Vanquish (26 page)

He reclined on his back amidst the destruction of Froot Loops and propped up on his elbows. “Now I'm exposed, too. Waiting for
your
acceptance.”

There was something changing inside him. She couldn't name it, but she could see it creeping to the surface in the stiffness of his muscles and the clench of his fists as he lay on the floor. It seemed to be feeding on feelings that gravitated around
her
. Was he aware of it? She wanted him to know she could
see
him, that she wanted to accept him.

“You look uncomfortable.” She cringed at the stupidity of her statement.

“Yeah, well, this position doesn't bring out the best in me. I'm not a bottom, babe.” His eyes darted away as he blew out a long ripple of air then looked back at her. “And you're not the only one susceptible to rejection.”

Who would've rejected
him
? She wouldn't, not anymore, but he was covered in cereal. It stuck all over his skin in multicolored crumbs. Who knew what other nooks and crannies it was finding its way into? Just looking at it made her itchy and sweaty.

The other post-Brent men she'd slept with had been so much easier to deal with. They didn't ask questions, didn't pay attention, and certainly didn't fuck her on a crumb-encrusted floor. They pounced; then they bounced. On her terms. “Can we go upstairs?”

“How about you follow your nose down here and taste the rainbow?”

Her heart pounded anxiously at the thought of rolling around in that, but the pleading expression on his face splintered her anxiety painfully down the middle.

She knelt beside him, shuddering as cereal adhered to her legs. Picking off four pieces, she searched for the box to discard them. It would only take a sec—

“Amber.” His demanding tone made her drop the crumbs. His long, skillful fingers drummed on the tiles in such a seductive way she might've leaned down and sucked one into her mouth if not for her repulsion at the crumby floor.

The spilled cereal beckoned her, her mind grouping the
O
's in fours. She'd scoop them up in those groups then clear the crumbs away from the grout lines. “You ask for a lot. Lights
and
dirt.”

“I'm not asking. We are going to have lit-up, dirty sex because you are
not allowed
to look at the mess.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “I...I don't kn—”

“You are going to straddle my cock because you need to come. And you deserve that release because you won't be looking at the mess ever again.” His glare was as fierce and unwavering as his tone. “Not once. Understand?”

No one had ever talked to her like that, and it gnawed away a chunk of her anxiety. “Okay.”

“I'll be right here the whole time.” He lowered his back to the tiles and opened his arms, his eyes potent and knowing. He
saw
her yet didn't utter a single hateful word.

Her heart raced as if being chased, hunted. He could catch it, take it, right now, and she wouldn't stop him.

She straddled one of his thighs, a compromise, and nestled into his waiting arms. His relief was palpable in the sighing embrace he gave her. She breathed it in, wanting him, and suddenly determined to give him something she hadn't given a man in two years.

Wriggling out of his arms and down his leg, she didn't look at the crumbs grinding into her knees because he'd commanded her not to. He’d given her the liberty to ignore it. And though his arms were no longer around her, she felt him holding her as she obeyed his order.

A thrill of pride ran through her, as if she'd never ignored untidiness before. She probably hadn't.

She bent over his hard length and wrapped her fingers around it. Satiny skin over rigid steel heated her palm. He was big, not overly so, but he looked massive in her tiny hand. He felt empowering in her grip.

She ducked her head and took his cock into her mouth. His choked breath spurred her to draw him deeper, her fingers pumping the root in sync with her sucking. Pools of heat collected between her legs, simmering to a needy throb. She started to close her thighs to dull the ache, but he lifted his knee, rolling it against her pussy.

His hands flew to her head, digging into her scalp. His hips bucked and his hard body trembled violently beneath her, reducing his rugged timbre to throaty grunts. Seeing him so painfully aroused, so vulnerable in her mouth, was addictive. And she held the power to relieve him.

This was what control felt like. She licked and nuzzled his glans and slid his length over her lips and cheeks, smearing saliva and pre-come across her face. It was liberating.

The hands on her head clenched, and he yanked her off of him. “Condom.”

“I don't...” She glanced around the kitchen, knowing full well there were no condoms. She'd been through every shelf and drawer. “Where?”

His eyes closed, and his face twisted in agony. “Check the pockets of my jeans. Hurry.”

Sliding off his leg, she snagged his jeans and found a condom in the front pocket. Did he always keep rubbers on him? Given the relaxed wear of the denim, he'd likely grabbed the jeans from the hamper, stocked with a condom. “Got one.”

He fisted his cock, stroking it, root to tip. His knuckles flexed in his exertion, his eyes burning with silver flames.

Sweet mother, that image hit her right between the legs, sending her inner muscles into a hot spasm. She ripped open the package, rolled on the rubber, and straddled him, his cock a long, stiff invitation against her pussy.

He leaned up, and she met him halfway in a sweeping of lips. He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him as he dropped against the floor. Their tongues tangled, and their hands slid everywhere, bumping and caressing in urgent exploration, kindling her arousal from a low burn to a wildfire.

She shoved her fingers through his hair, her hips working into an electrifying grind against him, each flex hitting her clit against the head of his cock, the smooth hardness of his length sliding between her labium. Fuck, what would he feel like without the rubber in the way?

“Aw God, put me in,” he groaned against her mouth.

The sound of him begging surged heat through her blood. She reached between them with shaky fingers, positioned his cock, and the hard tip pushed through her opening.

His head fell back, and the cords of his neck strained as she slid down his length. He stretched her deliciously as she worked him in, sinking inch by inch, until he was buried to the root. So deep, so full, her needy flesh rippled around him, shooting sparks of pleasure through her body.

