Abduction (15 page)

When his lips touched hers again, it was a different kiss. He was making love to her with his mouth, fucking her with his tongue. He heard her breathing change, felt her hot body quivering beneath his.

She felt this kiss, this fucking kiss. She felt his powerful thigh pressed between her legs, felt him on top of her, his body pressed lightly to hers. She felt his desire and it aroused her already sated body to new yearning.

But something darker was taking shape. That fucking kiss of his felt so penetrating, like he had taken possession of her and she felt that she was losing herself, that he was taking her over. Then there was a shift and instead of one powerful thigh between her legs there were two, slowly, irresistibly pushing her thighs open and then his hips were between her legs again, his hardness pressed to her once more.

Vaughn, stinging everywhere with lashing desire, felt her excitement but nothing else. Though he had sensed her come, though his body was clamoring for release, what he wanted most in this moment was to feel her trembling on the brink of climax once more, hear her tiny moan again, hold her as she quivered in ecstasy.

His kisses still deep and urgent his hand sought hers, found it, folded it in his hand's warmth, brought it to the floor by the cushion cradling her head. Though the lengths of their bodies twined and pressed together, though their mouths were eagerly seeking and caressing, he wanted this other closeness, her hand in his.

His right hand caressed this strange, wonderful girl who, at this moment, was somehow making his insides—the soft places in his chest and belly—ache as sweetly as his body. His fingers dove and swam in the warm currents of her hair, trembled down 128

her smooth hot cheek, his thumb traced the soft curves of her jaw, his palm slid gently over throat, neck, and shoulders.

He felt the soft slope of her breast. God, her breasts, he had been noticing them, curving delicious and swaying tempting beneath his t-shirt, imagining seeing them bare, imagining them smooth and soft and warm under his hands, imagining teasing her nipples stiff. Not yet. he slipped his hand light and warm down her side, feeling tiny undulations of ribs and gaps, incurve of waist, outcurve of hip. His fingers slid under her thigh, caressing, massaging, drawing it up, pressing it to his hip as his fingers glided down, behind, stroking her thigh, down toward the floor, toward her center, that part of her that had thrilled against him moments ago.

He lifted himself a little, hovering over her, touching down at toes, knees and elbow, holding her small, warm hand tight in his. His other hand came between them.

He had made her come, but he hadn't touched her yet. Fuck, he wanted to feel her. So, so lightly he let his four fingertips touch down between her thighs, drift back, over the hot humid fabric over her hidden hollow, and with sweetest softness his hand cupped her sex.

She was softly whimpering, almost sobbing with needful desire when his hand touched down on her. It moved so lightly, so gently, stirring nerves still dazzling from her earlier climax, that her hips flexed up against his hand, seeking deeper contact. But now, with her thighs pressed open, with her hand held sweetly but firmly to the floor, his hand on her sex, that darker shape in her mind cast a longer shadow over her pleasure.

Sweet surrender dissolved in vulnerability, excitement began to smother under dawning fear.

His hand drifted away from her sex, up, and sought the hot bare flesh at her waist. So smooth and soft he thought of warm butter and wondered would his hand sink into her, but it just glided over the taut quivering smoothness, finding navel, gentle slopes at hip bones and ribs and ribs and hip bones. And the teasing, welcoming little gap inviting his hand under the tiny canopy formed by fabric stretching between hip bones and opening where belly did not rise to close the entrance. His hand slipped under the waistband of her sweats, over his boxers, between her thighs, finding the fabric over her sex warm and damp, finding the contours of her body more readable than they had been through the sweats—the firm swelling of her mound, the smaller, softer curves lower down, the enticing valley and hills of her bottom. He did not linger.

He crossed the terrain just twice—down and back again, slipping out past the waist band and gently in again, this time beneath the shorts, seeking hot bare flesh.

