Inescapable

Chapter 12

Iris didn’t wait for Trystan’s reply instead she turned and left the kitchen. It was still dark outside, but for once it was silent. No wind and no rain. The quiet was so unfamiliar that it was eerie, and gooseflesh skittered up and down Iris’s spine as she retreated to her room.

She had no intention of staying there—the traumatic memories of the last few days were still too fresh in her mind for that—but she needed her laptop, some underwear, and leggings. She’d been walking around in just the thigh-length hoodie, and no underwear. She’d tried not to think about it, even though she couldn’t help feeling awkward as hell since she knew that Trystan had to have been aware of her lack of panties. After all, he was the one who’d omitted her underwear when he’d brought her the hoodie.

Then again, maybe he’d been reluctant to sift through her undies. Some men were squeamish when it came to things like that.

She hastily dragged on a pair of panties and some thick leggings, before grabbing her headphones, laptop, and charger, and fleeing from the room again.

It was only as she settled into what looked like a solarium that she thought about her phone.

She’d taken it with her last night but hadn’t seen it since. She had a sinking feeling that she’d lost it somewhere in her mad dash toward the river. She’d have to email her parents to let them know she would be out of touch for a while.

She did that and shot one off to Evan too. She hadn’t heard from her friend in a couple of days, and wondered if she was okay. The other woman liked to regale Iris with the minutia of her life, and it was unusual for her to remain out of touch, especially during the week when she was bored at work and not distracted by her social life.

Correspondence done, she updated her journal, bitching about Trystan’s duplicity as well as Mr. Quinn’s manipulation. She didn’t hold back since she could be as brutal as she liked in the privacy of her journal and her entries were filled with vitriol.

As she read through the entry she’d written just hours before fleeing into the cold, wet night, it was clear from her language that she’d been spiraling.

She’d written about Trystan, spending time with him, enjoying his company, feeling optimistic that maybe he was starting to like and trust her, and then the feeling of utter betrayal when he’d locked her in that room.

I don’t know how to feel. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I’m suffocating, choking on my fear, my skin is too tight on my body and I know it’s just a matter of time before I burst out of it. I’m scared, terrified, I have to get out of here before that happens. Before I lose myself.

Jesus. She stopped reading, shaking her head at the sheer irrationality of her thought processes. She’d been perfectly safe in that room, she’d nearly died out there in the dark, and yet she’d chosen out there as the lesser of two evils.

It scared her. She’d never endangered herself like that before. But then, she’d never found herself in a situation like this before either. She’d never before had to deal with being locked in day after day after day. And what had started as a controllable condition had rapidly escalated through the roof.

She shook her head and saved and closed her journal before opening her manuscript. The silly story she was working on was just for fun, but it was diverting and kept her mind occupied.

“What are you working on?”The deep voice dragged Iris back to the present with a jolt and she looked up from her laptop to stare blankly at the tall man who was sitting in the chair opposite the sofa where she’d set up office.

She blinked a few times, her mind still swimming with plot lines and bits of snatched dialogue between characters.

“How long have you been sitting there?” she finally asked, her voice thick from disuse… for that matter how long had she been sitting there? She’d lost all track of time—it was fully daylight now—and she felt stiff from being seated in one position for so long.

“I’ve been here, reading, for nearly forty minutes. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought maybe you needed a break.”

“What’s the time?” She set her laptop aside and got up to stretch her legs, wincing a bit when her limbs protested the movement.

“About eight-thirty.”

Which meant Iris had been sitting there, wholly absorbed in her writing, for nearly two-and-a-half hours. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. It excited her, and all she could think of was getting back to it.

“So, what are you working on?” he asked again.

She ambled over to the window and looked out. It wasn’t raining and—wonder of wonders— patches of blue were peeking through the clouds.

“A story.” She tossed the words nonchalantly over her shoulder.

“About?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not about you,” she sniped, turning back to face him.

He didn’t respond to that, merely stared, his beautiful eyes filled with gentle censure, and that annoyed Iris because it made her feel irrationally guilty. Which, in turn, made her feel defensive because if anyone should feel guilty here it should be Trystan.

“I need a new room,” she muttered, and the expression in his gaze morphed into concern.

“Of course,” he said. “Pick one and I’ll move your bags.”

“That’s fine, I’ll move my own bags.”

“Don’t be silly, Iris, I’m happy to do it.”

She nodded and picked up her laptop. As she headed toward the door, she was aware of him getting up as well, and her gaze flew up to meet his in alarm.

“What are you doing? Are you following me?”

“If I’m to bring your bags, I’ll need to know which room you’re moving to.” His tone of voice was so reasonable it made her feel immediately churlish and paranoid.

