Driven By Fate(15)

The belt dangled at his side a moment, brushing the wood floor, before he snapped it hard against the foyer wall. Wap.

“Run.”





Chapter Six


A storm raged inside Frankie as she took off at a full sprint. Her head felt stuffed full of electrified cotton, fuzzy and heavy, but zapping with each heavy footfall. How could she run when her legs felt liquefied? The adrenaline sped through her veins like tiny bullet trains, propelling her through a living room and into an unfamiliar hallway. She had no clear picture of where she was headed. Somewhere he would chase her. That’s all she knew. At the end of the dark hallway, she skidded to a stop and risked a look over her shoulder.

“If I can see you, you’re not running fast enough,” Porter taunted, voice gravelly, predatory.

He strode after her, his steps calm and purposeful. As he closed the distance between them, he unbuttoned his dress shirt slowly with the hand not holding his belt, revealing inch by inch of rough-hewn skin. Marked skin. Scarred skin. She didn’t have time to process that discovery, though.

He was gaining on her.

His voice bounced off the walls. “I’m getting hungry, Francesca.”

Oh God. Her heartbeat sounded amplified all around her. Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough, but at the same time she traveled too quickly, shoulders bumping into walls, feet catching on edges of plush area rugs. She propelled herself through a doorway, recognizing a bedroom when she saw it. The bed sparked confusion, though. It looked too comfortable for someone like Porter. She’d envisioned a flat, gray surface, ropes dangling from all four corners. Reality intruded at the footsteps behind her. The bedroom was too personal, she didn’t want to be with him there.

She reversed a step, aligning her back with the wall adjacent to the door. As soon as Porter walked through, shirtless and rigid, Frankie lunged through the entrance. His hand banded around her wrist before she could clear it, bringing her progress to an abrupt end in the hallway, spinning her around. His gaze scraped over her like rough, calloused hands. Oh god, oh god, in the relative darkness, with his shirt discarded somewhere in the apartment, he looked sexually dangerous. Destructive. She wanted him. Wanted to know what she’d been yearning for, for two years. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of giving in so easy.

“Throwing in the towel, is she?” His gaze burned over her skin. “Pity. I was just getting warmed up.”

Her stillness must have made him think that she’d finished running, because Porter loosened his hold ever so slightly, enough for her to take off again. He didn’t let her get far, though. She’d made it two steps into the living room before he caught her from behind, curling an arm around her waist. She fought. Twisting in his arms, she shoved at his chest, legs scissoring around muscular thighs. His face remained impassive, jaw set in stone. All at once, though, some unseen barrier seemed to crumble inside him and they were traveling back, back, until she came up against a hard object, her continued struggles making her connect with the surface harder than necessary. Porter cursed, wedging his arm behind her as a cushion. She didn’t want it. Fast, angry, extreme. That’s what she needed.

Once again, she tried to break free, but he trapped her with his body, an unmovable brick wall. She ricocheted off him, bringing books crashing down onto the floor around her. A bookcase. Up against a bookcase. Her panting breaths whipped together with his curses, jumbling together with the sounds of falling books. Everything felt so out of control and it was his fault. She attempted to slap his face, but he caught both her wrists in one hand and pinned them high above her head.

“Let me go,” she ground out. “I hate you.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Good. You’ll come all the harder for it.”

Frankie had no opportunity to respond. Porter yanked her away from the bookcase, still holding her hands captive. It was only then she realized he still held the belt. He spun her around, jerking her backwards, up against his heaving chest. Yes, heaving. He wasn’t as unaffected as he let on. A sound of surprise broke from her lips as the leather belt circled her middle, drawing tight. It took her so unawares, she could only watch in fascination as her arms were bound at her sides.

“What are you doing?” She gasped the question, couldn’t find the willpower to force outrage into her voice. Hot, churning energy made every one of her nerve endings dance. The neglected flesh between her thighs clenched and grew damp. Her breasts, her belly, tightened in a way she’d never felt. No control. No decisions to make or questions to answer. Only need. Porter had caught her and now he’d make her take. Make her give. All of it. Now, now, now.

His grip sure and purposeful, he tangled in the belt at her back and led her, his captive, to the very center of the living room, stopping at a slim pillar. Frankie’s pulse tripped as he loosened the belt long enough to push her up against it, then wrapped the belt around both her and the post. Her eyes closed on a whimper when she heard leather sliding through metal, the belt pulling taut against her stomach. She couldn’t move her arms. Trapped. Caught.

Porter appeared in front of her, sweat gleaming on his marred chest. Eyes wild. This wasn’t the man she’d been working beside all day. This man was dark and dirty. Without removing focus from her face, he ripped the material of her white, cotton shirt down to where the belt bit into her midsection. That starvation in his expression expanded, intensified at the sight of her naked breasts. “You don’t like me. You hate me, in fact. Is that right?” He braced his hands on the pillar above her, leaning down to tongue her right nipple with a long, slow lick. “These are playground games, Francesca. Punching the male who you’d actually like to f*ck. I don’t usually play games, but I’m so hungry for your * after that little challenge, I can’t think past f*cking the hate right out of you.”