9. Kelley
9
KELLEY
T he nerve of this fucking guy.
I'm a sitting duck in the front seat of this car while Jackson works his way around to the driver’s side, wondering how the hell I got myself into this mess. The memories play back while I sit there, trapped in the nicest upholstery I've ever seen. All this for an interview.
“Don’t you dare mess with my leather,” he warns, strapping himself into place.
Looking around, an idea hits me. Leather huh? Good thing my nails are sharp.
As Jackson starts the engine, I discreetly drag my nails across the smooth leather interior, etching faint lines into the expensive material. If he wants to abduct me, I'll make sure to leave my mark.
Jackson's eyes flash to me, catching my subtle act of defiance. "What did I say about the leather?" His voice comes out low and threatening.
I meet his glare head-on.
"Oops, my bad," I reply, making sure he sees me scraping my nails across the seat once more. The leather parts easily under my scratching, much to his dismay.
Suddenly, Jackson reaches across and grabs my wrist in an iron-tight grip. I try to pull away but his hold is unbreakable. He brings my hand up to his face.
"These claws of yours are dangerous," he says, inspecting my fingers. Before I can react, he places two of my digits in his mouth, sucking on them roughly. The warmth of his mouth sends an involuntary jolt through me.
I punch him in the side with my free hand, trying to break free of his grip. He doesn't even flinch. A wicked grin spreads across his face as his tongue continues lashing against my captive fingers.
"Keep fighting me and you'll regret it," Jackson threatens after releasing my hand. I scowl and cross my arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
As we drive on, I silently vow to make him pay for this humiliation. I examine my fingers, still glistening with his saliva.
As he turns the corner, I make my move. If I can’t use my nails on the seats, then I’ll try the man instead. With a deep breath, I brave the high speeds, charging my nails towards his face.
“Not so fast,” he smirks, grabbing my left wrist he yanks me across his lap. The next thing I feel is a massive smack against my backside.
“Fuck, that hurt.” I yelp, remembering his hand there before. But despite the searing pain of getting spanked in the exact same spot, I feel a familiar surge of moisture hit the rim of my panties, and despite myself, I drink in the hot reminder of just how in charge he is.
“Think about how my poor upholstery feels,” he says, rubbing the seat where I once sat. I can hardly shift myself. His hands move from the seat towards my thigh, and he begins touching me between my legs.
“Well, well, well,” he says, exploring the moisture he can feel through my jeans. “What do we have here?”
He hits every turn at lightning speed but clamped between him and the steering wheel is my helpless body. I grit my teeth and look up at my captor, cool as ice as he rims around the corner. The car hits a curb that grinds beneath us, and knowing it’s my last chance I go in for a swift bite at his ear.
“Down girl,” he warns.
I spit out a curse along with a bit of his flesh. A hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. His hand dives deep around me, feeling me as though he’s looking for something.
“What’s under this shirt? I’ve already seen your claws, but what else are you hiding from me?”
I have a smart answer at the ready, I always do. But I’m dead silent, trying to fight the arousal he stirs in me as his fingers glide forcefully around my breasts. I’m not about to give myself away, even if his touch has me paralyzed.
We pull up to an imposing iron gate, and with a click of a button, it swings open to reveal a sprawling mansion estate. Any other day and this place would look heavenly, like a hotel. But I know a prison when I see one, this fortress won’t let me out any time soon.
My chance of escape is rapidly diminishing as he pulls up to the grand entrance. I make one last fruitless attempt to pull myself from his grasp before the engine cuts off.
In a swift motion he's out of the driver's seat and wrenching my door open, his grip like a vise on my arm. I kick and flail but he's unfazed, dragging me towards the imposing double doors.
We enter the lavish foyer where he barks an order at the household staff. Their response is automatic deference. I search their faces for any hint of sympathy but find only avoidance.
“Help me!” I cry, but to no avail. Dead-eyed looks dare not cross my face as my cries fall on deaf ears.
“Home sweet home,” Jackson says with laughter, hauling me towards a wide staircase. His tone is sweet and mirthful, and I shudder to think what he has planned for me. Obviously, he’s the law here, it shows in every move he makes.
His steps are purposeful as he pulls me up a grand staircase. The fight hasn't left me yet, but his overwhelming power is slowly sinking in. We reach a bedroom and with a shove, I'm inside, with Jackson smiling from ear to ear.
I can’t place his intentions, but as he rolls up his sleeves, I feel my breath quickening within me.
I'm trapped, at the mercy of my captor within these ornate walls.
“Strip,” he demands, placing his hands on his hips.
“What?” I ask, confused, or buying time, or both.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, and a video pops up of a familiar, and equally terrified face. Marcy.
“Let her go,” I beg.
“Strip,” he repeats. And I know I’m going to do it. These clothes aren’t the only thing I’d give to get Marcy out of trouble.
Looking over at Jackson, I turn around to start with my shirt.
“No,” his voice is as stern as steel. “Face me while you do it.”
The air thickens, every molecule heavy with dread as Jackson repeats the command. "Strip."
His voice is devoid of emotion, a chilling order delivered with the cold, hard finality of a judge's gavel. My stomach lurches. My gaze darts to his hand, the telltale glint of metal reflecting in the dim light – a camera. A cruel smirk twists his lips as he raises it, the lens a predatory eye focused solely on me.
He won't hesitate. If I don't comply, he'll turn that lens, that cruelty, on Marcy. And I would die a thousand deaths before I let him hurt her.
So I move, each discarded piece of clothing a searing brand against my skin. A sweater, a shirt, and a pair of jeans all to the floor – a growing pile of my own humiliation. His eyes, like icy shards, never leave me, drinking in my shame as if it were water in a desert.
The chill in the air intensifies as I stand before him, utterly bare. He makes no move to touch me, yet I feel utterly violated. With a finality that steals my breath, he collects my panties, stuffing them into his pocket like a hunter claiming a trophy.
Then, with a last lingering look, he turns and leaves, the slam of the door echoing the beat of my own frantic heart. I am a prisoner in my own skin, trapped in this cage of his making.
The sound of the lock clicking into place seals my fate. My heart pounds so hard in my chest I fear it might explode.
Fuck me, what have I gotten myself into this time?