The Distraction (9 page)

I did want to play. This was exactly what we needed—we connected physically in a way that was stronger than words, and right now I was done thinking about family, and work, and all the things outside of this apartment.

I tossed him the rope and walked slowly from the room.

I
n the hallway I removed my shirt and let it fall to the floor.

As I passed the couch I shimmied out of my shorts and kicked them up on the armrest.

I could hear the floor creak behind me as I crossed the threshold into the bedroom, feel the heat rise to my skin as his gaze roamed over my back and down my bare legs. I was wearing cotton panties and a matching bra with a little cherry pattern on the white fabric. I hoped he liked cherries.

I didn't turn on the light as I crawled on the bed. I took my time, glancing over my shoulder at him standing in the doorway. The expression on his face was enough to scramble my senses. It was so raw, so filled with need. It made my breath hitch, my chest constrict. I could hear my heart pounding in my eardrums, a slow, primal beat that began to quicken, and echo deep in my core.

Even then I felt it. We were walking a line, driving too close to the darkness I'd banished to the back of my mind. My very soul was quaking, unsure as he approached with the rope in his hand, but the desire was impossible to retract. I needed him to take me to the edge, wherever that was. I needed him to go there with me.

He didn't take off his clothes, but even fully dressed he was breathtaking. With the moonlight coming through the window I could see the flexing muscles of his forearms. He never hid his desire from me, it was there straining against the fly of his jeans as his free hand slid over it. The urge to claim him rose up fast; I needed to touch him, take him inside me. Make him mine.

He moved closer, like a hunter stalking his prey. I turned, sliding down onto my back, and he leaned over me, one finger drawing a line up the inside of my calf to my inner thigh, and then higher. My legs fell open for him, as if modesty was a completely foreign concept.

I gasped as he pushed aside the fabric, and dipped into my wet cleft.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured.

Eyes closed tightly, I nodded, unable to process anything but the slow, easy way his finger fucked me. I tried to hold still, but my hips began to thrust up against his hand.

“I've wanted you like this,” he said. “Laid out for me. Unable to make the pleasure stop.”

His words intensified his touch, until I was fisting the comforter to prevent myself from pulling him down over me. The anticipation of what he might do sent a dark thrill quaking through my core.

His finger pulled out slowly, and I pinched my thighs together, hating the emptiness he'd left.

When I opened my eyes he was unraveling the rope. He looped it around the bed frame, then reached for my right wrist. His touch was gentle, but a sudden bolt of nerves made my stomach clench.

“I'm going to make you feel good, Anna,” he promised. “For a long time. And when you think it's over, I'm going to start again. Are you all right with that?”

I turned my head to the side, the fire already raging inside of me. I feared this exquisite torture as much as I longed for it. I knew what he could do to me without tools—more pleasure seemed impossible. And yet knowing he wanted this, that he'd fantasized about this, made me all the more eager. I wanted to please him. I wanted to rock his fucking world.

“I need the word, baby.”

“Yes,” I said.

The rope wound around my right wrist, not too tightly, but with enough pressure that I wouldn't be able to shake free. My anxiety rose another notch. He rounded the bed and reached for my left hand. He was good at this. Practiced.

“Have you done this before?” I asked.

He smiled. “I've thought a lot about it.”

The rope fastened around my left wrist.

My heart began to pound harder.

“Don't we need a safe word or something?”

He paused, then sat beside me on the bed.

“Sure,” he said. “How about ‘no'?” He ran his fingers down my cheek.

I bent my knees, twisted my hips to lie on my side, but my bound arm prevented me from rolling all the way.

“Safe words are for heavy stuff,” he said, leaning down over me. “We're just going to play. And if you ever want to stop, just say so. We don't need a special word for that.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

He kissed my lips gently, sweetly, and soon I forgot all about the rope. I gasped as his hands slipped down my sides, and then as his mouth lowered to my collarbone, making a hot, wet line down my cleavage.

One hand slipped between my legs and I jumped at the contact, instantly reminded of the bindings. I wanted to reach for him, run my hands through his hair and over his shoulders, but I couldn't.

I couldn't move.

I pulled harder at the ropes and they tightened.

The cords dug into my flesh. My hands began to tingle. The panic that had begun as a slow drip now flooded through me. It made my head pound, my heart hammer.

I was in the car—my old car—and my wrists were bound together by bungee cords.

I was on the bed, Alec's tongue tracing my ribs.

Bobby was here, driving fast, talking fast. He was going to kill me. I needed to get away. I needed to fight.

I jerked hard against the ropes.

“Anna?”

I strained against them.

