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“He raped you?” And there’s harsh anger in his voice, but it’s not at me. He’s angry with my stepfather. I know that somehow.
I gulp in deep breaths, my chest heaving in distress. I don’t want to talk about this, but as long as I’m talking, Joshua is listening to me and not moving on to whatever he has planned next. “No. I was seven. He touched me between my legs a few times when he was drunk and my mom was passed out in their bedroom. I used to press my legs together really tight and squirm away from him, and he’d stop.” My stomach clenches, and I press back against the wall, as if I can shrink away from the memories.
I don’t like the way Joshua is staring at me, intently, blue eyes probing the tender, painful recesses of my mind. “What happened to him?”
I choke on the words. “He left.”
He nods solemnly, kneeling again, and kisses my stomach, his lips featherlight. I gasp in arousal.
“He’s gone forever. When I’m touching you, you only think of me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He kisses my navel. “Do you like that? Don’t lie to me, Tamara. I’ll know.”
No, you won’t. Because I just lied to you right now about my stepfather leaving.
Because I did a Bad Thing.
But my lips open and I hear myself saying, “Yes.”
I want to believe I’m just saying that because as long as he’s kissing me, he’s not hurting me. He threatened punishment, and I’m sure it’s still coming. But the truth is, he’s forcing my own body to betray me, and the pleasure flooding through me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He slowly kisses his way down, lips caressing my flesh, and then his mouth is on the seam of my heated sex, and his tongue probes gently. I gasp in arousal and part my legs. It’s like my body belongs to someone else. My mind is screaming in protest and my body is a slut in heat.
“Do you like that?” He pauses, waiting.
“Yes.” I grind the word out, hating myself for saying it.
Only then does he move. My acknowledgment guides him downward. He spreads me open with his fingers, and before I know it, I’ve arched my back and moved my hips forward to meet him.
His mouth closes over my clit, sucking on the sensitive little nub, and a whimper escapes my lips. When he pulls away, the loss of sensation is almost painful, and I bite my lip hard so I don’t whimper again.
“How about that?” He waits for my answer. I could say no, and I believe he’d stop.
I close my eyes and grab at what’s left of my self-control. “I don’t want to be here. I want you to set me free. I hate you and I want you to die.”
“I know all that,” he says patiently. “But that’s not what I asked you. Do you like what I’m doing to you right now?”
“Yes,” I whisper, as if saying it very, very quietly will make it untrue.
He buries his face between my legs, stroking me with his tongue several times, and my muscles start to relax as I abandon myself to the delicious sensation for a few moments. Then the reality of what I’m doing crashes down on me, and I jerk my body violently, moving my hips a few inches to the left and dislodging him. But only because he lets me. Apparently he told the truth. He won’t force himself on me sexually.
He stands up, then runs his finger along his lips and slides it into his mouth, sucking off my juices. It’s incredibly sensual, and I start to relax, slumping back against the wall, but the moment is gone all too soon.
The dreamy look vanishes, and his face settles into a hard, merciless mask. “Now it’s time to address your behavior earlier.”
He walks away again, and I go stiff with fear. Was this because I moved away from him? Should I have let him continue? What would be worse—the pain he’s going to inflict on me, or the sickening humiliation of letting my kidnapper nudge me toward orgasm?
And why is he taking so long? I stare straight ahead, not wanting to see what he’s doing. I hear him walking slowly, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the walls and smacking my ears. I think he must have designed the room so that footsteps would echo. It’s part of the whole effect, everything in here designed to build fear and anticipation.
I try to comfort myself, fortify my mind against what’s coming.
My stepfather used to beat my bare behind with a belt. I’ve experienced pain before. I can take it. I’ll just grit my teeth and bear it. I didn’t even cry out for my stepfather, not after the first few times. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I’m strong. I can survive this. I can.
He’s coming back.
And he’s holding a long, tan wooden stick with a leather-wrapped handle.
