Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(16)

“What’s going to happen now?” Her voice was a scratchy whisper in the darkness. It sounded like another woman speaking . . . someone afraid and broken. That wasn’t her. She wasn’t beaten.

“I’ll come up with something.”

“That doesn’t sound very . . . heartening.” It would be daylight soon and then she would have to face those other men again. Nothing good could come of that. The promise of pain twisted their lips and lighted their eyes. She needed to get out of here.

“Heartening,” he echoed.

“Yes, it means—”

“I know what it means,” he replied flatly. “I love the way you talk, college girl.” Only he didn’t sound like he loved it.

She shivered slightly. His hand started to pull away and before she knew what she was doing she leaned in, closer, as though chasing that touch. A moth hunting flame. She stopped, catching herself. Her mind worked, trying to rationalize her actions. It had to be natural. This seeking of comfort when she was in such an unsafe, tenuous situation.

He paused. She realized then that it might appear that she wanted his touch.

And then it occurred to her that maybe she did. Or maybe she should.

If she was trying to win him over and make certain she lived through this, maybe being nice and allowing him certain liberties in order to survive wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world? Bottom line, this was about survival. Sometimes dire actions needed to happen in order to guarantee that. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for survival.

After a moment’s hesitation, he inched back in again, splaying his hand over her hip, his blunt-tipped fingers spreading wide, pressing into a stomach she had long bemoaned as not nearly flat enough. She forgot about that, though. His touch sparked her skin. All self-consciousness fled as a warm fire licked though her.

Her breath hitched. This was okay. If she experienced a little pleasure in submitting to him, that was better than flinching in revulsion or terror. At least that’s what she told herself. Those were the desperate words that wove like a serpent through her mind as her stomach heaved with nausea at his closeness, at his breath against her neck, his touch on her bare skin . . .

The mattress creaked slightly as he propped up on an elbow over her. Her chest squeezed. Even in the darkness she felt the size of him, the muscled breadth hovering over her like a great shadow.

His fingers flexed against her skin, the pads of his fingers rough, palms callused. They felt nothing like Charles’s smooth hands, which she had held innumerable times for the well-calculated photo op.

“This okay?” His deep voice rumbled on the air, as dark as the ink of night all around them. Those two simple words were a gravelly utterance. Only two words and yet she could hardly make sense of them in her spinning head.

Now was the time. If she didn’t want to go through with this, she needed to speak up. She needed to find her voice and say: No, stop, don’t.

A whisper scudded across her mind. It’s the only way. He’s the only way.

She needed to play nice. “Yes,” she breathed.

His hand shifted, fingers sliding over her panties, arrowing down the V of her crotch with honed precision.

Her breath quickened. She flung her hands up by her ears and grabbed fistfuls of sheet. They weren’t even skin-to-skin, but his hand brushing against her panties burned her up.

He cupped her then, his hand molded to her sex, fingers pressing into her seam.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmured, his voice like smoke near her ear. “Your pulse. It’s racing.”

Oh God. Her legs parted slightly, the muscles too lax to support their weight. His hand dipped deeper between her legs, never slipping under the cotton fabric but exerting enough pressure to make her traitor sex clench and throb.

He started rubbing, creating friction that heated her core and spread outward, singeing every nerve. Her face burned at the sudden moisture rushing between her legs, dampening the crotch of her panties. He must feel that. He must know. Hot humiliation lashed her face. OhGodOhGodOhGod.

She shouldn’t enjoy this so much. She was awful. Wanton and depraved.

She whimpered, her hips moving of their own accord, pumping in rhythm to his stroking. She bit her lip and arched, forgetting everything except how good he was making her feel between her legs.

He brought his face close to hers, his jaw scratching her cheek as his lips moved against her ear. “Is that for me, princess?”

She stilled. His voice . . . those words, washed through her in a bitter trail. No. This was wrong. She was not actually turned on. She was just faking it, pretending to go along for her survival. She wouldn’t enjoy this. She. Would. Not.

His hand stilled and she blinked up at those eyes glowing down at her. “You want this, Grace?” There was something in his voice, a strange heavy quality to the question, but she was too far gone to make sense of it.

“Y-Yes,” she answered, still telling herself she wanted this because it was the smart thing. Not because she wanted wanted it. She wasn’t that depraved. In all her fantasies (yes, she had her share), getting kidnapped and seduced by her abductor was not one of them.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just continued to stare down at her with his hand covering her throbbing sex. She felt him like a brand there, hot and possessive, and she resisted the urge to writhe against him.

He gently squeezed her sex, brushing a finger along her seam, so close but not quite hitting that spot. “You offering me this?” Again there was a strange gruffness to his voice.