“Anna, stop,” Alec's voice filtered through the darkness, through the buzzing in my eardrums. My blood pumped hard through my body.
Fight,
it said.
Get away.

I kicked out, the comforter gathering under my back.

I was at home, with Alec. Safe. But I didn't feel safe.

“I can't,” I said, with barely enough breath to form the words. “Get it off. Get it
off
!”

“I'm trying,” he said between his teeth. “You need to stop struggling. You're pulling the knots too tight.”

“Let me go!” The tears burned my eyes. I dug my heels into the mattress, arching back. I heard him, his words made sense, but I couldn't comply. My body was taking different orders, fueled by adrenaline.

“Please,” I begged him, yanking my arms down, trying desperately to free myself. My shoulder popped, shooting pain through my chest. “No. I'm saying
no
. That's what you said.”

“Goddammit!” Alec's knee was suddenly across my body. His weight crushed me, bringing the panic to a head. “Anna, listen to me. I'm untying the rope, but I can't get your hands free unless you relax your arms.”

The fear was ripe in his voice and scared me even more.

“Can you count with me, sweetheart?” he asked. “Count to ten. One, two, three . . .”

I blinked, staring up at the white ceiling. How many nights had I stared up at it while I'd lain in this bed alone, counting the days until he came back?

“F-four,” I stammered. “Five.”

My right arm was free but he still didn't move. My wrist throbbed, the hot blood rushing back into my fingers. There wasn't enough air in the room. My lungs were crushed under his knee anyway.

He counted with me. “Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.”

My left hand was free. He rolled to the side.

I didn't look at him. I jolted off the bed, ran into the bathroom, and slammed the door. I locked it immediately, sliding down the wood. I squeezed my knees against my chest.

Oh God, what have I done?

I'd lost it. I was crazy. I'd ruined things with the one person who I needed to get me through this.

I grabbed the towel hanging from the rack overhead, and pulled it over my face. I screamed silently, trying to rid myself of the terror, of my shame, of the fear I'd heard in Alec's voice. My body shivered like I would never be warm again. I cried until the tears were gone.

He knocked and said my name over and over. He apologized ten different ways. After a while he stopped. Then it was quiet, and I knew he'd left.

T
ime passed slowly, and with it, my strength returned.

My pride did not.

I rose from the floor, and examined myself in the mirror. One bra strap had loosened in my struggle and hung off my shoulder. My wrists were bright red, like they'd been after Bobby had taken me. My chest hurt like someone had punched a hole through it.

My birth mother used to say I made her crazy. I left a mess, I made her crazy. I broke a glass, I made her crazy. I looked at her the wrong way, and I made her crazy. For years I walked around thinking I was cursed. That something was wrong with me. I drove good people straight to the bottle. Or the pills, or the needle, or whatever else she could get her hands on.

She'd had it wrong. She'd made
me
crazy. Bobby had just brought it all out.

I gathered all my hair products and makeup and put them in the toiletries bag I kept under the sink. I wrapped the cord of the blow-dryer around the handle and stuck it on top of the rest. Knowing I couldn't hide in the bathroom forever, I unlocked the door and poked my head into the bedroom. The lights were still off, and the comforter was rumpled, but the rope that had been slung from the bed frame was gone.

As was Alec.

I walked to the dresser, to my drawer filled with clothes and put on baggy sweatpants and a tank top. I tied my hair back into a ponytail, and then gathered some of my things in my gym bag. It was time I went back to my apartment.

Alec was in the living room. He surprised me; he'd been so quiet I thought he'd left.

For a moment we just stared at each other. He looked like he'd just taken a beating, and yet still had enough fight to be mad about it. Though his body showed no wounds, his pain was clear in his hunched posture and the tight lines around his eyes. He rubbed at his heart absently, and I mirrored the expression with my free hand.

“You're leaving,” he said.

I nodded.

He shook his head, turned to face the window, as if all the answers lied somewhere in the Bay.

When he turned back, the regret in his gaze made my throat grow tight.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I wasn't thinking.”

“Don't apologize,” I told him, gripping the bag's handles. Why couldn't I move? We needed space. What had happened was too big, and it was obvious that neither of us knew what to do about it.

“I'm sorry I didn't ask you what happened,” he continued. “I should have before I went away. I should have a dozen different times since I got back. Every time I thought about him putting his hands on you I hated myself more for not killing him.”

I set my bag down, but only so I could wipe away the tears that were burning my eyes. The weight of his words made me tremble. He would have done anything to protect me.

“It's not your fault,” I said.

“Leaving you to handle it alone, that's my fault,” he said.

I shook my head. Forced myself to take a deep breath.