She didn’t say anything in response, but as she exited the very pretty light- and plant-filled solarium he ushered her to the left.

“The spare bedrooms are down this way,” he told her. She mutely turned in the direction he’d indicated and was utterly unsurprised to discover that the two spare bedrooms were on either side of his room.

Because, of course, they were.

“There are only two spare bedrooms in this gigantic house?” she asked skeptically.

“There are four other bedrooms, excluding the suite you were staying in, but they’re in the Hollingsworths’ private living quarters. They’ve requested that I—and any of my guests—make use of this wing of the house only.”

“Oh. I’m not your guest though.”

“Neither are you theirs.”

Fair enough.

“In that case, this room is fine,” Iris said, picking the smaller of the two. The one Trystan had led her to—God, had it really only been five days ago?—after they’d spent the morning hauling sandbags. A comfortable space dressed in russets and browns, with a queen-sized bed and a small en suite bathroom.

Trystan nodded and turned to walk away.

Iris ventured into the lovely room. Whomever had decorated this house had amazing taste, everything had definitely been designed with comfort in mind.

Trystan returned shortly with her handbag slung over one shoulder and her suitcases rolling behind him. Luna ambled lazily along behind him, curious about the activity.

“Thank you,” Iris said.

He nodded, dropping her handbag on the bed and standing in the middle of the room with his hands thrust into the pockets of the black dropped-crotch fleecy joggers he was wearing. He stared at her moodily from beneath the fall of pitch-black hair that had flopped to his forehead.

“Iris, it occurs to me that I haven’t—uhm—I haven’t apologized.” His voice was gruff, filled with awkward self-consciousness.

“Hmm,” she hummed noncommittally. “That had occurred to me as well.”

His shoulders hunched defensively and his brow lowered. His lips tightened and his beard bristled as his jaw clenched.

Iris waited. Wondering if he would follow through.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Every goddamned thing.”

“I think,” she mused, shoving her hands into her hoodie’s front pocket. “I’m going to need specifics.”

“Fuck.” The word emerged on a sigh, and he stepped toward her, crowding her. But Iris refused to back down, standing her ground, and waiting.

“I’m sorry for sending you back out into the storm that first night,” he said. “And I’m so fucking sorry for locking you in that room when I knew full well who you were. I was being a bastard and I had no excuse, other than that I didn’t want to deal with a nosy reporter in my space. And I’m sorry for continuing to do so, even after discovering that I enjoyed your company and that you weren’t what I thought you would be.

“I was wrong. I was a fucking prick. And I’m ashamed of myself for not believing you when you told me about your phobia. I’ll never forget the horror I felt when I realized what I’d driven you to. You scared fucking years off my life and I never want to feel like that again.”

As apologies went it was pretty good and a lot more comprehensive than she’d been expecting.

“I know you said you’d be unable to forgive me for all that I’ve done, but you deserve an apology regardless. I fucked up. I know I did. And if I had it to do all over again, knowing what I now know, I’d change so fucking much.”

“What do you now know?” Her question was a whisper and he shifted infinitesimally closer to her, leaving mere inches between his big body and hers.

“I know that I look at you and I fucking ache to do this,” he admitted hoarsely, lifting his hands to cup her face. She loved it when he did that—it made her feel cared for, cherished… Weak with longing. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his blazing eyes fell to her lips. “And this…”

The last word was muffled as he lowered his lips to hers, capturing her soft oh in the sweetest, gentlest of kisses.

It was exploratory, uncertain, not at all the type of kiss she would’ve expected from a confident, sexy man like Trystan Abbott, but she appreciated it because she recognized the question in the embrace. He was waiting for her permission to take it further.

And Iris, curious to discover more, parted her lips slightly, and flicked her tongue over the sensual curve of his lower lip.

He groaned, the small gesture from her emboldening him. One of his hands dropped to her waist and he tugged her closer, until she was pressed against him, his erection throbbing against her stomach. His tongue surged into her mouth, a living flame, setting everything in its path on fire.

The bristles of his beard abraded her face, and Iris wasn’t sure if she liked it or not. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar, and as he deepened the kiss she forgot about the curious sensation, and went up onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He made an urgent, muffled sound against her mouth and, before she knew it, his other hand was at her waist as well and he’d hoisted her off her feet.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and he made a deep sound of satisfaction before carrying her to the bed. He propped a hand on the mattress before planting a knee on the bed and lowering Iris onto her back.

He was braced above her, his weight supported by that one hand and knee, his mouth still devouring hers with the single-minded focus of a man who’d been starving for weeks.

Her legs remained wrapped around his waist and when he brought his other knee up onto the bed, he lowered himself until his hardness was grinding against her aching core.

