Page 34 of Hunting Harbor

The irony of my statement hangs in the air between us. Her shoulders hunch further, making her look smaller, more vulnerable. Exactly how I like her.

"I—I don't think hiking is a good idea," she says, still not turning to face me. "I’m sore from yesterday."

For some reason that sends a thrill through me. I made her hurt, but not in any way other than the kind that elicits moans from her lips and her pussy convulsing around my cock.

"Another time, then," I concede, watching as her shoulders slump with momentary relief.

Harbor finally manages to pour her coffee without incident, and she turns, leaning against the counter, her fingers white-knuckled around the mug as she takes a sip. I watch the muscles in her throat work as she swallows, remembering how they felt beneath my palm when I applied just enough pressure to remind her who was in charge.

"Why don't you come sit with me?" I gesture to the chair across from mine. "We should talk about last night."

Her entire body goes rigid, like prey that's just caught the scent of a predator. She sets the mug down with a sharp click against the counter, coffee sloshing over the rim.

"I need to use the bathroom," she says, her eyes not meeting mine.

I smile. "Of course. Take your time."

She practically bolts from the kitchen, and I hear the bathroom door close, followed by the decisive click of the lock. As if that flimsy piece of metal could keep me out if I decided to go in.

I sip my cold coffee and wait. The morning stretches before us, hours of delicious tension to savor before night falls again. And when it does, I'll show her more of what waits in the darkness. More of what waits inside me.

More of what she pretends she doesn't want.

When Harbor finally emerges from the bathroom, her face is damp and her eyes slightly red. Been crying, has she? Fucking adorable. She hovers by the hallway entrance, calculating the safest path through the kitchen—probably hoping to grab her coffee and retreat to some corner where she thinks I can't reach her. I let her make it back to the counter before I push back from the table, the screech of wood against wood making her freeze like a startled deer.

"Feel better?" I ask, standing slowly, deliberately.

She nods, a quick jerky movement, eyes darting from me to the front door, measuring distance, calculating odds. I want to laugh. There's nowhere to run, not really. Even if she made it outside, we're miles from anything resembling civilization. Miles from anyone who might help her.

Noah was around here, but there’s no way he’d interfere. Not when I know he’d rather be balls deep inside his own woman.

I move toward her with unhurried steps, enjoying how she backs away until she hits the counter. The coffee mug she abandoned earlier sits beside her elbow, steam no longer rising from its surface. Cold now, just like her skin will be when I touch it.

"Harbor," I say, my voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the space between us. "You're avoiding me."

"I’m not," she lies, her teeth catching her bottom lip in a way that makes my cock twitch. She turns, giving me her back. A sign of submission. "I've just been... processing."

"Processing." I echo the word, letting it hang in the air between us as I close the final distance. I stop directly behind her, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body, close enough that she can feel my breath disturbing the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. "And what conclusions have you reached?"

She doesn't answer, just grips the edge of the counter until her knuckles turn white. Her breathing quickens, shallow little pants that make her chest rise and fall rapidly. I can see her pulse fluttering in the delicate hollow of her throat like a trapped bird.

"You're safe here," I murmur, letting my lips brush against the shell of her ear. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That was never my intention."

Her shoulders stiffen even as she unconsciously leans back, her body betraying her with its need for contact. I don't touch her yet, though I ache to. The anticipation is part of the game.

"You..." Her voice breaks, and she swallows hard before trying again. "You choked me. Bruised me."

I smile against her hair, inhaling the scent of fear and flowery shampoo. "I marked you. There's a difference." My fingers hover just above the curve of her hip, not quite touching. "And you liked it. Don't pretend you didn't."

Her lips part, but no words come out. She's struggling with the truth—that despite her fear, despite her better judgment, some dark part of her responded to my darkness last night. I saw it in her eyes when she couldn’t breathe. Heard it in the catch of her breath when I let go and fucked her to within an inch of her life.

"I should leave," she whispers, but she doesn't move. Can't move, with me caging her against the counter, my body a wall of heat at her back.

"Should you?" I murmur back. "Where would you go, Harbor? Back to your empty apartment? Back to staring at blank pages, waiting for inspiration that never comes? Back to writing your fantasies instead of living them?"

She flinches as if I've hit her.

"Have you..." She stops, gathers courage like a shield. "Have you been stalking me?"

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