“Can you tell me now?” he asked. But his fists were flexing, and his jaw was working back and forth, and I knew as much as it would relieve me, it would kill him to hear the details of what Bobby had done.

“No,” I said.

His chin rose, and he moved a step closer. It wasn't until then that I realized he'd pushed back the couch, leaving a large space open in the living room.

“Can you show me?”

“What . . .” I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Show me how you fought him.”

I tried to laugh, but he wasn't laughing. This wasn't a joke to him in the slightest.

“Fight you, you mean?” I asked. This was twisted. Alec was not Bobby. I did not want to imagine their roles being reversed.

“Yes.”

“No,” I said. But the set look on his face as he drew closer made me wonder if he needed his hearing checked. I forced myself not to back away as he came within arm's reach. If he touched me now, I would crumble.

“He hit you. I remember the mark on your face.” When he raised the back of his hand to skim lightly over my cheek, I jerked away.

The fury came on with shocking force, too fast to rein in.

“So you're going to hit me?” I pushed him back hard. “Try it. See what happens to you.”

He exhaled with a shudder, then brought his right arm back. I couldn't believe it. Alec wouldn't hit me. He'd rather die.

He flinched, and in that instant instinct took over and I smacked his arm down, stepping around him to avoid the blow—not that there was actually any power behind it.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I asked, as he raised his hand again. This time he didn't just flinch, he followed through, adding a little more muscle. I pushed him away easily.

“What's wrong with you?” I could feel the tears sliding down my face and I hurriedly brushed them away with the back of my hand.

“Say
stop
,” he said, eyes cold as steel. “Tell me to stop.”

Tell him? Or tell Bobby? I didn't know who he was pretending to be, but I didn't like it.

We'd moved to the center of the room, rotating in a slow, watchful circle. My eyes darted from his hands to his face, looking for any sign of attack. This time when he lifted his arm to strike, I sidestepped and blocked him hard. Momentum carried him past. Any chance for him to grab me was eliminated.

“Was that supposed to be fast?” He rocked back and his open hand shot out so quickly I nearly missed the block. My breath came out in one hard whoosh as I dodged to the side and again let his weight carry him past me.

It pissed me off that he'd gotten so close, and when he came at me again, I pushed him down hard. He fell to one knee and I shoved him with both arms. He didn't fall; instead he swiped my ankles and I fell back hard on my butt.

My blood pumped like it was liquid fire. I'd never been so enraged.

He rose, and offered me his hand.

“Get up.”

I slapped it out of the way and stood on my own. This time when he went to hit me he paused, grabbed my hand, and forced it into a fist.

“Like a hammer,” he said.

I jerked away. “I know. I took six years of self-defense.”

My dad had made me start after he'd adopted me. But Alec was right. I hadn't been using the proper technique. It made me even madder that I'd forgotten in the heat of the moment.

He matched my hard gaze. “You want to stop, say so.”

I didn't say anything.

He swung his open hand toward my face and I sliced down hard with a hammer fist, this time hearing him grunt as I connected with his forearm. I shoved him through the motion, as I'd done before, and his knee hit the carpet with a thud.

Victory surged through me. I glared at him, breathing hard.

“Got you that time.”

He looked up at me, forehead damp with perspiration. I was sweating, too. I hadn't even realized it. The neck of my tank top was stained dark gray from the exertion.

He rose, nearly a foot taller than me and brutally strong, and I was reminded why the first rule of self-defense was to run.

But I didn't run, because as angry as I was, as much as I hated him in that moment, Alec Flynn didn't scare me.

We did it twice more, and the last I hit him so hard, he hissed in a breath and gripped his elbow. I didn't ask if he was all right. Adrenaline was blending with something else, something darker. I wanted to inflict pain, and he wasn't just letting me, he was welcoming it.

“How'd he get you in the car?” he asked, shaking it off.

I hesitated.

“You remember,” he said. “Show me.”

I looked away, dug my chin into my shoulder. Of course I remembered. I could still feel it every time I closed my eyes.

“Knocked me out. Choke hold from behind.”

He spun me around, and locked his forearm around my throat before I could take another breath. Again, I reacted, pulling my chin down, scratching at his wrist.

Just like I'd done with Bobby.

And just like with Bobby, I failed.

Alec placed no pressure on my neck, and when he saw me struggle he instructed me to use a heel strike to the knee. I followed his orders, but I couldn't balance enough to put any power into it. He was so tall, and every inch he lifted brought me higher on my toes.

“Use your weight,” he said.

I struggled. Because of my size, this position was always the hardest for me to break free from.

