Chapter 8 Emi
EIGHT
EMI
I slip my hand onto his work-roughened palm and stand to follow him to his bedroom.
A king bed with end tables on either side takes up most of the wall straight ahead.
There’s an overstuffed chair in the corner to my right that faces the bed with a stand-tall lamp next to it.
Two doors are on the left wall, one that clearly leads to an en suite bathroom, and I assume the other is a walk-in closet.
Whereas the main living area is neutral colors with firefighter and Chicago Blackhawks paraphernalia, his bedroom—with navy walls and bedding and framed white jerseys with the names Aikman and Romo—is clearly an homage to his favorite football team.
“Dallas Cowboys, huh?”
Smiling, he says, “You can take the boy outta Dallas… You a Bears fan?”
“I’m a nothing fan. I’ve never watched sports. Dad was more of a horse races guy, and my mother was fond of saying there was no point in watching overpaid barbarians chase their balls,” I say with a wry grin.
“Oh, darlin’, I can’t wait to take you to a game sometime.
I bet I can make a super fan out of you in no time.
But for now…” Austin crowds my back, slipping one arm around my stomach as his other hand guides my head to the side so he can nip the shell of my ear.
I gasp as the tingles chase the fiery heat pooling in my belly and between my legs.
“I’m going to show you just how barbaric I can be. Go take a shower, princess.”
I’m so turned on I almost don’t register that last part. “What?”
“You live here—maybe you have a roommate, maybe you have a boyfriend, or maybe you’re completely alone, I’ll leave that much up to you.
” I realize he’s giving me the set-up to our play session, and I soak it all in, wanting to get it right.
“I’m an intruder, I’ve broken into your home.
I see you in the shower and decide to sit in the dark bedroom and wait for you to get out. Got it?”
I nod.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Raven.”
“Good girl,” he says in a growly voice I’ve never heard from him before, and I think it’s my new favorite sound. “Now go. And take your time in there.”
An addictive cocktail of nerves and excitement floods my system as I walk into his bathroom, leaving the door open.
The bedroom light is turned off. I feel like I’m standing under a spotlight with the rest of the world submerged in darkness, something that’s second nature to me from years of dancing on stage.
But I’ve never felt a lone pair of eyes on my back as I slowly undo the side zipper of my skirt and let the flimsy material pool at my feet to reveal the black thong bisecting my cheeks.
I listen for any kind of audible reaction—a grunt, a groan, a whispered curse—but I hear only the deafening silence, and I realize that I don’t even know if he is watching me yet.
He might be waiting in the living room until I’m in the shower.
For that matter, he could be in the hall, so he can start everything like this really isn’t his place.
I have no idea because he only gave me the most basic of instructions; everything else is the X factor, the unknown, and that’s the part that’s heightening my anticipation.
Settling more into my role, I stop doing the striptease and finish disrobing with quick efficiency as I would if I were home, then turn the water on in the shower.
After I wait the few seconds for it to get warm, I step inside and close the glass door behind me.
For the next ten or so minutes, I go through the motions of washing my hair and body while my mind races.
As I’m rinsing the soap off, I have an epiphany: this feels like a haunted house.
I know I’m about to be scared, but I have no idea how or to what extent, and I know that what’s about to happen won’t be real and yet I know that in the moment it’ll feel real enough. That’s what this is, I muse with a smile. Austin is my haunted house.
I turn the water off and step out of the shower, grabbing the fluffy bath towel to dry myself off, and extract as much water from my hair as possible so it’s not dripping down my back.
Then I wrap the towel around my body. My heart is nearly beating out of my chest, and I’m certain he must be able to hear it from wherever he is.
I consider stalling until I can get it under control, because that’s my default setting, to be in control at all times.
But this is about being the exact opposite, because in reality, I don’t want to have the control. Not in this.
I’m out of things to do. All that’s left is to leave the bathroom.
I flip the light switch off by the door, but the recessed light over the shower stall must be on a different switch.
I turn back to look for it when I’m yanked into the bedroom.
