Chapter 11
Tonya.
Alan’s first thought as he swam toward consciousness was her name.
Over and over, just her name. Then texture came to the word.
The scent of her hair, dusty and floral.
The feel of her back pressed tight to his chest. And the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath his arm, punctuated by a rumbling snore.
He smiled at the sound. He was going to tease her for that.
Other thoughts hovered, black and filled with roiling ugliness that tired him.
And he was so damned tired, so he pushed them away.
More than anything he wanted to stay in the fuzzy present without thought, without memory.
Tonya in his arms the way he’d imagined her so many times.
In truth, part of him clung to the idea that this was a really beautiful dream.
It had that quality of vagueness that he protected with every part of his being.
Mornings were not for thinking but for sweet, special dreams.
He was kissing her hair before he even realized he’d moved.
Within moments, he adjusted to lick her ear and neck.
He went by touch and smell. Vision would break the spell, so his eyes remained closed.
His mind reveled in the swell of her breast against his forearm and the press of her backside tucked so neatly against his erection.
Her snore softened then hitched as she took a deep breath. She was waking up and he opened his mouth to scrape his teeth tenderly across her neck.
At last. He wasn’t even sure what the words meant.
They floated so lightly through this dream that was more fantasy than reality.
She murmured something deep in her throat.
Not quite a purr but close enough that he grinned.
The darkness wriggled again, worming into his consciousness as ugly sensations.
Aches in his arms and legs. Fuzziness in his brain.
He pushed them away in favor of the much more pleasant woman in his arms.
He shifted to her earlobe, tugging on it playfully.
She raised her arm, wrapping it around herself enough to squeeze his biceps.
That was all the permission he needed. She was wearing a light tank without a bra underneath.
That left her breasts soft and so available.
He was lying on his right side with her tucked tight.
So his left hand burrowed under the fabric, across her rippling belly, and up to her glorious mounds.
Soft. Full. He loved the weight of her breast, and the silky feel. He liked squeezing her nipple and feeling the way she arched into his hand. She pressed back against his erection just when he was thrusting forward.
So good.
He licked her neck again, alternating with light bites. She left her neck exposed to him, and he felt her pulse on his tongue. And, oh, how she trembled when he ran his teeth over that point.
He was harder than a rock, thrusting up through his light cotton shorts.
She was wearing something stretchy, so it seemed like she was already welcoming him inside.
The crease of her buttocks cradled him, and he wished his shorts gone so he could roll her over and thrust in from behind.
Since he was blocked from below, he contented himself with breast play.
So damned good.
“Alan,” she gasped as he tugged on her nipple. “Alan, please. We need to talk.”
“No talk,” he answered. His brain was still fuzzy, and he’d purposely kept his eyes closed.
This was a favorite fantasy of his. Waking up with a willing woman.
Making love to her without even opening his eyes.
He loved diving into his other senses, most especially when she responded so deliciously to his touch.
That it was Tonya in his arms took everything to an extra special place.
He moved his top hand, intending to release his shorts so that he could thrust inside her, but he couldn’t stop touching her. He slid his hand down her belly then burrowed beneath her underwear. The heat was intense, the pressure delightful as her clothing kept him tight against her slick skin.
“Alan,” she cried when he pushed his finger between her folds. All was slick and hot. “I can’t think.”
He didn’t want either of them to think. “Come for me,” he said as he pushed into her.
He was pulling her more on top of him so he had better access.
Her thigh fell open, and he began to thrust inelegantly with his whole hand.
One finger inside her. The others caressing whatever they touched.
He pressed against her clit on the upstroke, burrowed inside on the down.
“Alan!” she said. Not an orgasm. Not yet.
Just a cry. A wish, maybe, but he ignored it.
He could smell her arousal, feel the way she rolled against him.
And her breath was stuttered with tiny cries that had his hips pushing in tempo.
He wasn’t inside her, but she still felt so good.
And her scent—cinnamon spice—made him dizzy with happiness.
She reached out blindly with her top hand, connecting with his thigh and gripping it with strong fingers.
His entire consciousness was absorbed with the way her body moved.
He surrounded her, so he could feel every ripple of her belly, every arch to her back and tremble through her spine.
He wasn’t working smoothly. His hand was too large, too fumbling, but he knew what she wanted by the grip of her hand on his thigh. She squeezed him when he got it right.
Harder. Tighter. He was right where she wanted it. And he was so close to erupting that his vision had begun to narrow.
He felt her arch hard against him. He rubbed her just like she wanted. Another circle. Another thrust. And then...
She cried out, her body going wild against him.
It was glorious. She was glorious. He held her safe throughout. He cradled her in his arms as her explosion became a pulse, which led to a softer exhale and then a slow, sweet sigh. Beautiful. And way better than any of his adolescent fantasies.
He stroked her stomach as she settled, liking that the caress set her muscles to rippling.
Eventually she grabbed his hand, entwining their fingers together.
But she didn’t speak. He felt her draw breath as if she would.
Once. Twice. But she never said a word and he settled her more deeply against him.
He was still hard as granite. If ever a man wanted to be planted inside a woman, he was there.
And yet, she was so perfect in his arms that he enjoyed holding her. Tonya. Finally in his arms.
He stayed there, appreciating the sweetness of the moment.
