Every inch of me screamed for a release. Every atom thirsted for blood and violence. My teeth ached to sever Jethro's body—horrible images of killing him in the worst pain imaginable consumed my mind. The other part of me wanted to give him the most pleasurable, erotic blowjob he’d ever experienced, with the hope I would smash his walls, liquefy his ice, and melt him into the man I knew was inside.
His hands fisted my hair, grunting low in his chest. He drove into me, forcing himself deeper. “Take it.”
I gagged; spit ran from my lips. I struggled to maintain the furious rhythm he set, but he didn’t stop using me.
And more importantly, I didn’t falter.
I forced him high. I forced him fast.
I stroked and licked and sucked and swirled until everything bellowed with pain. My jaw, my neck, my shoulder, my wrist.
All in the name of winning.
Jethro’s stomach tensed, his balls tightened, and the musky smell of him shot up my nostrils, drenching my soul in his flavour.
His hands dug harder into my hair, fucking me just as surely as I fucked him. Our weapons were different, but we were duelling hard and fast.
Jethro groaned long and low as I cupped his balls and squeezed.
I’m winning.
I’m coming. I came down your throat. Kite’s message burned my brain; I threw in every last reserve I had. My eyes swam, my brain swirled, and the world tipped upside down.
But still I sucked, and in some far off dimension, where sanity no longer existed, I tasted the first splash of cum on my tongue.
Jethro cried out, his body bowstring tight as his hips drove his erection past my gag reflex and emptied himself inside me.
I had no choice but to swallow. My stomach rolled as his salty release disappeared down my throat. I felt sick. I felt empowered.
He shivered as the last wave of his orgasm finished, a soft groan coming from his parted lips.
Despite the abhorrent dislike I felt toward him, something luminous dazzled in my heart as I sat up. I smiled, victory burning brilliant and sweet.
Jethro’s light brown eyes met mine, wide with shock, pupils black with sated pleasure. He breathed hard and fast.
We didn’t say a word.
We didn’t have to.
We both knew who’d won.
And he was fucking pissed about it.
FUCK.
Fuck her. Fuck me. Fuck everything.
For the first time in my life, I felt a stirring inside my frozen-over heart.
Not gratefulness or humaneness or tenderness.
No.
I felt…undone.
I should’ve known then that it was the beginning of the end.
I should’ve guessed how badly she would ruin me.
But all I could manage was dumbstruck desire.
I stared into the eyes of a worthy opponent.
I stared at Nila Weaver with awe.
CLIMBING TO MY wobbly feet, I ignored Jethro and beelined straight for the saddlebag. Inside, I found my running shorts, t-shirt, jumper, and summer sandals.
The instinct to turn around and make sure I was permitted to dress came sharp and strong. How had he worked his wizardry to make me second-guess my right to dress?
I would put a stop to that nonsense that very instant.
Slipping into the clothing, I winced as the shoes brushed against cuts and punctures. The painkillers he’d given me hadn’t worked their magic just yet.
The second I was dressed, I snagged a waxpaper-wrapped sandwich from the almost empty bag.
Striding away a little, I inhaled the sandwich like an urchin or homeless vagabond. Food. Glorious food. I’d never been so grateful for something as simple as a sandwich before.
It tasted unbelievably good. Roast chicken, crisp salad, and creamy mayo on fresh white bread. I wanted another. Hell, I wanted ten.
“Here.” Something landed by my feet. I ducked to pick it up, throwing a look over my shoulder. Jethro had stood and buckled his trousers. He ran a hand through his silvery hair, watching me with a livid expression.
I looked at the green apple in my hand then inhaled that, too. I didn’t care what I looked like. My body demanded I eat. I obliged as fast as humanly possible.
But no matter what I chewed, all I could taste was Jethro.
The apple core was the only thing left of my piranha-speed eating. It was gone too quickly and still I was starving.
Jethro prowled toward me.
My muscles moved, retreating from the anger wisping off him.
Don’t move away. It’s a weakness.
Stand up to him. Make him see you.
Tensing my muscles, I locked my knees. I’d won. If I backed down now, everything I had done would be for nothing.
Here and now—with no other Hawks or Weavers—it was just us; us in this game where the rules were unknown. The only way to win was to maintain the ground I’d gained.
If he wanted to control me with violence and softly spoken curses, fine. Then I would control him with sex.
The one thing I knew nothing about, but seemed to have a great aptitude for.
My lips twisted at the irony. I’d gone from untouched designer to depraved prisoner.
I only did it to prove a point—to extend my life by however long possible.
Liar. You’re wet.
You enjoyed giving as much as you enjoyed his tongue between your legs.
I gritted my teeth.
Jethro didn’t say a word, just stood there seething.
My body itched with need; I couldn’t stop thinking of his mouth on my * or the exquisite sensation of exploding into pieces.
I wanted to come again. And soon.
Finally, he clicked his fingers. “Come. We’re leaving.”
Ducking, he scooped up the blanket and bag, before stalking to me and grabbing my wrist. He whistled for Squirrel to come galloping from the undergrowth and dragged me through the now almost pitch-black forest.
At least I had shoes, so twigs were no longer a painful foe. The food I’d eaten sat in my stomach like a gift, spreading its energy, while the clothing granted me warmth.
My eyes widened.
I’m…content.
Somehow, amongst the stress and fears, I’d found a small slither of serenity. How long it would last, I didn’t know, but even Jethro couldn’t take it from me.
We didn’t walk far. My ears understood where we were going before my eyes did. The gentle snuffles of dogs drifted between the branches, followed by a soft huff of a horse.
Stepping into a small clearing, Jethro let me go, moving toward the huge black beast.