more soft this time. More loving.”
“I don’t love her.”
A sharp look from Adam. “She can hear you.”
“I will rip your fucking throat out.”
It’s to his credit that he looks uneasy, as if he knows how seriously I mean that threat. Then he brightens. “I brought you some gifts. There is no better dessert than French patisserie. The tarte tatin, the mille-feuille, and the eclairs.”
I have a sudden memory of eating eclairs with a young Holly.
She comes to stand beside me, her chin high. “We don’t want it, Paul Hollywood.”
I’m forced to face how thin her arms look, how slender her frame. She needs this food, no matter how I feel about it. No matter how much I resent being forced to violate her. Which is worse—touching her without consent or letting her starve? It’s a devil’s choice.
Adam pulls out a pistol. “Then we’ll see how much you enjoy fucking a corpse.”
In a flash I’m standing in front of Holly, blocking her from his bullet. It won’t do any good, this protection of her, because I have no weapon. A bullet could rip through my skin and slam into hers. She would be injured. Maybe killed. The idea makes me sick.
“I’ll play your game,” I bite out.
He smiles. “I thought you might change your mind.”
I wait until he puts the pistol back into his jacket pocket before turning to face Holly. Standing this way, her face is in shadow. I’m sure mine is, too. Neither of us can clearly see the other, but we’re intimate. Close.
My whisper can only be heard by her. “Are you ready?”
She whispers, “No.”
I don’t know why I asked. There isn’t any time. There isn’t any choice. I take a step toward her, and she doesn’t back away. I’m tempted to throw her to the stone floor and fuck her. It’s the wrong impulse at a time like this. I should be reluctant.
Not an eager participant.
My hard cock proves that I’m twisted inside.
Her face is in shadow, but the rest of her is finally visible after so long in the darkness. After so long in my memory. She’s wearing blue leggings and a slightly darker blue tunic that feel like grown-up versions of the blue dress she wore to the museum. They’re both smudged with dirt and grime, the shirt torn in a way that makes my stomach clench.
She was attacked when she tried to escape. Hurt.
And I’m here to do it again.
“Be gentle with her,” Adam says in a taunting voice.
And the worst part is, he’s right. I do need to be gentle with her. I do need to be loving. I make my touch an apology as I stroke her temple with the backs of my fingers. She leans into my hand, and I coax her again and again until she’s pressing her cheek to my palm like a cat.
Last time he only had a match to light the space, and the minimal light from the open door at the top of the stairs. This time, with a lantern, I can see her breasts clearly as I lift the tunic. I can watch as her skin turns tight with goose bumps, as her nipples turn to hard pebbles. I bend down to taste one. Even in this hellhole she tastes sweet. Beneath the dirt and the sweat, I taste the elemental essence of woman. I taste Holly. My mind remembers her as clearly as it does the dark chocolate in the eclair. Forbidden temptation. Indulgence. Regret.
I slide my palm down her stomach, beneath the waistband of her leggings, to the place that’s already wet for me. Or is it wet for Adam? That’s the most fucked part of all—that he’s the one actually orchestrating this. You can fuck a woman with your cock, or a dildo, or a goddamn beer bottle. Adam Bisset? He’s fucking her through me.
“How does she feel?” he says, his voice low, and I realize he’s turned on.
I’ve never been the kind of guy who was afraid of other men in the locker room. I grew up with brothers and then joined the military. I’m not homophobic, but it’s still disconcerting to realize there’s an aroused male in the room while I’m finger fucking a woman.
My first threesome is happening, and it’s against my will.
“She feels like fucking pussy,” I grit out.
“Tell me more,” he says, a warning in his voice.
“Hot. Wet. She’s fucking swollen. Is that what you want to hear? She feels like she’d be heaven around my cock.