Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(25)

Becca scurried to keep up with him. His grip hurt her arm. Something was up. Something bad. When Mr. Big bitched and grumbled, she could relax and breathe. But when every trace of emotion vanished from his face, and his eyes went dead and flat, her guts knotted up, her knees started to knock, and spots danced in front of her eyes.

Entertainment? She didn’t like the sound of that at all.

He dragged her up the stairs. She got even more nervous, although logically speaking, she should be happier the more distance she put between her and the scary, slobbering guys with guns.

She stumbled on the carpet runner, and he jerked her up to her feet, without even looking at her face.

He slapped the door open into a big, bright bedroom. A picture window looked out over a waving sea of endless evergreens and a heavy gray sky. The glass was beaded with raindrops.

He wrenched off his shirt. She stared at him, speechless. Terrified by the shuttered, implacable look on his face.

He pushed her up against the wall, his big hands stroking her shoulders as he leaned to whisper in her ear. “Showtime, babe. See the video camera mounted up in the corner?”

His meaning sank in. “No way,” she said. “You can’t be serious.”

He unwound the knot of hair at the nape of her neck, and smoothed the tangled strands down around her shoulders, the gesture oddly tender. “Dead serious.” He whipped the blouse over her head before she had time to react.

She whacked frantically at his hands. “No! You can’t! I have absolutely no intention of letting you—mmph!”

He clapped his hand over her mouth. “I bartered him down to this,” he muttered into her ear. “It’s me, for the camera, for their viewing enjoyment, or all of them, on the dining room table. Get me?”

She stared at him over his hand, hitching desperately for breath.

“The only reason you’re not on that table right now is because that bastard loves to eat. He doesn’t want to incapacitate the cook, and compromise his f*cking gourmet dinner.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, this is not happening.”

He unhooked her simple cotton bra and tossed it away. She shrank to cover herself. He caught her arms, pinned them wide, to give anyone who cared to a good, long look. “Sorry, beautiful, but this is part of the script,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

He popped open her jeans, yanked them down along with her panties. She looked wildly from him, to the camera, back at him, trying to cover her naked body. But what horrified her most was the cool, businesslike air with which he was unbuckling his belt.

She gathered her breath to scream. He covered her mouth again, leaning in close. “Don’t panic,” he murmured, his voice a hot tickle in her ear. “We’re going to do some theater for those scum-sucking shitbirds, and you need to make it convincing.” He lifted his hand slowly off her mouth, and gave her a hard kiss. “I’m going to put my hand on your crotch,” he breathed against her ear. “I’ll be gentle. When I signal with my hand, scream like I’m hurting you. Like I’m doing something horrible. Got it? Shake your head, now. Say no, like I’m threatening you. Go on. Do it.”

She did so, frantically. “No,” she gasped out. “No, d-don’t do that. Please, don’t do this. Please, please, please.”

She listened to her own voice babbling, and observed that this was not theater. Never had words more sincere come from her mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured. He gripped her bottom, hoisted her up so she was straddling his hips, her back pressed against the wallpaper.

He slid his hand between their bodies, cupping her labia with his fingers. Tenderly, as if he were protecting them. He patted her there.

“Now,” he whispered. “Go for it. Scream. Fight me.”

She did. Oh, did she ever. She struggled and writhed, slapped and scratched and bit. She couldn’t hold back an explosion of anger and shame. She was a natural disaster, a shrieking catastrophe.

He held her, contained her with his unrelenting strength. He clamped her wrists together, pressing them against her chest. She felt folded up, squished and breathless against his rock-hard bulk.

She exhausted herself in the end. She could have been screaming for hours. Days. He would have held her for as long as she needed it.

She dissolved into silent sobs.

He let go of her hands, tilted her chin up so she was staring into his eyes. She panted. Blood trickled out of his nose again. There were angry scratches on his cheek, his chest, his shoulders, but he didn’t look angry at her for savaging him. Just quietly intent. He fumbled with his jeans, rearranged her body against his, and slammed his hips upward, hard enough to make her cry out. But he wasn’t inside her. His erection bobbed against her inner thigh with each thud of his body against hers.

Theater.

His eyes demanded that she play along. She could do nothing else. She was as shaken as if it was for real, anyway. Her fingernails dug into the thick muscles of his shoulders. She whimpered with each hard lunge. They weren’t actually having sex, but this rough faking it was the most intimate act she’d ever engaged in. He was inside her mind. She could feel him. His iron will held her together—he sustained her with his fierce energy. Under impossible circumstances, he was trying to protect something intangible and precious.

Her sense of self.