Page 27 of Extreme Danger

She stared at him over his hand, hitching desperately for breath.

“The only reason you’re not on that table right now is because that bastard loves to eat. He doesn’t want to incapacitate the cook, and compromise his fucking gourmet dinner.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, this is not happening.”

He unhooked her simple cotton bra and tossed it away. She shrank to cover herself. He caught her arms, pinned them wide, to give anyone who cared to a good, long look. “Sorry, beautiful, but this is part of the script,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

He popped open her jeans, yanked them down along with her panties. She looked wildly from him, to the camera, back at him, trying to cover her naked body. But what horrified her most was the cool, businesslike air with which he was unbuckling his belt.

She gathered her breath to scream. He covered her mouth again, leaning in close. “Don’t panic,” he murmured, his voice a hot tickle in her ear. “We’re going to do some theater for those scum-sucking shitbirds, and you need to make it convincing.” He lifted his hand slowly off her mouth, and gave her a hard kiss. “I’m going to put my hand on your crotch,” he breathed against her ear. “I’ll be gentle. When I signal with my hand, scream like I’m hurting you. Like I’m doing something horrible. Got it? Shake your head, now. Say no, like I’m threatening you. Go on. Do it.”

She did so, frantically. “No,” she gasped out. “No, d-don’t do that. Please, don’t do this. Please, please, please.”

She listened to her own voice babbling, and observed that this was not theater. Never had words more sincere come from her mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured. He gripped her bottom, hoisted her up so she was straddling his hips, her back pressed against the wallpaper.

He slid his hand between their bodies, cupping her labia with his fingers. Tenderly, as if he were protecting them. He patted her there.

“Now,” he whispered. “Go for it. Scream. Fight me.”

She did. Oh, did she ever. She struggled and writhed, slapped and scratched and bit. She couldn’t hold back an explosion of anger and shame. She was a natural disaster, a shrieking catastrophe.

He held her, contained her with his unrelenting strength. He clamped her wrists together, pressing them against her chest. She felt folded up, squished and breathless against his rock-hard bulk.

She exhausted herself in the end. She could have been screaming for hours. Days. He would have held her for as long as she needed it.

She dissolved into silent sobs.

He let go of her hands, tilted her chin up so she was staring into his eyes. She panted. Blood trickled out of his nose again. There were angry scratches on his cheek, his chest, his shoulders, but he didn’t look angry at her for savaging him. Just quietly intent. He fumbled with his jeans, rearranged her body against his, and slammed his hips upward, hard enough to make her cry out. But he wasn’t inside her. His erection bobbed against her inner thigh with each thud of his body against hers.

Theater.

His eyes demanded that she play along. She could do nothing else. She was as shaken as if it was for real, anyway. Her fingernails dug into the thick muscles of his shoulders. She whimpered with each hard lunge. They weren’t actually having sex, but this rough faking it was the most intimate act she’d ever engaged in. He was inside her mind. She could feel him. His iron will held her together—he sustained her with his fierce energy. Under impossible circumstances, he was trying to protect something intangible and precious.

Her sense of self.

She squeezed her eyes shut. It was a hopeless attempt, doomed to failure, but it made her feel absurdly cherished. She loved him for it.

Something strange was happening to her, as if she were a radio tuning into a brand new frequency. She forgot about the lust-crazed spectators downstairs. An enormous heat was building up, burning in her throat, her chest. Something twisted open inside her. It hurt. And it shone.

She couldn’t tell if it was an emotion or a physical sensation that was clawing through her body. Too intense for pleasure…it was a shrill, piercing rapture, charged with terror. It took her, shook her. She screamed, and fainted.

When her eyes fluttered open again, he was very still. He was soaked with sweat, his big, hot body vibrating with tension.

His eyes were wide. He looked shocked. Almost afraid. He scooped her up again, carried her over to the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the wall. He bumped down onto his knees, then gently set her down on the thick white carpet. He braced himself over her, lying between her splayed legs, jeans halfway down his thighs. His arms shook. His erection rested, feverishly hot, against the curve of her groin.

She gasped for air, smelled dust, paint, carpet. She reached up to his face, touched his bloodied nose, then the scratches on his jaw.

Sorry, she mouthed.

He shrugged.It’s OK, he mouthed back.

She glanced up towards the video camera, and back at him, silently asking if they were still in its range. He twisted, shook his head.

Becca wiggled, positioning herself. Then she seized his cock, fitting the blunt head against herself. Sliding the tip of him between the folds of her labia. He sucked in a harsh breath, as if he were in pain.

The contact was electric. As if every individual nerve was being kissed, loved. The slow, slick stroke of flesh against flesh was the sum of all those uncountable tiny caresses, all those little tender exchanges.

---