Her free hand flashed down and clasped his wrist. His hand remained, soft and warm, pressed to her belly, low and near the place he sought. She felt his wrist, thick and strong in the weak circle of her fingers. She felt her other hand, clasped tight in his, pressed to the floor. His hips holding her thighs open.

She panicked.

Vaughn was no longer there for her. She just felt that there was a man on her, a powerful body overwhelming hers, that there was a man in her mouth, a threatening hardness pressing against her.

He felt her freeze beneath him, he felt her go cold, rigid. He stopped his kiss, lifting himself up to look down on her. Her face was like a statue, white and stony, and 130

her eyes were dark and panicked, and looked insane with the firelight flickering on them.

"Stop," she whispered. "Please stop."

"I have, I’ve stopped."

He sat up and helped her rise to sitting.

"I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t going to hurt you," he whispered, feeling at once guilty and exasperated. He wanted to embrace her, but was afraid to.

"I know…"

She looked at him, ready to flee in embarrassment. But he was looking at her so kindly, his face so open. She wanted to explain.

"…I’m sorry," she whispered.

"Don’t apologize." His spare words were gentle.

"I’m…not very experienced."

"Okay."

He waited, knowing she had more to tell him.

"I feel silly telling you this."

"Why?"

"It seems childish. But I want to explain why…I don’t know why I got so frightened."

Why had she said that? She did know.

"I’ve never really…I'm a…."

He was stunned. He tried to strip the surprise from his voice.

"You’re a virgin?"

A pause.

"Yes." Her voice cracked. She was afraid she was going to cry.

"I’m sorry I came on so strong. If I’d known, I would have been different with you."

A thought occurred to him suddenly, pricking him with panic.

"Devan, how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

So young. It had never occurred to him that she could be so young. So, so much younger than he. Sure, she was in college, and maybe he would have guessed, by her face, by her body, except for her eyes. And the fog of melancholy that always lingered over her which he associated with later years.

She was upset, maybe even about to cry. He could not have guessed why, though, and thought it was only something between them—hell, what did they know about each other? Nothing. Maybe she was saving herself for marriage. Maybe she had wanted it, then changed her mind. Maybe she had been afraid he wouldn't stop this time. He smiled a soft sweet smile and tentatively stretched a hand toward her and, when she did not startle or pull back, gently caressed her cheek.

"Devan, it’s all right. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just sit here by the fire and talk."

His gentle smile, his soft words were so sweet, a new feeling began to transcend her other yearning. The hand caressing her cheek slipped lightly to the back of her neck and, rather gingerly, it seemed to her, he pulled her to him in a cautious embrace.

Why was this happening? She wanted him. She wanted to feel that delicious surrender again. She wanted to make him feel it. She wanted his hands to erase the ugly memory of other hands, she wanted to see his face, hear his voice, smell his body as she gave herself up to pleasure.

But that cold dead panic was still with her. She could not be touched. She was fighting to hold back her tears, but she felt them welling up perilously high, and when she could not refrain any longer from blinking they slipped down her cheek. She let him hold her for a little while, stopping her tears by force of will and trying to furtively dry them against his shirt as he held her, then broke the circle of his arms, hastily said goodnight, and went to bed, never letting him see her tears.

He felt unbearably sad to see her slip down the hall and into the little bedroom. It had been so long since he had felt more than base physical desire for a woman, since he had yearned just to hold someone, to be in their presence. She had wanted him, he had felt it, but he had scared her. Again.

He was so hard he ached, and he thought of going into his room to jerk off. He decided against, liking this painful feeling of need, humanizing, a connection with her.

He sat down in front of the fire, thinking about this strange girl who had appeared so mysteriously, about their impossibly bizarre initial encounter, and how it had warped their relations. Wishing they could have met in the city, under normal circumstances, he realized that such a thing was impossible. He never met people under normal circumstances. He never let people near him.

Feeling nostalgia come over him in a wave, he began thinking of his ex-wife.

