Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Peter…” I feel myself getting breathless as I try to keep up with his long strides. “What are you doing? You need to rest.”
He gives me a sidelong glance but doesn’t stop. His jaw is tightly clenched, his grip on me so hard it’s almost painful. Towing me along, he enters our room and purposefully shuts the door behind us.
“Peter…” I back up as soon as he lets go of my hand. “You’re hurt. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you need to—”
My words end on a gasp, because Peter stalks after me, closing the distance between us in a few decisive strides before sweeping me up against his chest. Three seconds later, I find myself on the bed, with two hundred pounds of furious, aroused male sprawled on top of me.
“What are you—”
His mouth slants over mine, hard and hungry, and his hands tear at my clothes, literally ripping my shirt in half. I tense, startled by the violence, but he doesn’t stop, working my jeans down my legs with rough, jerky movements as he devours me with his brutal kiss. As he yanks down my underwear, I spare a moment’s thought for the sheets and the bloodied pad I’m wearing, but his fingers twine with mine, pinning my hands above my head, and I forget all about it, swept up in the savage storm of his lust.
It’s overwhelming, even frightening, yet the desire is still there, lurking underneath the fear. My muscles instinctively lock tight even as warm slickness lubricates my sex, the tension intensifying my arousal. I burn for him, craving the danger and the roughness, and as he plunges into me, I cry out from the shock of it, from the dark pleasure and stinging pain.
He pauses then, lifting his head to meet my gaze, and I remember our first time, the way he took me, losing all control. He hurt me then too, but unlike that time, there’s no hate in my heart today, no bitterness or stifling shame. The pain feels good, pushing away the remnants of my worry, reminding me that he’s alive.
Reminding us both that we’re alive.
“Sara…” My name is a hoarse exhale on his lips, his molten silver gaze holding me captive even as he throbs inside me, his thick cock stretching my inner tissues, filling me to the brim until I ache. “Ptichka, I need you so fucking much…”
“And I need you.” The words feel like they come from the very center of my being, torn out of me by the impossible fire burning in my veins. I can’t fight it any longer, can’t pretend I hate this beautiful, lethal man. It’s not love between us, nor anything resembling friendship, but our connection is undeniable, the bone-deep chemistry binding us together in coils of dark need and violent attraction. I want this from him: the roughness and the tenderness, the fear and the all-consuming heat.
He’s everything I never knew I needed, and as his eyes darken at my admission, I realize what this means.
I am his, as terrifying as that thought may be.
Closing my eyes, I wrap my legs around his hips, taking him even deeper, and as he begins thrusting, his muscled ass flexing against my calves, I give in to the inevitable.
I give in to him.
Part III
30
Sara
By the time the second month of my captivity transitions into the third, I find my resentment slowly lessening, the desperate longing for my old life transforming into a kind of bittersweet ache. I continue to look for opportunities to escape, but someone’s always in the house, watching me, and as the days bleed into one another, I stop worrying about the impossibility of getting away and begin to enjoy some parts of my leisurely routine. The warm weather helps—we’re in the hottest month of summer now, and there’s a lot more to do outside—and so does the fact that outside of a few supply runs, Peter has been spending pretty much all his time with me.
“You haven’t had a job in a while,” I comment as we head down to a mountain stream where we’ve been swimming on particularly warm days. “Is it because of what happened to Ilya the last time, or you just don’t get clients that often?”
“We get contacted all the time, but we’re selective in the work we take on,” Peter says, raising a low-hanging branch to let me pass underneath. “The risk-reward ratio has to be just right, especially now.”
He doesn’t say why, but he doesn’t have to. From what he’s told me, and from what I’ve gleaned from my brief conversations with my parents, the authorities are intensifying their manhunt, throwing all their resources at the problem that is Peter. Partially, it’s because of my disappearance; even with my twice-weekly calls, my parents are convinced I’m in danger and spend their days harassing the FBI for updates. But the main issue is the last target on Peter’s list, a former US general who’s proving to be as elusive in his own way as Peter and his team.