Page 51

We didn’t discuss the length of the head start, and I’m in no mood to waste time, but I’ll be a gentleman about it. After a slow count of fifty, I set out to find her. Whistling softly to myself, I close the front door before beginning my hunt.

That’s what it is. A hunt. My prey is out there, maybe trembling, maybe laughing to herself and swearing I’ll never find her. Or more likely, talking to herself about how excited she is for me to uncover her.

The night air is surprisingly still, making it so sound doesn’t carry as well. Not that I need any extra help, considering June’s footprints are so easy to follow away from the house, off toward the barn. The building is large enough for dozens of animals, yet sits almost empty. Window dressing, all of it.

It’s also the most obvious choice for a place to hide. She knows that, too, which has to be why I see so much dirt kicked up around her prints, like she thought she could cover them. Well, at least she tried.

Now I understand why serial killers always walk so slowly in movies. I never did understand that before. If your prey is directly in front of you and you know they can’t get away, why not get it over with? Why risk them escaping?

I understand now. It’s all about savoring the experience. There’s something more satisfying than even the finest meal in walking slowly, knowing she can’t get away from me without me seeing her immediately, even in the dark. She’s probably in the hayloft, or else hiding in the back corner of one of the stalls. Her sloppily covered footprints end at the stable entrance, where I now stand and listen closely for any sound.

All is silent, surprisingly so. Now she’s good at being stealthy? There isn’t any obvious evidence of exactly where she’s hiding either. Slowly I enter, my footsteps ringing out like steady, measured gunfire on the plank flooring.

Hay rustles overhead. Not much, not for long, but enough. I don’t pause my progress. Instead, I pretend I didn’t hear. Opening each stall door one at a time, I let them slam shut while imagining the way she must be flinching at the loud sound.

The smell of sweet, fresh hay combines with that of the animals that used to live in these stalls. It’s almost primal, stirring up countless thoughts of going feral on her. I’ll bide my time, though, since waiting always makes everything sweeter. I continue my search, hanging back near the door, before peering into the dark building. I know what will happen next, because she is just too predictable.

Sure enough, it’s not long at all before she ventures out from her hiding spot in the loft. Slowly, she pokes her head over the edge to peer down at the floor. There are bits of hay sticking out of her hair and stuck to her sweater.

When enough time passes for her to feel secure, she climbs down the ladder and brushes herself off.

I lighten my footsteps, gliding like a ghost to where she stands with her back to me. She is tense but unaware of the threat creeping up behind her.

And that’s what makes throwing my hand over her mouth and pulling her in close against me so much more rewarding.

“I told you I’d find you,” I whisper in her ear. “When are you going to learn to believe me?”

I doubt she hears a word thanks to the way she kicks out with both legs, grunting behind my hand, fighting. She’s actually fighting. Her feet leave the floor, her tiny fists pounding my arms, but all it does is get me fully erect. Playtime is over by the time her ass rubs against my straining erection. “Now, you remember the rules,” I say, dragging her into the closest stall. “I get to do anything I want.”

She’s still kicking and twisting when I toss her into a pile of hay, where she lands softly and struggles to get to her feet. “That’s right, try to get out of this,” I urge softly while she sputters and brushes herself off again.

She’s so busy worrying about the hay stuck to her clothes that she has no time to react when I reach out and grab her the way I wanted to back at the house. “You smell good,” I murmur, nuzzling her neck as I turn her in place.

“No fair,” she groans, still trying, and failing, to fight me off. She isn’t trying as hard now, though. I don’t think it has anything to do with her running out of steam either. Not once my lips graze her delicate skin and make her shiver.

Yet once I bend her over until she has to hold on to the iron bars above her head for support, she shoots me a worried look over one shoulder. “What are you going to do?” The worry in her voice shouldn’t excite me the way it does. But there’s no denying it thanks to the precum leaking from my tip, spreading in my boxer briefs.

“Whatever comes to mind.”

She flinches almost violently once my palm makes contact with her delectable ass, set off to perfection in her jeans. “You know what? You’re wearing too much clothing.” All at once, I yank them down to her knees, taking her thong with them. “You underestimated me. You thought I couldn’t find you, didn’t you?”

Her response comes out as a trembling, uncertain whisper. “Yes?”

She jumps in response to my palm striking her ass again. “And you were wrong for that, weren’t you?”

Now she’s starting to get it, and there’s more certainty in her response this time. “Yes. I was wrong.”

Another strike makes her back arch and her legs tremble. My palm is tingling, but her ass is a work of art, my handprints starting to darken her ivory skin.

When I run my nails over those prints, she gasps and starts to go limp. “Oh shit, that’s . . . that’s . . .”

“Intense?” I finish for her.

She whimpers her agreement, then whines when I do it again.

“All the blood has rushed to the surface, so you feel it that much better.”

She feels when one of my fingers slides between her ass cheeks too. She stiffens with a gasp and starts to let go of the bars just over her head, but I cover her hands with mine, giving them a squeeze.