Page 56 of Run Rabbit Run

"You're shaking," he observes, his tone devoid of pity.

He knows.

He's watched me for a year. He knows everything about me, down to the frequency of my fear.

He shifts his weight, crowding me against the cold pane, and then his hand moves.

His palm settles firmly against my throat.

It isn't a strike. It's a claim.

He doesn't squeeze to kill, but he closes his grip just enough to narrow the airway.

I gasp, a sharp, thin sound that catches in my windpipe.

The panic hits first—the primal, animal terror of losing air.

But then, something else stirs deep in my gut, a traitorous warmth that makes my stomach flip.

I hate it.

I want to scream, to claw at his wrist, but the lack of oxygen makes my head swim.

"Look at your pulse," he whispers, his thumb pressing right against my carotid artery. "It's racing for me."

He guides me off the window seat, steering my limp body toward the bed.

I'm a lean, strong athlete, but days of isolation and hunger have turned my muscles to water.

He pushes me back onto the mattress, his hand never leaving my neck.

The pressure is constant, a reminder that my next breath belongs to him.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise feels like a slap.

I want to recoil, but my hips instinctively arch toward him.

I'm starving for any touch, any recognition, and my body is pathetic enough to mistake his possession for kindness.

He strips me with a slow, methodical patience, his eyes never leaving mine.

When he exposes me, the cold air hits my wetness, and I shudder.

I'm not aroused by him. I'm aroused by the terror, by the sheer helplessness of it.

It's a biological glitch, a malfunction of the nerves, and it fills me with a crushing sense of grief.

Ezra notices immediately.

"You're leaking for me already," he notes, his voice calm and certain. "Your mind says no, but your pussy is begging."

He doesn't move to fuck me yet. He wants me to feel the anticipation, the agony of the wait.

He slides two fingers inside me without warning.

I gasp, my back arching, my fingers digging into the sheets.

It's too much and not enough at the same time.