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And then, suddenly, it was over—an explosion of sensation coursing through us both until we lay in a breathless heap on the bed, our bodies tangled together in exhaustion. As Declan’s breathing slowed down and his grip around me relaxed, I felt a strange warmth fill my chest—something I couldn’t quite place or understand.
Something wrong.
Something terrifying.
But also, something I wanted to experience again.
My fucked-up brainenjoyedit.
DECLAN
Ipretended to sleep, feigning heavy, slow breaths while she went to work on her bindings. The small, secret smile that had taken up residence on my face was the only giveaway to my true alertness, should anyone have been watching. But no one was watching. Just me. Just her.
I felt her shift, the way the mattress beneath us gave slightly under us, subtle though it was. She was being careful, so careful, her movements small and measured as she reached for the knife I’d carelessly left in her reach. She was a lot of things, Clover, but careless wasn’t one of them.
A chuckle bubbled up from within me, unbidden and unwelcome. I had to suppress it, my body shaking slightly with the effort. This was too good, too damn enjoyable. It wasn’t often that I was surprised by a person, not often that I found amusement in the face of someone else’s defiance. But this woman . . . Clover was a different breed altogether.
It was like trying to break in a wild horse. The harder they bucked, the more satisfying it was to finally have them under your control, to finally break them and bend them to your will. And I could tell, Clover was going to buck hard. It was a challenge I looked forward to.
And when she broke, I’d take care of her. I’d treat her like a fucking queen.
I allowed my eyes to flutter open, barely a crack, and watched as she sawed through her bindings with the knife. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a determined line. It was almost endearing, her resolute focus and unwavering determination.
In that moment, I realized that to fully control her, I had to understand her. Understand her spirit, her fight, her resolve. Only by witnessing the lengths she would go to in order to escape, only by measuring her will, could I begin to comprehend who she was.
With a final tug, the rope fell away from her wrists. The look of triumph in her eyes was almost beautiful, a sight to behold. But it was fleeting. Soon it would be replaced with fear, confusion, and finally, submission. I couldn’t wait.
But for now, I let her revel in her victory, let her think she was escaping. I wanted to see how far she’d get, how hard she would fight. It was all part of the process, breaking her in. So I lay still, a predator hidden in the shadows, watching his prey unknowingly walk into his trap.
I had to admit, I was looking forward to what came next. Because no matter how hard she fought, no matter how far she got, she was still mine. Clover was mine to break, mine to tame. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I watched her, or rather listened, as she shuffled to find some clothes. Every small rustle, every tiny exhale, became a soundtrack of anticipation. Then, right on cue, I stirred. It wasn’t an overly dramatic movement, just a soft grunt, a slight shift, enough to inspire fear.
Her breath hitched. Even without seeing, I knew what expression crossed her face. Fear, likely mixed with resolve. She was a stubborn one, my Clover, an attribute I found endearing in its own twisted way.
Her fear was my pleasure, an adrenaline rush that eclipsed any traditional thrill. It was intoxicating, this cat and mouse game. It made me feel alive, powerful.
The soft creak of the RV door followed by a rush of cool air signaled her departure. I didn’t have to see to know she was gone. The absence of her, the silence she left in her wake, was loud enough.
An unhurried smile tugged at the corners of my lips. There was no rush. She wouldn’t get far, not from me. I was her captor, yes, but more importantly, I was her observer. I understood her in ways she likely didn’t understand herself.
So I lay there, a predator relishing in the thrill of the chase. Her fear, her flight, it was all part of the dance. I let the silence stretch, savored the calm before the storm, before finally pushing myself off the bed.
She had a head start, but that was all part of the fun. I looked forward to the chase, to seeing the surprise and fear in her eyes when she realized escape was a delusion.
And so, with her scent still lingering in the air and her fear echoing in the silence, I went after my wildflower, ready to enjoy the hunt.
* * *
I was grinning like a damn fool, hiding in the undergrowth, my face hit by the night air. There she was, Clover, changing her locks like that could keep me out. It was laughable, really.
She was a runner, that much was clear. Those long legs of hers, squeezed into tight jeans, looked ready to sprint a marathon. But against me? She wouldn’t stand a chance. Her moves, graceful as a damn ballet, were not lost on me. I was watching, always watching.
Her hair, long and flowing, was a beacon in the night. I could almost feel it slipping through my fingers, pulling her close. And her lips, man, those lips. Red. Full. Inviting. They were something I was ready to savor.
But those eyes. Damn, those brown eyes. Bright with life and smarts, and something else. Fire. And I was ready to snuff it out. Ready to replace it with me, with need. It was a drug I was willing to mainline.
My blood pumped faster with every move she made. I was itching to claim her, to make her mine in every way. The thought of her under me, giving in, had my skin prickling with anticipation. The night held a promise, a promise of her.
