“me” unspoken.
Hunter sighed deeply, pulling me back into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of my head, which hurt. “Oh, Abra, I am so sick and tired and out of my head. I wouldn't have been any good for you. I just needed—I just wanted something quick and easy.”
“I can be quick and easy.”
Hunter's hands rubbed my back, moved under my shirt, and then skimmed the waistband of my pants. “You sweet girl.”
I felt the sting of tears and fought it. “Hunter, I need to make my calls and get to work. I'm going to be late as it is.”
“I could make you later.” His mouth moved down, found my ear. His breath was a little stale from sleep.
“Hunter.” Was this affection, or renewed lust, or pity? With Hunter, I could never tell. His mouth moved down my neck, then he lifted my shirt and slid his hand under my practical beige brassiere.
“God, you've still got the breasts of a thirteen-year-old virgin.” This may not have sounded like a compliment, but believe me, it was. Hunter pulled my shirt over my head, and for a moment I was caught in my long brown hair.
“You're never going to cut this, right?”
My hair nearly reaches my waist. “No.”
Hunter wrapped my hair around his wrist and tugged. “I've got you—you're my prisoner.”
I looked at him with my head back, throat bared. His dark eyes were shining now. “Is that what you want?”
Hunter glanced down at himself. “What do you think?”
We looked at each other. “All right, then.”
There was a pause, a beat, and then Hunter let go of my hair and yanked down my pants. “Like this? Without touching you first? Quick and easy. My prisoner.”
I watched his eyes. This was real. We hadn't made love in three months. The last time I'd been in his arms, his thoughts had been a thousand miles away, on the trip ahead, on the adventure of the unknown. “No,” I said carefully, whipping my head a little back and forth, making my hair move. “No, please, no.” In case he'd thought that first no had been real.
Hunter pinned my hands over my head. He was stronger than his wiry frame suggested. “Spread ‘em.”
“No.” How was this really done? With his hands holding my wrists, how could he get my legs apart if I didn't help?
Hunter wedged his knee in between my thighs. “I said, spread ‘em.”
“No.”
A look, almost one of anger, crossed Hunter's face, and for a moment I thought maybe I'd done something wrong. Then he transferred both wrists to one hand, and tried to use his other hand to guide himself inside me. After a moment, he gave up, looked at me again, and said, “Slave Girl, you'd better start listening to your Master.”
There was a touch of real anger in me. “No.”
Hunter sat back, trying to figure this out. This was a game of domination. How far to go? I was curious, too. And more than a little excited.
What he did next surprised the hell out of me. He sort of yanked me up, threw me on my stomach, and grabbed me by the back of the neck, like you would a cat. I think I was lying on the remote control; something was digging into my breast.
“Hunter—”
Our bed is a high one, and he was standing when he thrust into me. For a moment, I felt just the blunt knock of him at my entrance, and then he started to go deeper, faster, a pace set for his plea sure, not mine. There was the slap of flesh, just as I had heard it from the other room, except this time I was there beneath him. I had wanted this more than I'd let myself know.
“Hunter.” But he was beyond hearing, caught up in the chase. He slammed into me with a roughness I wasn't used to, hitting the place high up inside that is just this side of pain. But it wasn't pain. Not really. Because pain doesn't climb, doesn't build and build and … Hunter came too soon, with a deep moan that didn't sound like him at all. And then he collapsed on top of me.
Hunter kissed the back of my neck. “You okay, Slave Girl?” He put his hand between my legs. “I was too quick for you.”
“No, I …” He moved his fingers, and I took a breath.
“There? Is that it? Come on, Abra, let me take you there.”
I started to cry then, just