Abduction (50 page)

Fuck. So exposed. So vulnerable. The thought doubled his fear and his arousal.

Conrad bent down and put his mouth close to her ear, but Vaughn could still hear as he sighed,

"All the times I've touched you, Devan, and smelled your scent on my skin after, I've ached with the thought of finally putting my mouth to you, tasting you."

Then Conrad bent, descended, down, down, until he hovered only an inch or so over her and, without a prelude, any little kiss on her knee or thigh or belly or hip, slowly slid his tongue between the smooth pink lips of her cunt. She shuddered and sucked in 451

her breath and her face went pink. After, Conrad looked at her, watched her belly rising and falling rapidly with her panting.

"You're delicious, Devan darling," Conrad sighed up to her. "The taste of you is almost too much to bear, I want you so much."

As Vaughn watched Conrad put his mouth to her, making her shudder and whimper and twitch, his jaw working slowly between her thighs. He went on, kissing her, licking her, slowly, delicately, then urgently, hungrily, the wet pink of his tongue sliding into the wet pink of her cunt as she writhed and wiggled, biting back and muffling an endless string of ecstatic cries. Everything Vaughn felt—physically, emotionally—was so overwhelming he was almost grateful to be bound so completely.

She was almost sobbing, Conrad had held her dangling over the edge for so long, never even letting her catch her breath, never once letting her calm or go the least bit lax before taking her to the brink again. And Vaughn. She couldn't stop thinking, he was there, watching what Conrad was doing, watching her, witnessing how she was unable to keep still, unable to be quiet.

Everything throbbed—all of her body, her brain, pulsing with a million thoughts and feelings all bumping against each other, contradicting, enhancing, altering. She wanted. Wanted. Wanted Conrad to let her go in a flood of orgasm, to put an end to the long slow torment of his mouth on her. Wanted him to take her. Take her—pinned, mounted, without a say. Wanted Vaughn, wanted Vaughn's love, wanted Vaughn's happiness. Not to hurt him, not to let him be scared. Hated him watching this, wanting him to watch, sensing how each time she thought of him looking at her, snuck a glance 452

and saw his eyes on her and what Conrad was doing to her, how it added to the coursing current of feeling pounding through her.

Then it stopped. The unbearable, amazing feeling of Conrad's mouth on her.

Then he was over her, his hazel eyes reading her, holding her, his lips a breath from hers. His kiss came, hot and deep, and she tasted herself on his lips, his tongue, and it startled her, made her draw inward before the thought of it, or maybe the very taste and smell of her own sex stirred new ripples of arousal and she yielded to his kiss with fresh want.

He stopped. She looked. Conrad was gazing down at her, his pretty mouth slightly open with excited breath, his eyes seeming to seek her, trying to hold her, bright with feeling. She braced herself for his next move, his next taunt, his next touch. But he only kept looking, like he was waiting for something. Suddenly it seemed like he was looking at her with real, deep love, like he was looking for some sign of her love for him.

Off. She wanted him off. Stop touching. Stop looking. Vaughn was the one.

Vaughn, right there.

Conrad reached down, between them, and she knew. He was unzipping, unbuttoning.

"You can't," she whispered, hoarse, desperate. "Please. You can't."

Conrad pressed himself between her thighs, forcing himself against her. Total, maddening panic pumped through her. It had almost been all right, part of his perverse games. Not this.

"No," she gasped, not knowing where her voice was, and tried to push him away.

But she didn't really fight. Not really. Maybe too afraid she'd lose, that Vaughn would see her struggle and lose and be forced to watch Conrad raping her, not knowing why she'd suddenly needed this not to happen. Conrad grasped her wrists and pinned them back, down on the table. She felt his cock pressing against her defenseless sex.

"Devan," he whispered, barely audibly, against her ear. "You know. I love you."

Then, his eyes locked on hers, Conrad entered her. Slow. Determined. The hard length of his cock opened and filled her.

She was afraid to breathe, afraid she'd sob, afraid she'd groan.

