Page 14 of Ends of Being

I mean, assuming he isn’t taking me out to the middle of the woods to dispose of me once and for all, if he truly decided he had a thing for me, why couldn’t he have just sent me a note or a text? Maybe knocked on my office door and asked me if I’d like to grab lunch or dinner or a drink with him. Anything short of kidnapping, maybe.

Okay, okay—yes, I would’ve laughed in his face and told him to stick with his merry-go-round of potential Stepford wives, and he would’ve been all butt-hurt and told me to suck a sock or something equally lame. But still, to hide his true persona for all this time and then just unleash his beastness on me without any warning whatsoever… that’s just outright mean.

And now I’m mad all over again.That duplicitous motherfucker.

I have no idea how long we have been driving, but I can feel the terrain has changed from pavement to a rougher surface. Here we go again. Though I can tell this time will be a bit different since there is no way I’ll be pulling off any kind of epic getaway.

The car stops, and I listen intently for movement from what I can only assume is the driver’s side. I hate feeling disoriented, but I can’t seem to get my bearings with the blindfold on, and I can’t reach anything with how tightly my hands are bound.

The car door opens, then slams shut, followed by footfalls on gravel moving around towards the back of the car. Then the click of the trunk being opened, his hands pulling me out of the trunk, lifting me up, and swinging me over his shoulder.

I grunt, briefly wondering if I can throw him off balance by flailing about, but quickly accept that it would likely just earn me some bruises and not even a moment of freedom. So, I lay over that broad shoulder, blood rushing to my head with my tied arms becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with each jostling step.

I want to scream at him, but no real sound comes out around the ball gag. In normal circumstances, feeling this impotent would throw me for a loop, but it all seems pointless from my current vantage point. As much as I want to put up a fuss and kick and scream and murder, instead, I’m going to hang out here and see how this all pans out.

I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t winded lugging me around like a giant sack of grain. I’m not a small person by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s moving along at a decent gait, not even breaking a sweat. And now I’m even more annoyed that my hands are tied behind my back because, otherwise, I would at least be able to cop a feel.

Finally, he climbs up some steps, then I feel him reaching, hear the subtle squeak of a door sliding open, and then he steps forward, turns, and there’s the squeak of the door again, closing. Next thing I know, he is moving downward, his steps quick as we walk down, down, down into what could quite possibly be a torture chamber.

I should be more concerned about that possibility than I am, but short of him having a horde of women locked away down there, I’m likely game. And I’m not even embarrassed about it, though there is no way I’m going to just roll over and take it. I’ll make him work for it like he has never worked for anything before in his entire life.

Finally, he sets me down, pushing me back until the backs of my knees come in contact with something hard, and I automatically sit down. He unties my hands only to resecure them to the back of the chair, then does the same with my ankles, securing them to the legs of the chair. It’s not the most comfortable position to be in, but mostly, I hate not being able to see. And my jaw is starting to hurt.

His voice, gruff yet quiet, cuts through the silence as he asks, “If I remove the blindfold and gag, are you going to behave?”

I immediately nod, and I feel his hands on the back of my head a moment before the gag loosens, then he pulls the blindfold off as well. I blink my eyes against the light, dim as it is, flexing my jaw in what must be the most unattractive pose possible.

I don’t see Dare at first, so I glance around until I see him standing at a counter across the room. He turns and walks towards me, a bottle of water in his hand. He kneels down in front of me, helping me drink from the bottle before sitting back on his haunches and giving me a strange look. He looks like he’s waiting for something, though I can’t even imagine what, with me sitting here all tied up.

I glare at him, my words quietly menacing as I ask, “What the fuck, Clark?”

He smiles. The motherfucker smiles at me. Now, I don’t mean he smirked or his lip twitched, no; he full-on showed me his teeth, all sparkly-eyed, and smiled at me. It would have almost taken my breath away if I wasn’t so keen on giving him a hard time, but luckily my inner rage bitch dulls at the glorious sight a bit, and I’m able to continue being contrite.

“Let me go, fuckface,” I seethe, shifting in the chair as I pull against my restraints. I try to stomp my feet, but the ropes prevent me from getting any leverage, and I mostly do a weird tap dance.

He tsks, raising his brows at me humorously as he shakes his head and says, “Now, why would I do that, Antoinette? Just so you can get a better shot at jamming your foot into my balls?”

I laugh at the memory, my glee likely coming off as borderline maniacal, but I genuinely don’t have any fucks to give at this point. I have to cover up my other interest in his balls by making him believe I only want to stomp on them. “That’s right,” I taunt. “I bet I could really bust them up this time.”

He winces, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches me, but he doesn’t say anything. I feel like he can see right through my ball-stomping bitch defense, and it makes me uncomfortable. I try not to squirm, but I fail, my wrists and ankles twisting in the restraints as I ponder how I’m going to get out of here in one piece.

Then, without warning, he strikes, his hand wrapping around my throat as he lunges forward. I would have toppled over backward if not for his firm grip on the back of my neck. He leans over me, his face so close to mine that I can only focus on one of his eyes as it burns with something unclear. Anger. Hunger. Ownership.

I try to gasp, but my air is cut off as he uses his grip on my neck to prevent me from falling further backward, and I can’t help the thrill that goes through me at the increasingly feral look in his eyes. I try not to respond, but a shiver runs through me, and my eyes close of their own volition, my body relaxing into his hold.

He eases his grip just enough for me to get some air and then immediately cuts off my breath again, leaning forward until I can feel his lips against my temple, his breath fanning my hair as he says, “That’s right, my little minx. Relax…”

Instantly, self-preservation is a beast raging inside of me. I want to fight back, to put up some kind of fuss, to kick and scream. I want to bite him, punch him, kick him, anything to get him to back up, to back off, to get the fuck as far away from me as humanly possible.

But I don’t.

Instead, I practically melt into a puddle, my arms pulling against the ropes, my thighs squeezing together as a deep ache erupts inside me. I’d moan if I had enough air to do so, but all I manage is a whimper that gets caught in my throat, and my entire body is on fire.

Dare chuckles, the dark rumble vibrating over me as his grip on my neck relaxes, and I gulp air as I attempt to get control of myself. He doesn’t remove his hand from my throat, but he doesn’t cut off my air this time, just uses his light touch to force me to look at him. I don’t want to look at him, once again fearing he’ll see right through my tenuous façade into the real me.

He leans closer, the hand on the back of my neck moving to stroke my face as he eases the chair down. He glides his lips along my cheek, coasting up to ghost over my eyelids before doing the same on the other side. Then he bites me, sinking his teeth right into my cheek while holding me in place when I attempt to flinch away in surprise. His tongue comes out, wetting the bitten area soothingly, and I gasp, my breath catching in my throat as his fingertips gently caress my neck and face.

There’s a faint ringing of a phone behind me, and he tenses over me, a low growl vibrating against my skin. He only pauses for a moment, then takes a shuddering breath, burying his face in my neck before he bites me again, his teeth digging in almost painfully, and I whimper in response. I’m like putty in his hands, incapable of pushing him away. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

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