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The thought made my gut wrench, but not with sickness. Now the thought comes back as I pull my panties back up and tighten the drawstring of my track pants and catch a glimpseof myself in the mirror and see my face streaked with Xavier’s saliva.
“Ohmygod, he kissed me,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. “Kissed me while I touched him.”
Of course, the savage way Xavier devoured my lips and licked my face was more than a kiss. And the desperate way I jerked him off to that violently explosive climax was far more than just me “touching” him.
I made him come.
And he came for me.
Just like he was hard for me, horny for me, big for me.
So fucking big.
Could that really fit inside . . . inside me?
“OK, stop!” I hold the phone up again, poise my finger above the keypad, tell myself that of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, the stupidest would be if I don’t call the cops right now.
But you promised, comes the reminder from that childishly obsessive part of me that refuses to break promises even though I know that being a grown-up means you tell lies sometimes and you break promises sometimes and you make hard decisions where you give up something because what you get in return is worth the sacrifice.
The conflict almost makes me cry. I feel those childish tears well up in my eyes, sense that juvenile frustration choke up in my chest. I’m smart enough to know what Stockholm Syndrome is, understand that sometimes a captive identifies with her captor, begins to see the world from his perspective, gets recruited to his cause, manipulated by his motives.
Except Xavier’s motives seem to be more than just freedom.
He seems to want more than just to escape.
He seems to also want . . . me.
Even though he didn’t take me the way he wanted.
Didn’t fuck me the way he says I need to be fucked.
He kept his promise.
Now the full impact of what happened back there hits me, and I gasp when I realize that the really shocking part isn’t what happened.
It’s whatdidn’thappen.
A convicted murderer who hasn’t been with a woman in four years captures me. He’s just escaped from federal prison, which means if he’s caught, he’s a dead man one way or the other. If they don’t shoot him on sight, they’ll pretty much put him away for the rest of his life—assuming he wasn’t already serving a life sentence.
So there was absolutely no reason for Xavier to not just fuck me whether or not I wanted. But instead he controlled his lust, restrained his need, kept his hands off me until I suddenly found myself by his side, my fingers wrapped around his big cock, my mouth open for his hungry kiss, my pussy wet from the way he was groping my ass, his bear-sized paw big enough to palm my large bottom in the most pleasing way.
And I truly don’t remember going to him. It’s like I blacked out, my brain shutting down and doing what my body wanted, moving to him like I was being drawn there, like it was fate, destiny, my cookie crumbling in the most shockingly filthy way imaginable.
Now I giggle as I picture Xavier groaning at my admittedly overused metaphor, and I’m startled when I see the warm blush of affection brighten my reflection in the mirror. It’s ridiculous, but I feel like Xavier already knows more about me than any other man.
“Which isn’t saying much,” I reply to myself with a sarcastic eye-roll. “Now grow the fuck up and make the call. He’s a murderer. Which means he killed someone. Maybe more than one person. He’s not a good man. Which means you can’t trust him to keep his promise, to stick with the deal, to not kill you if ithelps him get away whenever he’s done with whatever business he has to take care of with some guy named Kieran.”
Now the name sends a ripple of recognition through my body. But Kieran is a common Irish last name. Thousands of them in the Boston area. I only know one Kieran, and that was years ago now.
Well, itwasyears ago until last week, when Patrick showed up at your store and freaked you out, I remind myself. But stop. You said you wouldn’t think about that because it makes you anxious. Let Xavier take care of his business. You take care of your business.
Now suddenly I remember my deliveries, and for a moment I wonder if calling the police will screw up my schedule. I’ll have to wait for them here, won’t I? Then answer their questions after they arrest Xavier.
And what if they question me about why Xavier’s semen is all over his prison jump-suit in the back of my truck?!
What if they think I’m an accomplice!
Wait, I kind ofaman accomplice already, aren’t I?
