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They were wrapped around his dick as he masturbated.
My heart sank into my stomach, and I glared at him as he moaned, his eyes falling closed as my lace rubbed against his skin and the muscles in his arms flexed.
What the…? I stepped back, sickened.
“We want to leave,” he told me, “but we’ll never really be free, Emory.” He looked at me again. “You can take him home, but he can never go back.”
And he zoned in on me, jerking harder and harder. My stomach rolled, but I couldn’t move, completely paralyzed as I watched him.
Until he begged in a whisper, “Suck on your finger. Deep throat it for me. Suck it hard.”
I couldn’t make my legs move, and I didn’t notice I wasn’t breathing until my lungs ached.
I bolted from the room, hearing his deep, dark laughter echo behind me as I ran.
I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I found myself in the gym, ignoring Micah on the weights as I jumped on the treadmill, starting the machine and running in my bare feet.
I needed to run. I needed to be too exhausted to care.
Will gave him my underwear? I gnashed my teeth together, my nausea turning to fury.
Micah popped up his head, watching me for a moment, but then left the weights and started sparring with the dummy.
My body cooled with sweat, and I upped the pace faster and faster until I thought I couldn’t keep up just to work off the steam and worry and rage.
I wasn’t just going to sit here for four weeks.
I wasn’t going to count on anyone to protect me.
I may not be able to run, depending on the elements, so I couldn’t count on that as my only option, but I could do something.
Nine years ago, I decided to sit and wait. Ride it out and then run.
I wasn’t doing that anymore.
I hit the emergency Stop button and jumped off the treadmill, panting as I walked over to Micah.
“Show me some moves?” I asked, breathing hard as I removed my glasses.
He stopped and straightened, scowling at me. “Why would I do that?”
“What do you want in return?”
He grinned, and I arched an eyebrow at him.
I was pretty sure he didn’t want that.
“A sandwich,” he said.
I snorted, not missing the intended insult about a woman’s place.
But it wasn’t a horrible idea. I’d have an excuse to be in the kitchen with access to the food.
Even if someone kept an eye on me, I could hoard away something. It might come in handy if I needed to run or hide for an extended period of time.
“A Philly cheesesteak sandwich?” I clarified, upping the ante.
It wasn’t kosher, so I couldn’t eat it. It was one of the few rules I followed.
