my room yesterday. I go with the most obvious plan and sit directly in front of him, leaning my butt on the table.

He looks up at me. He seems mildly surprised. I calmly look him in the eye and open my lips just a fraction, before sliding off the shirt I was wearing and dropping it on the floor between us. He sits back, and the same absurdly pleased look comes onto his face.

I don’t break eye contact with him as I slowly begin to stroke my fingers down my neck and between my breasts. I feel my nipples harden under my bra as I move past them and down towards the waistband of my pants. My eyes are daring him to touch me but he doesn’t. He sits back and watches as I make my own skin come up in goose bumps with my fluttery touches.

I dip and stroke around and into the top of the elastic of my pants. I can feel myself getting excited at his restraint. I want to tempt him into touching me, to break the strength of his will. I slowly undo the cord and slip them down over my hips. A little shimmy has them sliding to the floor and I step gingerly out of the pile of material.

I tilt my hip a little and see his eyes flick down to the triangle of material covering my pussy. I’m wearing a black G-string that I know he wants to see on the floor. I decide to stretch out the torture a little.

I turn around, presenting him with my bare ass. Without thinking too much, I bend forward over the table and flatten my breasts against the cold glass. My nipples peak with the contact and I can hear him inhale. This move makes him cross the line.

He stands up behind me and slowly strokes the flesh on my lower back before moving downwards to grasp and kneed the skin of my buttocks. I feel the rough material of his pants against my ass and I tilt my pelvis so my soaking wet pussy is presented to him. He slides his fingers inside of me and lets out a moan of satisfaction when he feels how wet I am. I move my backside from side to side in invitation, and when I hear the sound of his zipper, all I feel is relief.

His cock is thick and hard. I hear his slacks fall to the ground, and then he rips open a condom wrapper. I tilt my head to watch as he puts it on.  When he focuses back on me, his eyes are dark. The predatory wolf is back. His cock pierces me slowly, deeply. His hands grip at my hips as he holds me firmly down against the table top.

I turn my face to the side to look at him as I rub myself along the length of his cock. God, it feels incredible. I begin to moan, I’m already close to coming. I want to push back against his massive erection. He holds me still and begins to fuck me mercilessly, sliding in and out, his balls slapping noisily against my legs as he penetrates me.                            

I feel his speed increase. I tilt my hips a little more, yearning to feel the tip of his cock collide with my G spot. Both of us are breathless now, thrusting together and working our way towards a peak. When I feel him start to jerk inside me I slip one hand down and onto my clit, stroking myself wildly to a powerful orgasm as he begins to pump out his own rhythm of pleasure.

I peak, and then peak again as he finishes. I’m stuck to the table. My body is weak with pleasure, and when he pulls out, I slip down to my knees in front of him. I’m throbbing and shaking on the inside. I take a second to catch my breath. When I look up at him, the admiration in his eyes makes me smile.

He hands me my shirt and pants, telling me to slip them.  He heads to the bathroom to clean himself up. I get dressed, and sit on my bed with my computer to read emails.

Jason emerges from his shower, looking more handsome then ever. I let my eyes freely peruse his body. After all the grief, I’m alive and I feel so grateful this man is letting me experience that. I smile up at him.

He turns the chair to me again, and sit down. “Carrie, I heard back from tactical late last night. They were unable to gather enough information on Neon’s hideout, and she did not return to complete a transaction with April.”

I’m not happy about the buzz-killing news. “So are you trying again today?”

“We’re on a different assignment today, but will plan another operation in a few days.”

“A few days? And what about April?”

He doesn’t answer me. I’m confused. Or maybe I’m distrustful. Or perhaps I did it again. Could I have let a professional interaction degrade and become so personal, that now April is the one who has to pay?

He pulls his chair closer and reaches for my hand. “I have some more news for you, Carrie. I received an email this morning from Lieutenant Jacob at forty-second. After viewing the surveillance photos from last night, she decided to suspend Detective Anderson while they investigate his involvement with Neon Lips.”

“What does this mean? And what about April?”

“There’s likely going to be a judicial hearing to determine whether he’s guilty of co-offending. At the very least he’ll be disciplined for breaching protocol by becoming involved with such a high profile suspect. I thought you’d want to know the process has been started. He may have hurt you Carrie, but he’s not going to get away with it.”

I’m pleased this is happening. Blake deserves to go down for what he’s been doing. Apart from breaking my heart, he’s hurting people by protecting Neon. And he knows exactly where April is. But I become vividly aware Jason is completely avoiding all my questions about April.

For a second I turn my attention back to Jason. During his entire update, he was trying to keep his voice at a calm level, but he’s so pleased. His face is lit up, like he just caught the bad guy and saved the damsel in distress. But there’s still no April. I’m suddenly angry at him. How dare he gloat that my life is a cesspool, filled with the woes of a drugged-up, kidnapped best friend, and an ex-lover who is fraternizing with her captors.

