Grant bends me over the table.
Trent holds my hair.
Oliver tells me when to breathe.
I don’t belong to one of them.
I belong to all of them.
Fuck, Harper. She rolls onto her back, paperback aloft in her hand. Her dark auburn hair splays across the edge of the bed. The curve of her body has her shirt riding up around her hips to show off her lightly tanned skin.
The first time they all take me.
I’m blindfolded. Gagged.
I’m shaking from need.
One of them is inside me.
One in my mouth.
The third whispers in my ear how perfect I am.
I’ve never felt so cherished.
So broken.
So fucking whole.
Harper turns off the light when I’m halfway through her entries, and I imagine watching her sleep without the monitors.
I feel him. In every room. Every breath. Sometimes I pretend I don’t know about the cameras.
Sometimes, I angle the mirror just right.
I imagine him in the shadows of my bedroom.
One hand on his belt. The other over my mouth.
If he ever touches me, I won’t survive it.
I don’t want to survive it.
My jaw clenches as I read the end of that entry again.If he ever touches me, I won’t survive it. I don’t want to survive it.
My hands clench and crinkle the paper as I read it again. And again.
And again.
I’m never going to stop watching. But I will stop pretending.
17
GRANT
It’s been three days. Three long days of Harper pushing my limits. She has been a nonstop over-the-top tease at the office and at home. It’s her payback for us kidnapping her—her words—and keeping her trapped.
She wears those skimpy lounge outfits that flash her skin or hug her curves and reveal details about her body that haunt me at night.