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CHAPTER FOUR
CARMEN
I’m dead. I must be. But when I run my hand up my body, feeling every sore spot on me under my clothes—clothes I passed out without—I realize I’m very much alive. I open my eyes and peer around the darkness, trying to see where I am or if I’m alone. When the bed shifts beside me, I shoot up and leap to my feet.
I swing my arms around the open space around me and scream as loud as I can. “Don’t touch me!”
When the light finally flips on, I’m facing the cream wall of the dingy motel, yelling at no one. I quickly turn around, keeping my fists raised, as if I even know how to fight, and see him.
“Are you okay?”
I tip my head and drop my fists. He can’t be serious. “Okay? Seriously? You fucking choked me out.” I drop my fists, then move one hand to my neck and rub where his fingers locked onto me. The slight aching that dances behind my touch sends a jolt to my core, but I try to ignore it. Thinking with my pussy got me in this fucked-up position.
“You could have told me to stop, Spitfire. Why didn’t you?” He takes a step closer.
I raise my hand and step back, warning him to not come closer. In return, he raises his hands in surrender and waits for my answer, but I won’t give it to him.
“Answer me.” I shake my head. “It’s okay if you liked it.”
“Liked it? You could have killed me,” I shriek.
“But I didn’t, and I won’t.” He takes another step, and my knees start to wobble, but I can’t make myself move. I’m locked in his hypnotic stare again as I start to think. Really think.
For some fucked-up reason, I believe him. If he wanted to hurt me, he could have. He could have left me naked in that field for no one to find, but instead, he brought me back to his room and dressed me.
His eyes catch the motion of my knees wobbling even more and look down, then back up to my face. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
He holds up his hands as he continues slowly. With every step forward, I take one back until my shoulder blades hit the wall. It’s a different game than the one we just played. I push myself into it, knowing I can’t go any further. When he stops in front of me, his hands move up to my face at a snail’s pace. I flinch, squeezing my eyes closed tightly as he grips my chin between his pointer and thumb, then gently turns my head and angles it up.
“You’re probably going to bruise a little.” He sounds almost sorry. Almost.
“You don’t think?” I remark sarcastically, and it earns me a smile, the one I so desperately wanted to see in the light, and a laugh.
“You’ve never dabbled in breath play?” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like everyone is into kinky shit that can kill you.
I shake my head, letting his hand fall. “I don’t dance with death, Stallion. I enjoy living too much.”
Another laugh bubbles from him, and it makes the corners of my lips want to pull up into a smile. “I could argue that. You let me—a stranger—chase you…” He shakes his head and then changes the subject. “Ice and ibuprofen will help with the swelling. Vitamin K cream will help the marks fade quicker.”
I narrow my eyes. “You do this a lot?”
Another award-winning smile skates across his lips. “I told you, I’m into a few different things, but breath play is my favorite, although chasing a beautiful woman through a field in the middle of the night is a close second.”
“What else are you into?” I ask, not commenting on the game because I don’t know if I’m ready to admit if I liked it or not.
If I’m being honest with myself, I could say I loved it. The thrill, the adrenaline. The pure elation from someone wanting me enough to chase me.
No one ever chases me. They’re always running away instead.
“I like to praise.” He runs his fingers along my chin, pulling me from my thoughts.
Dropping his hand, he steps back, then walks to the table we sat at when I first got here, and it makes me feel empty. Like I miss his intrusive presence. “Why is it your favorite? Breath play?”
I can get behind the praising and the chasing. Being told “good girl” and hearing sweet pet names is fucking hot, along with being basically hunted in a lust-filled haze, but breath play? I don’t hate it, but it’s kind of scary. By the same token, something about what he did to me makes me want to know more. I want to keep him talking. I want to take all he will give me.
“Another time, Spitfire. I have work.” He tosses me an envelope and picks up a duffel bag I never noticed from the floor.
I pick up the purse I dropped on my way out, then walk to the table he’s standing at. Slipping my phone out, I see it’s 2:00 a.m. “How long was I out?”
