Read Online Capture (Siren Book 1) by Katie de Long - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie de Long
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reminds me how far I've come for this. Only a little left. I can rest easy by his side, knowing what's coming next.
His breathing evens out; between the booze and the vigorous sex, he's obviously out of it. Time to get to work.
The air itches my tender skin, a reminder of the marks I'll have in the morning. Calder's soft breath stirs the pillow next to my face.
I want the tears to stop. But at least they're silent, either that or he's drunk enough that a foghorn couldn't wake him. I try to pull my shattered mind together, to calm the flurry of neuroses and despair coursing through my veins, at receiving such pleasure from someone capable of such horrors.
I slide his arm off me, gently, so it won't disturb him. As stealthily as I can, I pad into the front foyer to get the syringe from my purse. When I return, a stream of light cuts across his face, highlighting his relaxed mouth, dappling his eyelids in an unearthly sheen. He's even more beautiful up close. The kind of man a woman could follow into hell, just to see the colors the flames paint in his eyes.
Insecurity makes my hand shake, turns my conviction to weakness. Am I really gonna do this? Can I really afford not to?
He stirs, and to buy myself time, I slide back into bed next to him, and stroke his cheek, hiding the needle behind my back. He mutters quietly, his lips curving into a serene smile that drops away as he slips deeper into sleep. I pull the needle out, looking from it, to him, and it's thirty seconds before I can convince myself to bring it down, stabbing the drugs deep into his neck.
His breathing slows, even and shallow to the point where it's hard to tell he's alive. And, for the first time alone, I lay next to him, and slide my fingers down to finally get some satisfaction that doesn't come with vulnerability or regret. It takes barely three strokes, after how long he wound me up. I press my face into his arm as I come, fingers pressed against my oversensitized clit, still slippery with his spit and my own need.
And as I catch my breath, as the weight falls off my chest, I rise to begin what has to happen next.
I climb out of bed, the chilly evening air tickling me as it rushes in where I just felt his warm skin against mine. The change startles me, the sudden sensation rendering me vulnerable. Just as helpless as I was, restrained in my own bed while he took what he wanted from me.
And now it's his turn to be helpless.
It's gonna be fine . I'm shaken, but not broken. And I've got the upper hand.
Game, set, match .
Eleven
Calder
I come to with metal against my cheek. Not a smooth, flat sheet, but rough grating with a serrated edge that cuts into my skin. The air smells of rust and mold, and there's a faint drip that I can't quite place.
My ears ring, the beginnings of a hangover settling behind my eyes. The low light seems a blessing, though one that gets more and more worrisome as my wits come back to me.
How did I get here? There's nothing from yesterday, past a mahogany bar counter.
How much did I drink ? I only remember a few. I've gotten blackout drunk before, but never woken up anywhere weirder than a stranger's couch. It would take lots more than that to blank me that completely.
And where the fuck is this ?
The space is about the size of my closet; there's room to walk, but only a little. I grope along the walls, my fingers probing along cool metalwork, along valves and pipes, and some kind of tank. A cool handrail pushes into my midsection as I work. After a moment of worry, I kneel down and try to see if I can reach the floor below my grating. My fingertips just barely make out more flooring, and damp. There's at least some water below me, though I can't say how much.
All this metal... the grating... it has to be industrial. That means... I wrack my brains. Ernie, maybe? Or Petrov? Have I forgotten any payments, or knocked up the wrong person's kid? Some of our business acquaintances are rough types, who might do
His breathing evens out; between the booze and the vigorous sex, he's obviously out of it. Time to get to work.
The air itches my tender skin, a reminder of the marks I'll have in the morning. Calder's soft breath stirs the pillow next to my face.
I want the tears to stop. But at least they're silent, either that or he's drunk enough that a foghorn couldn't wake him. I try to pull my shattered mind together, to calm the flurry of neuroses and despair coursing through my veins, at receiving such pleasure from someone capable of such horrors.
I slide his arm off me, gently, so it won't disturb him. As stealthily as I can, I pad into the front foyer to get the syringe from my purse. When I return, a stream of light cuts across his face, highlighting his relaxed mouth, dappling his eyelids in an unearthly sheen. He's even more beautiful up close. The kind of man a woman could follow into hell, just to see the colors the flames paint in his eyes.
Insecurity makes my hand shake, turns my conviction to weakness. Am I really gonna do this? Can I really afford not to?
He stirs, and to buy myself time, I slide back into bed next to him, and stroke his cheek, hiding the needle behind my back. He mutters quietly, his lips curving into a serene smile that drops away as he slips deeper into sleep. I pull the needle out, looking from it, to him, and it's thirty seconds before I can convince myself to bring it down, stabbing the drugs deep into his neck.
His breathing slows, even and shallow to the point where it's hard to tell he's alive. And, for the first time alone, I lay next to him, and slide my fingers down to finally get some satisfaction that doesn't come with vulnerability or regret. It takes barely three strokes, after how long he wound me up. I press my face into his arm as I come, fingers pressed against my oversensitized clit, still slippery with his spit and my own need.
And as I catch my breath, as the weight falls off my chest, I rise to begin what has to happen next.
I climb out of bed, the chilly evening air tickling me as it rushes in where I just felt his warm skin against mine. The change startles me, the sudden sensation rendering me vulnerable. Just as helpless as I was, restrained in my own bed while he took what he wanted from me.
And now it's his turn to be helpless.
It's gonna be fine . I'm shaken, but not broken. And I've got the upper hand.
Game, set, match .
Eleven
Calder
I come to with metal against my cheek. Not a smooth, flat sheet, but rough grating with a serrated edge that cuts into my skin. The air smells of rust and mold, and there's a faint drip that I can't quite place.
My ears ring, the beginnings of a hangover settling behind my eyes. The low light seems a blessing, though one that gets more and more worrisome as my wits come back to me.
How did I get here? There's nothing from yesterday, past a mahogany bar counter.
How much did I drink ? I only remember a few. I've gotten blackout drunk before, but never woken up anywhere weirder than a stranger's couch. It would take lots more than that to blank me that completely.
And where the fuck is this ?
The space is about the size of my closet; there's room to walk, but only a little. I grope along the walls, my fingers probing along cool metalwork, along valves and pipes, and some kind of tank. A cool handrail pushes into my midsection as I work. After a moment of worry, I kneel down and try to see if I can reach the floor below my grating. My fingertips just barely make out more flooring, and damp. There's at least some water below me, though I can't say how much.
All this metal... the grating... it has to be industrial. That means... I wrack my brains. Ernie, maybe? Or Petrov? Have I forgotten any payments, or knocked up the wrong person's kid? Some of our business acquaintances are rough types, who might do
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