Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (12 page)

HIS HAND SHOOTS
out in defense, his mind sluggish, confused by this clusterfuck of a situation. His strong palm catches the edge of the cutter, and the sharp blade slices his skin, the pain quickly bringing reality to the situation. Suddenly his mind is clear, and he backhands her. The blow knocks her sideways, and her hands splay out, the cutters still tight in one hand. She blinks, her eyes opening, and scrambles to her feet, launching at him again. His feet slip on the floor as he tries to stand, and she is on him, the blade swiping in perfect precision through the air as he tries to shove her away and get some traction, tries to get off the damn floor. The blade catches his shoulder, slicing the fabric and dipping into his skin, hot pain searing through him for a brief moment. His hand finds her arm and grips it tightly, holding her in place, her face close to his, panting, eyes intense and full of hatred.

I am furious, my anger mounting as I wrestle with the man. This isn’t supposed to be how it happens; it doesn’t fit the daydreams that I savor like manna from heaven. Last time it had been different. Last time had been easy—my victim distracted, caught in an unprotected moment. The thought suddenly occurs to me that I might suck at killing; maybe my first experience was only a deadly fluke. I have always envisioned myself as a killing machine, finely tuned in all things lethal.
I have massively overestimated my abilities.
The realization devastates me, and in that one, weak moment of self-awareness, he flips me, straddling my body and throwing the box cutters,
my prize
, across the room.

Jeremy exhales. The weapon gone, they stare at each other, his body on top of hers, naked skin between his legs, her small breasts rising and falling with her panting breaths. She is beautiful, her eyes intelligent and large, her nose slightly imperfect, lips full and parted, high cheekbones framing her face. Dark hair surrounds her like a halo; she is exquisite in her madness. And that’s what he has to remember. Despite her breathtaking looks, she is trying to hurt him.

“Get the fuck off of me.” The voice is so familiar; he has cherished it for so long—soft and sweet—even when she is saying those words.

He shakes his head. “Not gonna happen.”

“I will scream bloody fucking murder if you don’t get up, and someone will come. You left the door wide open.”

He looks at the door, standing calmly open, the dim hall exposed, the damn box still sitting innocently outside the transom. He wonders how much time has passed since he tried the knob. One minute? Two? Five? It feels like a lifetime. He reaches forward, his weight pressing down harder on her body, and she squirms beneath him, pushing on his chest with weak arms, glaring at him with eyes of death. His fingers touch the door and he heaves; the door moves from the pressure, swinging softly and then clicking into place.

He grins down at her, pleased. “What
exactly
was your plan? To kill me?”

“You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself.”

“That wasn’t defense. That was fucking psychopath behavior. You were one step behind Hannibal Lecter with that shit.” He laughs nervously and fights a battle with his cock, willing it to soften. It ignores him, defiantly taking the other route. Her eyes flicker downward, and a slow smile crosses her face.
Shit.

She moves slightly, her bare skin sliding against the rough cloth of his uniform, her eyes watching him. Then she arches, thrusting up against his cock, the pressure causing a groan to whisper from his lips, her eyes closing slightly as she bites her bottom lip.

A transformation, all in the course of thirty seconds. The wild, crazed look is gone, replaced with a sexual potency of the Jenna Jameson variety. She thrusts firmly beneath him, grinding her bare sex into him, driving his cock wild with need. Her eyes closed, head thrown back, small moans escaping—blissful, sweet sounds that pull him deeper into this insane rabbit hole. She reaches out, grabs his shirt, and tugs—softly, then harder when he doesn’t respond. His pants are stretched almost to the point of ripping, and he struggles to breathe normally, to act rationally. She opens her eyes slowly, lazily, and licks those perfect pink lips. “I need you so badly,” she whispers.

He almost does it. Almost hops off her perfect body, rips open the fly of his brown uniform, and drops back down on top of her, his cock posed at her wet opening, his hands ready to take her as his. But he waits. He watches her and tries to make sense of it all.

It is a performance that is certainly tempting, mind-blowing, three staggering times hotter than any fantasy he has ever had. But something is off, and as he watches her moan and convulse beneath him, he realizes the trap. It is staged, her deceit hidden behind one false layer of sensuality. He runs his hand lightly over the thin skin of her throat, at the sensitive place where her tendons intertwine in life-giving support. As much as he loves her flushed skin, her beautiful breasts, her moans of arousal, he wants to see behind the curtain of her performance even more. He wants to know what he is dealing with. He moves his hands closer and clenches them, squeezing tightly around her neck.