He was still, watching her. His lips almost touching hers, his hands closed tight over her pinned wrists. Then he moved, so slightly, so subtly, she sensed no movement at all, except where he was inside her. Because her sex was unbearably sensitive, incredibly swollen after all of Conrad's licking, even this, his near stillness, had her trembling, on the brink of orgasm. The way he was, not just inside of her body, but in her mind, his eyes seeking, reading all she was thinking, all she was feeling, she felt absolutely, completely possessed by him. At this moment she could find no trace of cruelty in his face, in his eyes. She could only see his startling beauty, and overwhelming feeling like love mingled with pain.

All so quiet. Her breathing, theirs, all seemed suspended. Or she'd forgotten to hear. Because now it all faded in—Conrad's excited, shallow panting, Vaughn's strained, irregular breathing, and her own frail moans creaking out of her pinned, needful body.

He held her, in check, suspended, for long, agonizing minutes, dying for release, promising every second with movements just at the frustrating edge of her perception.

Tormented beyond her endurance she tried to move, not thinking how or why, just to move. His grip on her wrists tightened, to the brink of pain, and suddenly his feet caught her ankles, so even her feet and legs were immobile, her hips pinned under his.

At that moment she felt it, the slow dawning of climax, rising, rising, only a promise as it started, rising, until it finally spilled over her, heating every particle of her body, inch by inch from the center of her where he was, out, out to her limbs, her hands, her feet, her face. Then he pushed himself against her and all the ripples of feeling started again, radiating through her.

Only as the overwhelming feeling began to fade did she realize how arched and flexed her whole body was there on that table, under Conrad's body, how her face was contorted, how her mouth was open, softly sobbing her pleasure.

Need. Love. Warmth. Mingled. Devan.

Too much. Even for him. To believe. Her trembling through such a climax, under his body, him hard and deep inside her. Devan.

Had he ever felt so much? Need that had surged to real pain, adoration that had become like worship, like obsession. This small, strong, delicate girl he was holding down, he was making come, her dark gray eyes shining with tears, her lips reddened with kissing parted with quavering moans. Fuck, he was going to explode.

Calm. Calm. Not yet. Conrad drew himself in.

He waited. For that first moment when she came back to herself. Awareness in her eyes. And then.

"Now," he whispered, "Now."

His voice quavered and through her own slowly subsiding agony of pleasure and feeling she felt him trembling against her, and his "now, now" provoked startling, desperate anticipation. She waited, wanting, dying to see him, to feel him lose himself inside of her.

"Now…Devan…I'm going to…make you…really feel me."

No collapse. No shudder. No groan.

All around her he wound, fingers into her hair, legs, ankles, feet entwined like twisting vines, arm cinched close at her waist, holding her hard against a sudden, powerful thrust. Her own cry echoed around her. Destroying, eviscerating pleasure.

Again.

Again.

His thrust. Her cry. No way to be quiet.

Conrad. Everywhere. Before her. Inside her. On top. Surrounding. His eyes. His lips. Skin. Sweat. Flesh and muscles and sex. His smell. His voice. His breath. His touch.

Vaughn was only remotely aware of his fear slipping away. He watched, his body raging with want, as he saw her as he had never imagined her. Fiercely hungry, answering Conrad's brutal desire with violent need.

Not a rape. Not.

Harder. More violent than Vaughn had been in his most abandoned encounters.

Devan. Delicate, tender Devan taking it all with groans of pleasure and seeking more.

Then her cry, So feral, so unrestrained, he knew. She'd forgotten everything but her body and the man who was touching it. And on the dying note of her groan, the sound of Conrad finally giving in to her.

Devan didn't realize, until Conrad collapsed against her, wet, trembling, panting, his heart pounding against her breast so fast and hard it frightened her, that when Conrad had let go of her wrists to sink his fingers into her hair, to grip her waist, what she'd done with her own hands. They were on him. Clutching Conrad hard to her.

ELEVEN: Turn of the Screw

To Conrad, Devan had never looked lovelier. Her eyes lit up and churning, her skin glistening, her pale cheeks pink. He watched her come back to herself, watched sensation and emotion subside, watched awareness come flooding in. Then her hot, lax body stiffened beneath him, her clutching fingers released him, her hands slipped between them, pressed to his chest. She didn't dare to push him away, but he felt perfectly that she suddenly wanted him off her. Out of her.

