Page 14 of Little Death
In the next second, muscular arms pluck me from the air, and my scream rends the stillness of the night before a big hand clamps over my mouth. “Did you really think you could run from me?” Aiden hisses, pressing his face to my throat, clenching me against his body.
Instinct takes over, and I claw at the arms restraining me, but he’s as immovable as the ancient live oaks in the front yard. My feet pinwheel in front of me, shoes flying from my hands going God knows where, and then he’s dragging me away from the garage door. Despite my cries, his hands are unforgiving against my skin, which surrenders to his bruising grip like the skin of a ripe peach.
Luck must take pity on me because our combined weight causes Aiden to stumble backward into the wall, and his grip loosens for the barest second. Using it to my advantage, I go completely dead in his arms, letting gravity carry me down through his hold, and I land heavy on my ass. Without pausing, I slap the ground, pushing to my feet, and then I’m running once again. Only this time, Aiden is much, much closer and exponentially more pissed off. His anger is almost as thrilling as the fear. His anger, unlike so much in my life, is something I understand.
“Run as fast as you can because if I catch you, I’ll punish you in ways that’ll make the devil blush,” he calls from behind me.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Any oxygen my greedy lungs suck in is used for more important things than talking. Like panicking. Trying to remain conscious. Or laughing hysterically.
Taking the next left, I reach a short hallway that includes the kitchen to my right and the pantry and garage access on the opposite wall. Relief pours into me, and I repeat my plan in cadence with each slap of my feet against the floor. Get to the garage. Brace the door behind me. Open the garage. Escape.
Behind me, Aiden gains ground, feet pounding a relentless rhythm, and I’m flooded with the exhilaration not unlike the kind I used to feel when playing hide-and-seek with Elizabeth or being chased on the playground at school when I was a kid. Except this isn’t a game. I know he’ll make good on his threats.
I slam into the garage door and spin to shut it behind me, but it’s too late. He’s too close. A panicked cry tears from my throat as Aiden collides with me before I can close it in his face. We grapple, his weight pressing in as I throw my body against the surface of the door, and it groans under the assault. Despite my efforts, he’s so much stronger that I may as well not be resisting at all.
In a stroke of bad luck, the door flies open from the strain, and we stumble. Momentum carries me around until I land on top of Aiden, who grunts at the impact. Before he can trap or pin me, I’m up and sprinting. I slap at the garage door control and find a set of golf clubs on the rack nearest to me, and before I can think too much about it, I grab one and swing wildly. To my surprise, it connects with Aiden’s face, and his head whips to the side.
Frozen in shock, I can only stare as Aiden slowly shifts until I can see a dark trail of blood streaming from his nose. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, staring at the smudge with an expression of curiosity.
A laugh bubbles up my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth as it spills over. He smiles, blood on his teeth, like he’s… enjoying himself?
Fuck me.
The garage door rattles mechanically, pulling me from my stupefaction, and I escape through the small opening before Aiden comes to his senses. Concrete scratches my knees raw, but I’m on my feet and racing down the dimly lit residential street, my soles protesting as sticks and tiny rocks assault them. A crowd bustles at the edge of the street, salvation so close I can practically feel the calming weight of relief washing through my chest.
Then I’m flying, and Aiden’s arm is back around my waist, holding me tight to his body. Waves of heat slam into me, and I wrench this way and that, but it’s futile. No amount of kicking, slapping, or even biting seems to deter him. He drags me kicking and screaming back down the road, his other hand has a bruising grip over my face once more.
“A valiant effort, pet. But you’ll never be able to outrun me.” But he doesn’t sound very much like he wants me to stop. No, I’d bet he’s enjoying the struggle as much as he did playing with me in the middle of the party. The evidence is undeniable. His thick, hot length presses like an iron brand into my back, sending liquid bolts of pleasure in a wet spill between my thighs.
When I don’t do as he says and instead try to rip free again, he merely throws me over one broad shoulder and plants a hand on my ass, the other arm going around my thighs as I tip precariously.
“I can walk,” I snarl at his back, my hands fisted in the material of his white shirt so I don’t fall. My purse dangles from where it hangs on my elbow, slapping against his side, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His muscles ripple with each step as he strides quickly back to the estate. “Let me down.”
“Not a feckin’ chance, sweetheart. I’m going to put you somewhere you can’t run from me,” he says, as we reach the garage and he hauls me through.
A sense of foreboding, more terrifying than having him chase me, knots up inside my stomach. Fuck. Fuck. This is bad. Whatever punishment he’s going to give me for trying to run away will be a million times worse than the one I got for drawing attention to myself in front of two of his guests.
We reach the stairs, and he takes them two at a time, heedless of my fists beating a wild tattoo on the rippling muscles of his back. With each step up, I fight harder, but I may as well be a gnat for all it affects him. I’m not unaffected, however. The desire he’d brought to life in me hadn’t diminished with my frantic dash through the house. No, running had only stoked it into a blaze.
I want to tear into him. Want to rub myself all over him. Want him to fill all the aching, empty parts of me.
“Let me go,” I pant at his back, but my words are so breathless they have no substance. It doesn’t even matter. He wouldn’t have chased me down if he had planned to let me go before this night was over.
We reach a door, and he shoulders through it, then kicks it shut, locking it with a key he stows in his pocket. Trapped. He releases me, and I stumble to my knees, my hands slapping on the parquet floor to keep from face-planting on the wood. Without looking up, I know we’re in my parents’ room, which only heightens my conflicting emotions. This is absolutely the last place I want to be.
I pause there at his feet, nostrils flaring and fantasizing about all the ways I could hurt him. It’s that or try to run again, but my whole body aches something fierce. Ass and skull from where I landed the first time, lungs from my mad dash, and various places where Aiden’s fingers have branded and bruised me. But I’ve never felt so fucking alive. All I should feel is disgust and fear. Desperation. Disappointment.
Since I feel none of those things, I reach for the nearest hefty object—a coffee-table book on a side table—and throw it at Aiden’s retreating back. It collides with him, and he stops. The way he turns, a slow revolution with the golden light coming in behind him, is menacing. Fraught. Yet I’m not scared.Or if I am, I enjoy it.
My blood thumps.
My heart sings.
But he doesn’t come closer with the promised punishment. Instead, he backs away, and I ignore the swoop of my stomach. Back, back, back, until his legs hit the bed, and he lowers himself onto the foot. I push up to my knees, waiting where I fell by the door. The dark hides my eager expression. This back-and-forth game we’re playing scares me almost as much as it excites me.
“Come here,” he beckons.
I lift my chin, conscious of the way my dress gapes between my breasts and rides up my thighs. “No chance in hell,” I say from my place on the floor. It may be across the room, but it still feels like I’m kneeling for him. “You’ll have to make me.”