He thought she might settle back into sleep.
She’d certainly stilled enough against him.
But he could tell she was anxious about something.
He was, too. The aches in his body were starting to intrude on his consciousness.
As a way to distract himself, he brought his hand up to his nose and inhaled.
Sweet, beautiful scent. Tonya. He would never forget that smell.
Meanwhile, she twisted in his arms. He relaxed enough for her to move, though his dick throbbed with hunger when her movements tugged on his shorts. Then he felt her stroke across his face, her caress almost intangible.
“Alan,” she whispered. “You overwhelm me, and I don’t know what to do.”
It was the most vulnerable he’d ever heard her.
The uncertainty in her tone was so alien to the tough-as-nails cop he knew.
Or even the cocksure teen she’d been. He frowned, fighting past the cotton-candy fuzziness in his brain.
Something was wrong here. He knew it. But, God, he just didn’t want to go there.
Unless it was upsetting Tonya. For her, he would face it.
So he opened his eyes. He saw her face first, flushed and pretty. Her eyes sparkled in the streaming sunlight, but it wasn’t with joy. He saw worry there, anxiety mixed with tears.
He reached out, touching her cheek. She blinked twice, but held his gaze. And no tears came out. He knew that she was too private to ever let them flow freely. He wanted to kiss her. He needed to taste her as he gently rolled her over. He would make love to her with such tenderness.
But their feet were tangled in a blanket, everything wrapped too tight.
So he pulled it aside, adjusting their bodies as he yanked it away from his legs.
And in that moment, something rattled. A chain clanked and the weight on his ankle remained though the blanket had pulled free.
He stilled, his mind stuttering into a blankness.
He fell back against the pillow. God, his thoughts were so heavy. He couldn’t think clearly and so he focused on the sounds.
Birds outside. A kid’s laughter out there and the murmur of adults. Closer in, he heard Tonya’s breath, tight and quick. He smelled her, ripe and luscious, but there was dust, too. A musty smell that reminded him of a basement or garage.
“Where are we?”
“The cabin that Crazy Cat Lady used. It was the closest, safest place. She’s long gone.”
He stilled, memories crowding in, but coward that he was, he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to end this tiny interlude of sanity.
“Just hear me out.”
Don’t think. Don’t remember.
“Alan, we had to.”
He swallowed, the aches in his body growing more painful, more disturbing. Then he moved his leg again. It was heavier than it should be and that clanking sound filled the space. Worse, it seemed to echo in his head, louder and louder.
No. Nooooooooooooo.
He couldn’t think for the screaming in his head. He felt her touch him, then grip tighter, shaking him, but he couldn’t respond for the scream. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop himself.
An iron shackle around his ankle and a chain trailing down the side of the bed.
A volcano erupted inside him. Fury, hot and corrosive, flashed through his body.
Waves of heat poured off him as he shifted to tear the damned thing off.
He reached down, but his hands were just hands as they hauled ineffectively at the shackle.
His body stretched and pushed with the shift, hoping to pop the shackle from sheer size, but his leg was just his leg.
And the hair on his leg remained manlike and without the fur or the coarse oil that was part of the monster.
Nothing on him changed, and that created rage as never before.
He shoved her away from him, but he needn’t have bothered.
She was already scrambling to her feet. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear her, his own scream filling the space.
He tore at the shackle until it turned slick with blood.
His fingernails broke against the iron and his ankle ran red from the scrapes.
It took too long for him to realize he couldn’t budge the shackle, but when he did he turned on the chain.
He hauled on it with both fists, finding it attached to a ring in the concrete floor.
They were in a basement with bars on the window and two beds on opposite walls.
He saw a bathroom, a microwave, and a stairway up in a minimalist space decorated with pressboard furniture.
One slam of his fist and an end table crumpled into shards.
Tonya was screaming his name, her voice sharp and female.
He rounded on the sound only because it wasn’t his roar.
She stood there, her face smeared with tears.
Her breasts bobbed loosely beneath her tank and he damned himself for seeing them.
For thinking—even on the most base level—how beautiful they were.
How much he loved touching them, smelling them.
That even in the midst of a scream that filled his entire universe, he still wanted to kiss them.
And that made him even angrier.
He lunged for her; he didn’t even know why.
She scrambled backward. He leapt after her, but within a few feet, the chain yanked tight.
Pain flashed up his leg, and he whipped back around in a snarl.
He would bite the damned thing off, but he couldn’t.
He was a man, not a beast right then. And he both hated it and was absurdly grateful.
He couldn’t be the slavering monster he wanted right then.
Not in front of Tonya. She wouldn’t see that, and yet she was the one who had done this to him.
Chained him like a dog. Teased him with her body only to cage him as a monster.
He collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t break the iron chain no matter how much he hauled on it. He knew it, and yet still he tried. He fought it with everything he was until it was too much. And still the scream continued in his head.
On and on he fought until he had no strength left.
Futility curled in on him, compressing his spine and his breath.
He knew this place. He remembered the moment when strength abandoned him.
His tormentors would come soon. Petty cruelties as they kicked at his cage or threw his food in his face.
They were bad enough. But the shit they’d shoved into his body was worse.
The violation of serums injected, of joints on fire, and his own blood and piss everywhere.
He remembered this, and it crushed him.