Iris couldn’t find her breath and her hands moved from where they’d been entangled in the long, silky hair at the nape of his neck, downward toward his hard thrusting behind. Her fingers dug into the taut muscles she found there as she tried to guide his movements, frantically pulling him against her as she pushed her aching pussy up against his hard, hot cock.

She dragged her mouth away from his, uttering wordless, incoherent little pleas.

A small rational part of her brain was reeling in shock. This was too fast. It usually took Iris a while to even get close to an orgasm, but here she was, on the brink of coming after one kiss and some frantic dry humping. And that with a man with whom she was mostly still pissed off. She didn’t understand what was going on with her. This was completely uncharacteristic behavior for her.

If she’d been capable of rational thought perhaps she’d be embarrassed, but right now she didn’t care about how she should feel, not when she was so entirely focused on how she was feeling.

“Fuck… Iris,” Trystan’s voice was breathless and he sounded shaken to his core, as he continued to thrust against her.

It wasn’t satisfying either of them. The position was wrong, they weren’t getting enough traction, and they had way too many layers between them.

He fumbled with his pants, dragging them down past his narrow hips, and she helped him, pushing at them until his cock was free, stiff and throbbing between them.

He went to work on her leggings next, dragging them and her panties down to her knees.

“Is this okay? Are you okay?” he asked urgently. Breathlessly.

“Okay. It’s okay,” she assured, and—because she couldn’t part her thighs thanks to the leggings that were now bunched around her knees—he lifted her legs and draped them over one of his shoulders. He leaned forward—hands braced on either side of her torso—positioning his penis between her thighs and sawing his shaft between her pussy lips, the thick column of flesh dragging over the hard knot of her clit and ringing a cry of relief from Iris’s lips.

“Oh,” she whimpered. “That feels so good.”

She was helpless in this position with her knees pushed to her chest, and was wholly reliant on him to give her the pleasure she craved.

He did not disappoint.

He continued to slide against her, using his cock head to scoop the creamy wetness flowing from her entrance to ease his path.

Iris was a wreck by now and his relentless stroking of her clitoris soon sent her crashing into a powerful orgasm. But he didn’t let up, instead he continued to thrust himself against her spasming flesh, his eyes boring into hers with a feverish intensity that she found herself unable to look away from.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth, dropping a hard kiss on her lips, before bringing his head up to stare at her again.

“Oh, oh… oh, Trystan,” she wept, as she came again, and this time was even more overwhelming than the last. Her eyes drifted shut as she mindlessly humped against his hot cock.

“Don’t close your eyes, Iris. Look at me,” he demanded gruffly and she forced herself to refocus, punch drunk and reeling. She was barely able to see straight, but he grunted in satisfaction when she met his eyes again. She lifted a palm to cup his grim, intense, beautiful face reverently… and was fascinated when he fell apart completely at her gentle touch.

His face clenched; it was the only word she could think of to describe the violent jolt of emotion that flickered across that handsome face. And his body went tense and still, as his mouth opened on a silent cry.

He throbbed wildly between her thighs, and Iris felt his cum land in hot streams on her belly, and probably on the hoodie that he’d pushed up to beneath her breasts.

His climax seemed to last for ages, and when his arms finally gave in and he fell to the side, her mound and belly were slick with his seed.

He dragged her hoodie off and tossed it aside. He made an appreciative sound at the sight of her bare breasts and simply stared at them for a long time, before dropping a reverent kiss on each contracted tip. He lifted his head with clear reluctance and tugged his own T-shirt over his head before bunching the garment in his fist and roughly cleaning his cum off her abdomen with it.

“Sorry. I made a huge fucking mess,” he muttered, sounding self-conscious.

“S’fine,” Iris said, her eyes starting to drift shut. The unfamiliar position, along with the intensity of two powerful orgasms, had left her wrung out and as limp as a noodle.

He tossed his T-shirt in the same direction as her hoodie, and hastily dragged her into his arms, as if he were afraid she’d protest his touch if he left her to think about it for too long. But Iris was incapable of rational thought right now. She kicked her leggings and underwear off, snuggled close to his warm, hard body, and instantly fell asleep.

When Irisnext opened her eyes, it was to find herself staring straight into a pair of familiar molten silver ones.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly and she smiled, stretching lazily beneath the covers that he must have dragged over them while she was sleeping.

“You going to ask me that every time I wake up next to you?”

“I don’t know,” he countered. “Are you planning to wake up next to me a lot in the future?”

She sighed and her smile slipped. “Now that is what I would call a loaded question.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said with a sigh of his own. “I mean, I don’t regret it or anything, but it was really just meant to be a kiss.”

