Page 6 of Willing Prey

Life or death.

I kick away from him with a shriek that’s equal parts terrified and frustrated. My fingers slip. I’m falling, the ground coming too quickly for me to do anything to soften my landing. The impact rattles me senseless. Flat on my back on the lawn, I can’t catch my breath.

“Fucking hell,” Shane mutters. Footsteps hurry down the porch stairs.

He can’t catch me.

Not yet.

Air or no air, I have to run. I didn’t almost break my neck to be caught now. Pain is static at the edge of my brain as I shoot to my feet. At last, my lungs begin to work again. Sprinting across the yard, I don’t need to look back to know he’s hot on my heels. I can feel it, the way a rabbit must feel a wolf when it’s closing in. Tension radiates through my shoulders and neck. Every step feels like the step, the last step, the final moment of freedom before a predator’s jaws close around my throat.

Even though I’m barefoot, I aim for the tree line at the yard’s edge. There’s nowhere else to go. The farther I get from the light of the house, the easier it will be to hide. Maybe I can curl up somewhere. Let him walk right by me. The trees beckon, branches outstretched as if drawing me into their embrace. I can do this. I’m going to make it.

So close.

It’s like getting hit by a truck. Shane slams into me, and I’m flying through space for the second time tonight. At least I don’t have as far to fall this time. I land on my stomach, his weight on my back. It hurts, breath once again forced from my lungs. I swallow a scream. My fingers dig into the grass, ripping up handfuls as I try to pull myself from underneath him. I do about as well as an earthworm trying to get out from under a boot.

Life or death.

His cock is hard against my lower back. I’m struggling, but he doesn’t seem concerned about losing his grip. Rubbing his face into my hair, he inhales deeply.

Am I being sniffed?

Why is that sexy?

I slam the back of my head into his nose.

He swears, grip loosening, “What the fuck?”

It’s the distraction I need to buck him off me. Staggering to my feet, I try to run on quivering legs. A big hand wraps around my ankle. I hop. Trying to keep my balance, I attempt to shake him free. Shane grabs my other ankle and yanks. I fall, barely getting my forearms up to ease my landing. He’s back on his feet in an instant, hands clamped around my ankles. There’s no chance to catch my breath before I’m being hauled back toward the house with an insulting casualness.

Thrashing does nothing. Kicking is pointless. When my fingers close around a pinecone, I hurl it at him. Nothing slows his stride. My face is in the dirt. My stomach and breasts slide and scrape over the ground as my shirt rides up. It’s brutal. Degrading. Obscene.

I fucking love it.

Chapter Three

Claire

Shane stops in the glow of the porch light. With a violent jerk, he flips me onto my back, settling himself over my hips. There’s a fluidity to his movements, an unexpected elegance that makes me think of a cat, a panther. But the look on his face can’t be called anything but wolfish. Blood drips from his nose, running down his chin. His hair goes in all directions, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He looks wild. Feral. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bared his teeth, growled at me. It would feel right.

Arching my back, I struggle to unbalance him. I almost snatch his shirt, but he dodges me. When he captures both of my wrists in one of his hands as easily as I catch my hair to put it in a ponytail, I realize this is it. In the future, I’ll need to stay out of his reach because I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away once he catches me.

One of Shane’s hands pins my wrists over my head. The other roams down my body to rest at the top of my boyshorts.

“Do you need your safe word?” it’s a growl of a question, so breathless it stuns me.

I take a moment to react. “No,” my voice is equally ragged. The last thing I want right now is a safe word. If my employment for the next thirty days wasn’t contingent on me being as challenging to subdue as possible, I’d beg him to fuck me until I forget every word I know.

“Good.”

Shane slips his hand beneath my underwear, cupping my pussy. He inhales hard, muttering something I can’t understand beneath his breath. It’s all I can do not hump his hand. I’m dripping. The warmth of his hand has me desperate. I need friction. Need him to press a little bit harder.

“You’re wet,” he spits the words like he’s surprised or maybe offended. I don’t know how to respond.

His dark eyes flick to mine. If they were intense in the house, they’re terrifying now. The eyes of a predator that finally has its prey where it wants it. A predator seconds away from its next meal—a meal that would love to be eaten.

Focus.

---