HIS HARD-ON IS
proof of it. Official proof that I suck at killing. But in the destroyed remains of my confidence, I see light. His weakness could be my opening, my body the weapon that would lead to his death. I move slightly underneath him, testing my hypothesis, having had so little experience with live, breathing men. But yes, it twitches, and my skin beneath his cock turns sensitive, my body betraying me. I use the rest of myself, those parts still loyal, and lift slightly, pressing my bare pelvis up against his stiffness, my thighs shaking slightly. I bite my bottom lip, stare into his eyes, and lift again, closing my eyes in false reverence when my skin rubs with his. It is almost laughably unfair; seduction is one thing I have fully mastered.

Except that something goes wrong. He is relaxing, responding, my own body having a tough time staying composed, my thoughts skipping away from murder and starting to think about frantic, rip-off-that-uniform, passionate sex. It is a battle raging in my mind, sex versus murder, and I am cataloging the different weapon possibilities within reach when he leans forward and chokes me.

Jeremy’s hands tighten around my throat, cutting off oxygen, causing panic to fill me. I stop grinding against him and snap my eyes to his, searching the depths of his green eyes for understanding. I see none there—only steady, indescribable strength. My instincts take over and I scream, a long, silent, angry movement in which my vocal cords desert me. He loosens his grip slightly, and I gasp for air in a desperate, shuddering inhalation. I bare my teeth, hissing at him, frustration burning through every pore of my being, my arousal taking a nosedive off this cliff of insanity. I turn on him, using my legs, arms, and latent strength to try to knock him off-balance, to push his maddening weight off of me. It is a useless exercise; my struggles only drain my energy as I resist iron muscle and dead weight. The man is surprisingly fit, and I finally give up, exhausted. I lie limp, staring stubbornly up at the ceiling, tears of frustration leaking out of the corners of my eyes. I have met opportunity and
lost
. It is an outcome I have never contemplated.

“Don’t you have a package to deliver?” I snap, refusing to meet his eyes, his face hovering above mine, the features irritating in their perfection.

He chuckles, the action causing his chest to move above mine—the pockets of his shirt to rub against the thin skin of my breasts. The friction against my nipples causes a reaction in me, an unexpected one, and I shift slightly, not wanting to lose my edge again, not wanting that heady rush of lust that just wiped clean all rational thought. I am suddenly too aware of everything: his strong arms beside my head, the smell of him, a combination of masculinity, sweat, and leather. It is the closest I have been to a human in three years and the closest I have
ever
been to a grown man.

“Will you please let me up?” She turns away from him and speaks quietly, in a controlled cadence he would have expected from a schoolteacher.

“Why?” He moves slightly, pulling away from her so he can concentrate on her face, the smooth, perfect lines of it, her pink, swollen lips contrasting delicate features, her slightly upturned nose making her appear younger, more vulnerable.

She turns, anger flashing in her eyes, betraying her innocence. Her eyes, a hazel blend of milk and dark chocolate hues, penetrate his very soul, and he loses a breath somewhere when they lock with his. “Why?” she grits out, her white teeth looking less dangerous when they aren’t bared at him. “Why should you, an invader in my home, get off and let me get dressed? Are you daft? You’re lucky if you don’t get hauled off to jail for this!”

“I’ll let you up just as soon as I understand what is going on.” She is gone as instantly as she had come, her head turning to the side, her eyes closing briefly, shuttering closed to conversation.

He wants to sit atop her forever, examine this strange, beautiful girl whom he has imagined for so long, but he resists. He moves his hand, turning her face to him, willing her eyes to open. But she ignores him, her eyes remaining closed, her face stiff. He moves his fingers, brushing her nude lips, trailing down her chin, neck, and collarbone. There is a slight hitch in her body beneath him, almost imperceptible, but he feels it and smiles. He spreads his fingers over her skin, feeling the life reenter her body, her nipples stiffening to full attention. Her eyes snap open when he speaks.

“If I get up, what are you going to do?”

She pauses, biting her lower lip, then shrugs, the motion causing her breasts to move. He closes his eyes involuntarily. “What exactly was your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole—Tarzan woman, whooping and jumping off the bed at me—thing you did. What was your goal in getting my box cutters?”

She laughs softly, her damn breasts heaving again, her stomach tightening beneath him. “It’s really, really sad that you don’t know what my intent was.”

“To kill me.” He tests the words on his tongue, doubting the validity of the statement.

Her eyes meet his, bright and intelligent, and she nods slowly. “Good. Smart boy.”

He ignores her mocking tone and grabs her wrists, one in each hand, feeling the tiny bones in them come to life as she fights the movement. He pushes them down on either side of her head, which causes her breasts to rise as if offered to him. He looks away, swearing at himself for his damn lack of control. “Why? Why kill me?” He fixes his eyes on her lips, then her hair, and finally on her open, unashamed eyes, trying to look anywhere but at her body. His breath comes hard, like the cock that continues to surge against his pants, clamoring for freedom.

Her pink lips curve as she stares up at him. “Why not?”