I can’t keep the anger to myself anymore. “Are you happy to see you were right? Is that it?”

He shakes his head and puts his hands up.

“Oh I see,” I say, the venom starting to drip from my acid tone. “You’re happy to solve another high-profile ‘catch-a-cop-in-the-act’ case. It has nothing to do with April, does it?”

He doesn’t say a word. Now I know it’s true. Agent Jason Cooper has ambitions. Of course he does. It’s not about saving April at all.

“Funny. Last night, I thought for a second you were pleased to see April about to be rescued. But that’s not what you want, is it? It’s the recognition; you want a place in the hall of fame, right? Some extra little gold stars on your shoulder to make you feel like more a man for taking down Blake. Is that it?”

“Carrie, it’s not like that,” he says, getting off the chair and approaching the bed.

“If it’s not, why can’t we just go there and get April? Why does she have to suffer any more?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well you know what? I’m sick of that line. Of course it’s that simple. If that was your friend, or your sister, would you leave her back there?”

“You don’t get it, Carrie.”

“Fuck you, Jason Cooper. Get the fuck out of my room. I’m sick of you people upholding the law and navigating politics, and April is nothing to any of you.”

I stand up and walk to the door. “Get out. Get out now.”

He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Please, Carrie. We’ll take care—”

“Get out!” I scream, cutting him off.

He grabs his suit jacket and leaves slowly. I’m ready to take care of business myself now. He and Blake are useless, and I’m so sick of the whole thing, I decide there’s no more playing along with the law, waiting for them to put the victim first.

I hurry into the bathroom and have a shower. I put on my robe and get my head clear so I can plan for April’s rescue tonight at the same brownstone where I saw her—all by myself.

***

When four in the afternoon comes around, I order room service and request a taxi for six-thirty in the evening. The meal comes, and it’s a lot more than what I would have at one sitting. It’s perfect. If I may be out there walking the street like a hooker all night, I’m going to need energy.

After I eat, I search my suitcase for the sexiest dress I have. I find a shimmery, pink, form-fitting dress in April’s bags. It meets me about mid-thigh, and two weeks ago, this thing wouldn’t even fit me. Now, it’s a little snug, but it works. I find my dangling earrings and put them on. I apply my makeup—heavier than I would ever try—and I stop when I think I’ve got enough on to blend in with the ladies of the night.

I put the dress on, and slip my feet into some strappy stilettos. I stand and look in the mirror. I look the part. I’m angry as hell too, that it’s come to this—I’ve got to fly solo and get April myself. It has to work.

I study my body, and wonder where in the hell I’ll put my money and hotel room card. I don’t know where prostitutes keep their kitty. April’s flat purse would have been perfect. It looks like I’ve got to make my tiny makeup bag double for a purse again.

I take one last look in the mirror and suck in a deep breath. It’s time. My rage is still fueling my courage. It’s perfect. I head out and take the front door to exit the lobby. I don’t give a damn who’s watching, who the hotel reception desk calls or who will follow me when I step into the taxi.

We’ve hit the tail end of rush hour traffic, so the trip takes a little longer than the last couple of times. The timing is fine; the taxi drops me off as darkness is settling in. I make him let me off at the café down the street from April.

My plan is simple, the way I see it. I’ll sit in there until April shows up, engage her under the guise of being another prostitute, and once she sees it’s me, convince her to come with me. I figure I’ll need to say a lot to earn her trust, given she’ll be heavily intoxicated and traumatized. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ve got years of friendship between us. I know I can get through to her. No one is going to use her as a pawn to entrap Neon anymore. Not Blake, and not Jason or his FBI sideshow. Enough is enough. I’m angry again, just thinking about it.

I calm myself down by ordering coffee in the café, and sitting in the same perch as I had done yesterday. Anger is not going to keep my head clear. I need to be deliberate. I start to think of all the tips the FBI staff psychologist gave me yesterday. It’s easy to apply all of it to how I’ll break through to April. I know her personality, her strengths and weaknesses, and I’ll leverage them all to find her through her thick drug-induced fog.

I’m finished my second cup of coffee when there’s movement at the brownstone. Three women appear from inside and descend the steps. One of them looks like April. She’s in a bright blue dress this time, and her hair falls so limply around her face. It’s her, and it’s time for me to act.

I look around for Neon’s thugs, or cars that may be doing surveillance. It seems clear to me. I stand up and check out my getup. My dress looks right. I check my makeup. My lips are still stained a bright red, and my tousled hair still looks good. I feel sexy in the dirtiest way. I am truly scared.