They had met under normal circumstances. He had not held a gun on her. He had not 133

tackled her in a field. Normal. They had met at a party, at the home of a mutual friend. A few drinks, some laughter. Phone numbers exchanged. A few dates, then to bed. Then they were a couple. Then they'd married. Then they'd divorced.

Restless, he rose and wandered over to the little desk by the front door, where he kept his remembrances. He opened the wide, shallow center drawer and stood there, looking down at the envelopes scattered over the bottom. He felt like he was going insane—they had been banded together, he was sure, in packets. Before, during, after. Her letters to him. Before their marriage. During their marriage. After their divorce.

God. Had she gone through his things? Had she read his letters?

Why was this happening? They were past this. He had finally let his guard down.

She had made him trust her. Like her. Want her.

But she had. She had gone through his letters. She knew. She knew what had happened to him. He had never told anyone. No one but his wife. And now she knew.

This strange woman. Who would be going back to Seattle. She could tell people. The press. Maybe she had even taken a letter for evidence.

He snatched up all the letters, every last envelope in the drawer. Then he stomped into the kitchen, grabbed the whiskey bottle and a glass, and took everything with him into his room. Drinking glass after glass of warm booze he put the letters into chronological order. Then he skimmed them, trying by memory to be sure they were all there. They seemed to be, but he might be mistaken. At least they were her letters, not his. His were the dangerous ones. He could never tell her, face-to-face, what had happened, so he’d written her. Now he regretted it. Never put anything in writing, he thought bitterly. Never. Then, with a sinking feeling, he remembered. His journal. The 134

most damning evidence of all. Everything recounted in disgusting detail. Where had he left it?

Stumbling with fury and booze he began searching—his nightstand drawers, the dresser, the closet. Back out into the living room. Back to the desk. Nothing. The storage closet? No. Not the bookshelf either. Not in the kitchen drawers, but that was a ridiculous place to look anyway. He turned, looking down the length of the cabin, at the closed door of the little bedroom.

The next morning he awoke feeling positively evil. The whiskey had ravaged his head, and she had violated his sanctuary. The cabin, his one little spot of peace on this shitty earth. His letters. His journal. He got four aspirin, then gulped them down with a full glass of water.

When she got up she opened the door to the little bedroom, flashed across the hall and into the bathroom for a couple of minutes, then emerged, walking over to him where he stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest.

She looked up at him, smiled sheepishly, and said "Morning."

"Good morning," he pronounced dryly.

"You look a bit rough," she said tenderly.

She reached up and lightly touched his cheek. He did not move. He was unmoved. Her big gray eyes, turned up to him from under their thick fringe of dark lashes, her tentative smile, her touch—none of it melted his stony anger like he'd feared. She pulled her hand back.

"I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said in a tight little voice that contradicted her forced smile. “I’ll see you a little later."

He said nothing as she opened the front door, walked through it, and closed it behind her. He waited a moment, then turned to look out the window, and saw her slipping into the shadows of the trees.

Now that she was gone, he was shaking. Damnit. Damn this girl who had been in his arms the night before, filling him with the most desperate longing he could remember ever having felt. He half wanted to go after her. Embrace her. And yet, she had convinced him to forgive this ridiculous story of being lost in the woods, she had played the victim, tricking him into pitying her, trusting her. And she had read his letters.

The night before was probably just another ploy to keep him trusting her, to make him trust her more, let his guard down.

He had to find the journal.

He turned from the window and looked toward the open door of the little bedroom. With a determined step he walked the length of the cabin and entered her room. The nightstand drawers were all empty. The dresser had nothing in it but a few articles of clothing. The closet. The pack was there, still loaded up with food, ready for her to take flight. Dragging it out he ripped it open and dumped its contents on the floor.

Cans went rolling, the silverware clattered onto the ground. The same two novels thumped onto the wooden floorboards. No journal. Haphazardly he jammed everything back into the pack and stuffed it back in the closet. Exasperated, he went to the bed.