“Some kiss.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve never lost control like that before.”

“I mean, as first kisses go, it was… explosive.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said, with a warm smile. “A first kiss implies that more will follow.”

Iris chewed on her lip, not sure how to respond to that. Not like she didn’t want to kiss him again and again and again, but she wasn’t sure it would be good for her mental or emotional health.

His smile faded when the silence went on for too long, and a frown flickered across his forehead. He made an awkward little humming sound in the back of his throat before asking, “How do you feel?”

“Sated.”

“I mean about what happened.”

“I enjoyed it. It doesn’t really have to be any more than that, does it?”

He didn’t look pleased with her response and Iris sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest.

“Trystan, we’re both adults with healthy sexual appetites. We’d just been through a traumatic experience and I think this was merely a way for us to work through some of that extreme emotional distress.”

“Right.” His eyes were troubled as they ran over her face, but he didn’t say anything more. He frowned and propped himself up on an elbow to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroked her cheekbone.

“Your skin didn’t react well to my beard,” he muttered. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head, only now becoming aware of a slight tingle on her cheeks and in her neck.

“It looks uncomfortable.” He seemed unhappy as he inspected her face carefully, his fingers tender against her abraded skin. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said and done plenty of things to apologize for, Trystan,” she told him, a small smile on her lips. “But this isn’t one of them.”

He sat up next to her, the duvet slipping to his hips, leaving that impressive upper body on display, and Iris greedily looked her fill. He’d kept his shirt on earlier, which had been a crying shame. Now her hands longed to explore that beautiful expanse of tanned, muscled flesh, but she wasn’t sure where they went from here.

“I think it’s time for a shower,” she said and he quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Together?”

She laughed at the optimistic question.

“Nice try, mister,” she said, snatching up a pillow to cover her nudity as she climbed out of bed. She stood next to the bed and stared down at Trystan, who remained propped up against the headboard. The duvet had slid an inch further south, but Iris kept her gaze determinedly on his face and continued to speak. “But maybe we both need some time to think about what just happened.”

“It’ll be impossible for me to do anything but that,” he said with a little grimace. “Look, I know this is all a bit much and you’re justifiably angry with me. I get it, I really do. I behaved reprehensibly but, Iris, I really fucking want you. I have practically since day one, which is why I’ve been so damned hell-bent on keeping you at a distance.”

“What just happened was lovely, Trystan,” she paused, choosing her next words very carefully. “But that’s probably as far as it goes for us.”

“Why?” His question was edged with frustration.

“Because I think you see me as some kind of challenge, a prize to be won. Someone taboo and off limits to you. I don’t belong in your world. And judging from the way you’ve cut yourself off here, isolated yourself from your charmed life and your glamorous friends, my ordinariness is appealing and different—and what you believe you want right now. You think you crave normality, but what you really need is to go back to your reality and face whatever demons drove you away in the first place.”

“You need to stop psychoanalyzing me, Iris. Why I’m here is none of your fucking business.”

“Trystan, you’ve run away from your life and your responsibilities to hide in this godforsaken place like a big old chicken. You need to stop behaving like a two-year-old having a tantrum and, together with your shitty manager, figure out what you’re going to do about your future.

“Because while what he did to me was wrong, it was also an act of desperation. The bastard is so damned keen to get your attention and snatch you back to the real world that he dragged my unwitting arse straight into your mess. So, excuse me if you think I’m out of line, but this became my business when your manager tricked me into coming here and you chose to deny knowing about my reasons for being here.”

She turned away from him, heading toward the bathroom, trying not to care that her bare butt was on display. After all, he’d seen pretty much all there was to see of her by now and she knew that her self-consciousness was a little absurd under the circumstances.

He remained silent after her impassioned rebuke, and Iris was almost convinced he would allow her to have the last say, until she reached the en suite door.

“Iris?”

She paused in the doorway, shoulders tensed and back braced, as she waited for whatever he had to say. She refused to turn and face him, even though she knew by now how crazy it drove him when she wouldn’t look at him.

She could sense his aggravation and frustration in the long pause before he finally spoke again. “Your most ridiculous assumption lies in your belief that I think you’re ordinary. I think I may have mentioned before that nothing could be further from the truth.”

She couldn’t help it, his words—spoken with such passionate sincerity—forced her to turn and face him. She needed to see for herself if the feeling she’d heard in his voice was visible in his eyes, or on his face.

But disappointingly, his expression revealed not a single emotion. His eyes seared into hers and she actually found herself flinching beneath the scorching ferocity of that gaze.

She remained silent in the wake of his astonishing proclamation, not entirely sure what to make of it. In the end, she turned away and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with quiet deliberation.