He pressed a lingering kiss to her hot, damp forehead, then whispered at her ear,

"Just one thing, love. Look at Vaughn."

She was still as a statue beneath him.

"Go on, Devan. Be a good girl."

Conrad raised himself a few inches and watched as Devan reluctantly turned her head and met Vaughn's eyes. Very nearly at the instant her lip quivered, though her jaw flexed as she struggled to keep hold of herself. A second later he watched a tear seep from the corner of her eye and meander along the side of her nose. Fearing for a second he'd been all wrong about Vaughn, he shot a glance at him. There Vaughn sat, duct taped to his chair, gazing back at Devan, tender as could be.

"Vaughn."

"Yes."

Vaughn's eyes remained locked on Devan's.

"Are you hard?"

His expression remained unchanged.

"Yes," he answered softly. Good man. Knows better than to lie, by now.

Moving the slightest bit, Conrad felt his cock—still hard—slip from wetly from Devan's body.

It wasn't often that Conrad regretted anything. Even the way things had gone wrong before, with Devan and those other men, seemed, in the end, to have worked out for the best. But now Conrad wished, almost bitterly, that it was possible to just hold Devan. For them to curl up together, naked, to feel each other's bodies pressed together warm and soft. To listen to her breathing. To feel the weight of her head on his arm or chest as she fell asleep. To kiss her softly when she woke and looked at him with drowsy eyes.

But there was no time to play at being lovers. Such familiar closeness would erode too much of her fear and uncertainty; then he'd never be able to give her the fantasies. Besides, he hardly believed she'd let him.

He let her go, to have her shower. Now, instead of her, he had Vaughn, all strapped in like a convict in the electric chair. Perhaps a little game would ease the unpleasant longing he was feeling.

Wisps of steam drifted about her, but Devan stood there, letting the shower run, letting the sticky wetness creep slowly down one thigh. It seemed significant. It was over.

Finally she stepped into the tub, let the proof and her tears wash away in the pounding pulse of hot water, letting the sound of her stifled sobs drown there. This was 459

better. What could they have had, anyway? This was better. It would be easier for Vaughn, now.

Walking slowly from the bathroom, Conrad came to a stop only when his hips touched the back of Vaughn's chair. Resting his hands lightly on the other's big shoulders, he asked,

"Still hard?"

"Yes," Vaughn answered indifferently.

"So that's what watching me take Devan does to you."

"Conrad. Please. Let me talk to Devan."

"Not yet, Vaughn. I'm sorry."

Conrad moved around to the front of Vaughn's chair. The two men stared into each other's eyes, each trying to measure something in the other. Slowly, then, Conrad sank down and, squatting on his haunches, put his hands on Vaughn's knees. Slowly he began to slide his hands up, over the soft blue denim covering his thighs, waiting for Vaughn to flex, to struggle. But his body stayed soft and still. Vaughn calmly held his gaze. Conrad couldn't help grinning as he brought one palm against Vaughn's blatant erection. Still not a twitch.

"What do you say, Vaughn—shall I put you out of your misery?"

"What do you mean?" Vaughn responded evenly.

"Get you off."

"All right."

"Damn you, Vaughn," Conrad threaded a vexed voice through his irrepressible grin, "it's not very sporting of you to be so blasé, calmly saying 'all right' to such an obscene proposal. What—do you think me incapable of such a thing?"

"There's damn little I think you're not capable of."

"What then? You don't expect me to believe you want me to wrap my hand around your cock and stroke a long overdue climax from you."

"No."

"Well? Don't make me beg, Vaughn. Do tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

"You don't want me sated."

"No?"

"No. But I guess you thought it would be fun to see me squirm, afraid you'd do that."

Conrad laughed and stood.

"True, that would have amused me. Though not so much as if you'd begged me to make you come."

Conrad freed one of Vaughn's arms, then perched on the edge of the table atop which he'd just fucked Devan, watching Vaughn calmly work himself free of the rest of the tape.

"I wonder. How long will you manage to hold out, watching me with Devan.

Kissing her. Touching her. My mouth on her body. Fucking her. Even holding her.