She attacked his mouth as she rolled her hips, ravenous and impatient, sucking on his lips, nipping at him. Her fingers found his hair, stroking and pulling as he fucked her. His large hands on her hips held her in place, his thrusts rocking into her in long, powerful strokes.

He was merciless, his muscles flexing beneath her, his balls slapping her ass with every drive of his cock. His hands moved to her breasts and pinched her nipples so hard the sharp pain sent her over, so fast and explosive, she hadn't felt its approach.

The orgasm slammed into her, and she pushed up, back bowing, riding the wave after wave of ecstasy. Her head fell back, mind empty, her body soaring through the tingling sensations.

He let out an unintelligible curse, thrusting hard and fast. His hands dropped to her waist in a bruising grip as his strokes jerked, lost rhythm, and slammed deep inside her. “Unnngh.” His jaw hung open with short, ragged exhales. “Uh...ungh...” He shuddered as he spent his seed, his heavy grunts rumbling into a throaty growl.

The kitchen rotated around them, heaving with the sounds of their heavy breaths. Eternal seconds passed before feeling returned to her fingers and toes.

He looked up at her, his eyes dilated and heavy-lidded. “C'mere.”

She lowered her body, her arms winding around his broad shoulders and his heart pounding against her ear on his chest. He hugged her to him, his cock growing soft inside her.

“Ready to eat?”

She released a sated laugh. “Such a man. Sex and food.”

“Life's two main ingredients.”

After they brushed the crumbs from their bodies and dressed, she sat at the table and watched him scramble eggs and fry bacon. She and food had a hate-hate relationship, so she'd never bothered to learn how to cook. He didn't seem to mind, seeing how he'd told her to sit and rest.

The smell of grease filled her nose and roused her hunger. By the time he brought the plate and two glasses of milk to the table, a rumble had gripped her stomach.

One plate. One fork. He perched before her, his thighs on the outside of hers, lifted a forkful of eggs, and held it to her lips. She accepted willingly, wantonly.

He broke off a piece of bacon. “You didn't look at the mess on the floor while I cooked.”

It wasn't a question. He knew she hadn't. She chewed, swallowed, and opened her mouth for the bacon bite. When her lips wrapped around his fingers, he drew them out slowly and stroked a knuckle across her cheek.

“What does the anxiety feel like?” he asked, softly.

She sipped the milk to clear her throat. “When it's bad, I don't have control of my body. It feels like something huge and chaotic is wearing my skin, thrashing around in it, stretching it, and I'm stuck in there with it, helpless.”

He fed her another bite, thoughtful, listening. Maybe he didn't understand, but he seemed to be trying.

“Sometimes it's subtle, just there beneath the surface. If I'm distracted, I won't identify it until it's passed. I've tried to study it as it happens, to better understand it. If I lay still and really focus, I can almost grab hold of it. It's as if my brain has its very own body and something is brushing up against it, something that shouldn't be there.”

“Do you feel it right now?” He watched her with those perceptive eyes that could reach deeper inside her than any other part of his body.

“I feel...” Panicked? No. Troubled? Not exactly. “Out of alignment.”

His eyes glimmered. He liked that answer, and it made her insides flutter.

As he finished off the breakfast, she realized she'd stopped counting the bites when he prompted her to talk. Probably his intention. He didn't seem to do anything without an agenda.

There were still a few bites left, but her stomach hardened, way too bloated. She shook her head at the next forkful. “Tell me something about you. Something that's hard for you to talk about.”

The fork paused then lowered to the table. He glanced at the mudroom and back at her, his thumb moving restlessly along the edge of the plate. Then it stilled. “I'll show you.”

He stood, and without waiting for her, strode to the mudroom, opened the garage door, and stared into the dark hush, his features empty and distinct.

His expressions would never expose
who
he was, but judging by his sudden remoteness, whatever waited in the garage would.

A cold sweat broke out over her skin, but she rose to follow him, determined to know him. As she walked right through the middle of the smashed cereal without looking at it, her head tilted back, her arms relaxed at her sides, and her strides carried her to him with grace.

He glanced at her with cool, unreadable eyes, and she curled her fingers around his limp hand. Then she followed him through the door.

The fluorescents overhead buzzed in the darkness a half second before the garage flooded with light. Amber blinked rapidly, her lungs tightened, and her hand released Van's fingers with a jerk.

Where she expected chains, whips, torture equipment, and hell, maybe a car was something much more startling.

Dolls and mannequins in every size and state of repair lined workbenches and shelves, hung from walls, and overflowed crates and boxes. Detached arms and legs scattered the floor. Headless bodies slumped in piles with limbs tangled together, the hinged eyes and painted faces frozen in apathy.

The humidity in the two-bay garage stifled her breath, and a chill settled into her bones as she took in the largest collection of mannequins she'd ever seen. There was something very sad about their condition, the way they were tossed aside, neglected...yet
kept
all the same. A graveyard for broken dolls? Or some kind of a sick tribute?

He left her side and strode toward a large table in the center of the garage, its surface cluttered with paints and tiny tools and doll parts.

She didn't follow but instead walked a wide circuit around him on shaky legs, hands at her sides, her attention imprisoned by the horde of soulless faces. What would a man as virile and rugged and
manly
as Van want with dolls?

Her steps took her through a maze of baby dolls, toddler-sized dolls, and nipple-less mannequins, all bald and naked, most damaged beyond repair. Her stomach turned, but she wanted to understand the source of her apprehension. He didn't seem to have any friends or family. Were these...things a distraction from the loneliness when he wasn't abducting people?

The agony of being alone and feeling unwanted was a cruel affliction. It could make one desperate for any kind of connection. Maybe even a connection with the plastic replicas of the real thing. Or with deliverymen in the dark.