“I can't.”

“You can,” he growled.

In one fluid motion, I dropped my hips back and slammed my heel into his shin. His grip loosened for only a second, and in it, I tucked my chin under his arm, giving myself enough room to breathe. He dropped his arm.

“You let me go,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes, hands on his hips. I backed into him, ready for him to take me again. Somehow this twisted game had changed. I wanted to beat him. I needed to beat him.

I needed to do what I hadn't been able to do with Bobby.

Alec's arm slipped around my throat.

“Grab my elbow,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then do it.” His tone was harsh, and I responded with an elbow to his ribs. He swore through clenched teeth.

I grabbed his elbow, tucked my chin, and dropped my weight. This forced him to lean forward, and when he did, I twisted my body, placing my leg behind his. I turned my head, slipped through his hold.

“Knee strike,” he said.

In all my training, I'd never heard that.

“Where?”

He tapped the back of his knee. “Take me down and I can't follow you.”

I did as he said and he fell forward.

“Good.”

He rose, breathing hard. His shirt was stretched from our fighting. He crossed his arms and pulled it over his head, revealing a perfect, bronzed six-pack that made my body burn in an entirely different way.

He moved behind me, and I could feel the heat from his chest more acutely. His damp skin was slippery against my shoulder blades, hot as it rubbed the strip of my back exposed by the tank top that rode up my ribs. His cock, heavy, and growing thick, rested against the top of my ass. His warm breath in my hair had me pressing back against him. I could almost feel him bending me forward, sliding down my sweatpants, and burying every inch of his enormous length inside of me.

I craved that relief.

But I couldn't submit. Not yet.

He inhaled slowly. His arm loosened slightly. And in that moment I ripped through his hold and shoved him down on all fours.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

We did it twice more all out, and on the last time I crouched, and then collapsed against the sofa. My lungs burned like I'd just sprinted a mile. My shirt stuck to my skin with sweat. A tangled mess of hair spilled from my ponytail.

“Enough,” I gasped.

He sank to the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow on the back of his wrist. With each breath his muscles flexed, making me more aware of my own body, and how my lungs expanded with each gulp of air. I didn't understand how things had changed so quickly—fear, then fury, now something deeper and more powerful. He left me off balance, and yet somehow grounded at the same time.

“Why?” I asked.

His gaze held mine, though his shoulders bowed with guilt.

“Because you needed to win,” he said. “Christ, I don't know. Because I needed to see you win.”

I
had
won. I'd done everything I had with Bobby, but this time I'd changed the outcome. Maybe it was just in Alec's living room, and maybe I wasn't really in danger, but I felt stronger than I had in months.

“You're tough as fucking nails,” he said.

My breathing slowly evened out, but my heart pounded harder. We were a foot away, too far to accidently touch, too close to not be aware of each other's every move.

“How did you know all that?” I asked.

He bent his knees, resting his elbows on them. His bare feet stuck out from beneath the bottom of his jeans.

“Mike teaches women's self-defense at the YMCA on Thursday nights. He's probably still there.” He glanced over my shoulder at the clock in the kitchen. “I used to help him out sometimes.”

I felt a surge of affection for Mike. I hadn't known he did that. It made me like him even more.

Alec bit into the pad of his thumb, watching me carefully. I pictured him standing in a gym, surrounded by women. Pictured him taking hit after hit in the name of empowerment. How could I not have fallen in love with him?

I inched closer. “I meant, how did you know that would work?”

“I didn't.” He hesitated. “Some people talk with words. Some people don't. Sometimes you don't. It was a risk I probably shouldn't have taken.”

He was right; sometimes I couldn't talk. Sometimes I needed to run, or fuck, or fight. It felt strangely comforting to have someone know me better than I knew myself.

“I'm glad you did,” I said.

“I never would have really hit you.”

“I know.”

I crawled across the space between us, slowly, tentatively drawing closer until I was kneeling between his legs and our lips were a breath away. He'd grown as still as a statue, the only sign of unsteadiness in his eyes.

“I'm not scared of you,” I said.

I kissed him lightly and he barely moved. Again, and this time he seemed to melt, just a tiny give. His fingers curled into the carpet. A small noise came from the back of his throat as his eyes drifted closed. My hands found his jaw, and my touch was gentle. No more fists, no more fighting.

He whispered my name like a prayer.

Then he let go.

He was on his knees, dragging me against his hard body. His arms were so tight around my ribs I couldn't inhale. His fingers dug into my back like a strong wind was trying to pull me away. And he kissed me.

He kissed me like it was the last time he ever would.

Like it was the last time any man would ever kiss a woman.