“Why not? That’s not a reason, that’s crazy…” His voice trails off on the last word, regretting the vocalization of his earlier thought. But she hears it, and her chin juts out, eyes blazing.

“I don’t really give a damn what you think about it. But I’d appreciate it if you took your fucking hands off me and left me alone.” She pushes up with her pelvis, attempting to buck him off, and the pressure against his dick snaps the only thread holding him together. He dives down, letting go of her wrists and grabbing her head instead, pressing his mouth hungrily to hers. She resists, her hand pushing against his hard chest. She opens her mouth to speak, and he takes advantage of the movement, dipping his tongue inside her mouth.

I am distracted. Thoughts of killing him have hopped a bus and promise to be back next week. Irritated at the man still stubbornly in my apartment, I don’t see his movement until it is too late. His hands are in my hair, hot breath on my face, and he is trying to kiss me—his soft lips pressed insistently on mine. I push against his hard chest and then he is
there
—in my mouth—his tongue tangled gently with mine. My own traitorous mouth responds, and my heart rate increases as my hands move of their own accord up to his strong arms. His hands, entangled in my hair, cradle my head. The smell of him invades my senses. I have forgotten what it is like to kiss—to feel the response against my tongue, to feel his hot breath on my face when he pulls off me and stares into my eyes. His face is both tortured and confused. I don’t like the searching look, the invasion into my soul, and I grab his neck, pulling him back down. Everything is so foreign: the feel of warmth beneath my hands, the smell of something other than lube, books, and food in my apartment. I taste him, greedy for every sensation, my hands roaming everywhere, grabbing at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. His hands move down, leaving my head, traveling hesitantly, slowly, until they reach my breasts and brush my nipples, softly caressing the curve of delicate skin. I gasp and freeze.

That frozen moment in time when his fingers touch that skin, a place where I have never had human touch—it snaps me back to the present, to my reality, and I can suddenly feel
it
coming. The desire to kill. I don’t want it. I want to continue this crazy, hot chemistry that has me wet and panting. I want, with every drop of my blood, to be a normal, naked woman locked in a passionate moment with a gorgeous, strong man. But
it
is there, and
it
is getting stronger.

He has gone too far—touching her perfect breasts, squeezing that soft skin. She gasps, her body stiffening. He pulls back, looks into her eyes. There is passion there, heat and need, and then something flips. A turbulent wave of indecision clouds her eyes, and she closes them tightly, face squeezed in an expression close to torment. Then her eyes snap open and are filled with panic. She shoves him hard, her eyes flaring. “Go! Now! Get out!” She scrambles, skidding with her hands and feet, crawling out from underneath him, the urgent movements pushing him into action.

He stands and freezes, unsure of what to do. Then comes her strangled cry:
“Go!”
He bolts, throwing open the door and rushing into the empty, lonely hall, feeling a burst of air hit his back. He turns as the door slams shut behind him, a loud crack of steel on wood as it hits the frame, followed by a loud click and a long, tortured scream that rips through his body, the sound shaking him to the core. After that there is total silence, a long, excruciating pause that stretches on for minutes. He stands there, helpless, facing the door, listening for anything, waiting for something, alone in the empty hall, the damn box at his feet. The door, that closed door that he has stared at for three years, a barrier to her.

His mind struggles with what just happened. He gets a familiar feeling, one that comes occasionally while in a dream—the realization that what has just happened isn’t possible, that the pieces don’t fit together and equal normality, the
aha!
moment when “This must be a dream” crosses his mind.

But it isn’t a dream. This hallway is real, the last three years of wondering is real. He had entered the apartment and finally seen the girl in 6E. Not only seen her but touched her, kissed her, felt her bare skin beneath his body.

That annoyingly rational part of his brain enters the conversation, forcing his thoughts to turn to the dark side of his visit. The raw need in her eyes, reaching hungrily for his blade. The look of dominant satisfaction and glee as she raised his cutters high above him and brought them swiftly down, his heart the target. The look of anguish when their kiss had been interrupted by
something
, the panic at which she had thrown him out, the long howl of despair on the other side of that door.

In some ways, she had superseded his fantasies. So much hotter, certainly more sexual, her perfect face and beautiful body keeping his cock hard even now, even after all that had happened. Her fire, the energy pouring out of her in a wave of life, her entire body brimming with confidence and sensuality.

But in other ways, what had lain behind that door was so much worse.
You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself.
She isn’t locked inside her apartment, hiding from someone. She is lying in wait, a contained mass of who the hell knows what.

His sister’s words echo in his head:
Sometimes you open the door and find out that it’s a big
ornate sexy door to an empty closet. Maybe the only thing you’re interested in is the mystery, and you’ll find yourself bored with what’s inside.
He laughs. Bored. Out of all the things the girl is, boring is not one of her problems.