My startled shout is genuine as I’m shoved up against the wall from behind.
Austin is— No, not Austin, I correct myself.
Someone is pressing his body into me, his hands gripping my bare upper arms. He’s much bigger than I am, and his hard body speaks of muscle definition that can overpower me with ease.
“Well, well, well…” His deep voice sounds as unforgiving as his hold on me. “What do we have here?”
My pulse takes off like a jackrabbit on speed as I get my first taste of this real-not-real flavor of sex. It’s heady to feel so powerful and yet so vulnerable all at the same time. With one last deep breath in…and out…I give myself over to the role I’m meant to play.
“Who are you?” I demand, the spike of adrenaline giving my voice a convincing quiver. “How did you get in here?”
His devious chuckle assaults my ear. “How I got in doesn’t matter, and who I am depends on you.
I can be a one-night stand…” He shoves his hands between me and the wall and gropes my breasts through the towel, grunting in appreciation.
“Or I can be your worst fucking nightmare.” Emphasizing his point, he twists my nipples and sends delicious frissons of electricity straight to the core of my sex.
I cry out from the bolt of pleasure, but it doubles as a convincing cry of pain and fear. “Please,” I beg, “don’t do this. You can walk out of here right now, I haven’t seen your face.”
Suddenly I’m spun around. Though the room is still dark, the low light from the shower projects a faint glow just beyond the threshold. His face is cast in shadows, his mouth twisted with feigned malice.
“Now you have.”
“Please, just take what you want—money, jewelry, anything—then just go, okay?”
“That’s why I came, to rob the spoiled brat blind.
But then I saw you in the shower,” he says as his hands roam roughly, “and I decided to stay for the show. The way your hands soaped up that tight fucking body of yours got me so damn hard.” Stepping in closer, he grinds his proof on my lower belly, torturing me with what’s to come.
I have to consciously not bite my lip, which would give away his true effect on me.
“Now you need to do something about it. I want what you’re advertising.
You can either let me try the goods or I’ll take them from you anyway, like I planned on taking your jewels. ”
He’s pretending to give me a choice, but it’s a lose-lose situation, and I’ve never liked being backed into a corner, real or not.
Squaring my shoulders, I counter-offer like I have a chance of swaying the end result of this scenario in the slightest. “How about this? You leave with everything in my jewelry box, which will fetch you more money than you could hope to see in a lifetime, and I promise not to call the cops.”
The bastard laughs, distracting me for the second it takes for him to rip away my towel.
I try to make a grab for it, but he tosses it to the side and cages me in using his own body.
Pinning my wrists to the wall above my head, he kicks my feet wider and pushes his muscular thigh between my legs, rubbing the coarse denim against the sensitive lips of my pussy.
The combination of friction where I need it and the escalation of the game is drug-inducing, and I know it’s only a matter of seconds before he feels the wetness through his jeans.
“This isn’t a negotiation, doll.”
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss. “I’m not your doll.”
“Oh, but that’s exactly what you are: my little fuck doll. I can pose you however I want. Do with you whatever I want.” He licks up the side of my neck then bites my earlobe. “Fuck you however I want.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He tosses me onto the bed. When I bounce up from the mattress, I twist and try to scurry off the other side, but a strong hand clamps around my ankle and drags me back.
I claw at the bed, but all I get is fistfuls of comforter for my efforts before his body is draped on top of mine, his delicious weight imprisoning me.
Even with his clothes on, I can feel the hard planes of his muscles shift with his movements. All that raw strength—knowing he could truly overpower me at any moment but never would—is such a huge turn on, as evidenced by my slick arousal.
Maneuvering my arms, he manacles my wrists with one hand behind my back. “Nice try, but you’re not escaping me that easily.”
Remembering what Austin said earlier about getting to choose some of the script’s details, I try something new to see what he’ll do with it.
It’s like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure stories I used to read when I was young.
There’s security in having some control, and yet the unknown outcome of your choice creates a nervous excitement about where it might lead you.
“My boyfriend is going to be home any minute, and he’ll kill you for this.”