Abduction (17 page)

Intentionally she tortured herself with these images, making them as cruel, as violent as she could, making herself cry, making her heart beat hard and fast with fear.

Vaughn's huge hands clutching her, forcing her into position, tearing at her clothes, yanking them from her body. His mouth forcing hers open, biting her lips, violently sucking and biting her breasts, her nipples. She dwelt on the imagined sensation of an excruciating, burning pain from the first penetration, cruelly repeated, over and over with each thrust as he broke her down, got inside, used the friction of his brutal erection burrowing into her tender flesh to get off.

He wouldn't though. She knew. If there had ever been a chance he could really do that to her, he'd have done it this morning. That's what he'd started to do. But something had deterred him. His own character. Her pitiful tears and pleas. Some remnant of feeling for her that remained below the hate that had surged up suddenly from…she couldn't guess where. She was almost sorry he wouldn't come and do it, put her terror to an end by doing the thing she feared most. Taking the thing she didn't want but was so fucking, terribly afraid, now, to lose.

But then, just as she was half wishing Vaughn's assault, she heard his door open, heard his steps in the hall, outside her door, and her chest seized painfully. She stood, terrified, listening, watching for the door handle to turn, for the door to open, for his shadow, his form to fill her doorway. But there was only a momentary whisper of paper against wood, and a small whitish rectangle slid toward her beneath the door.

Then his slow tread receded, and his door clicked softly closed.

She stood there, staring at the folded piece of paper, waiting for the painful pounding in her chest to subside, waiting for her stomach to settle. Then, finally, she stooped and picked it up, opened it, and read.

Devan,

Nothing I say here is written with the hope that you'll forgive me, or even trust,
believe me. But I hope you'll read this, that it will give you whatever tiny bit of comfort
can possibly come to you from me. I'm sorry. Really, deeply sorry.

Please, please, know that the awful things I said, the way I talked to you…don't
imagine that I hate you. I know, I'm the loathsome one, not you.

I know you're probably sitting there in your room wondering if I'll come back, if I'm
going to do something even more awful. I wish my words were worth something, that
my promise could mean anything to you, just so you could feel safe, and know that I'll
never hurt you again. I know it's not possible, that I can't just write a note and earn back
what little trust you might have ever had. I understand, it can't mean anything to you.

But I promise. I swear. I'll never hurt, never touch you again.

Vaughn

How could he have doubted her so thoroughly? What was worth betraying the fragile warmth and trust she'd shown him? His hand slipped from the door knob and his eyes honed on the journal, laying where he'd flung it on his bed. Was anything in there worth what he'd done to himself, much less Devan? What was it but a collection of stale secrets, paltry humiliations?

When he heard her door open, he expected to hear her soft tread fade toward the bathroom or the kitchen. When it led, instead, to his bedroom door, a sickening cold dread trickled over him. How could he possibly face her?

Her soft knock thrummed his skull like a judge's gavel.

He forced his body up. He wanted the pain. Deserved it. All the hurt and hate he'd find in her eyes.

When his door opened the persona she'd taken on over the course of the last hour slipped from her like a discarded costume. A moment ago she'd been cold, strong, certain. Ready. Ready, she thought, to face him, to do what she'd planned, get what she wanted, no matter his state of mind, his attitude toward her, whether he was as repentant as his letter promised, or cold and indifferent. Even, she'd imagined, if he were still angry and hateful.

But this? He was pale and seemed to be shaking slightly, his eyes red and rimmed with more red. Had he actually been crying? He seemed to be forcing himself, with extreme effort, to meet her eyes.

"May I come in?"

Those weren't the words she'd planned, and her soft voice—she wondered if she'd even spoken loud enough for him to hear—was a mile off the intended mark. He looked like he was going to speak, but just closed his mouth and silently backed away from the door. Trying not to let him see that she was shaking and almost faint, she was so nervous, she entered his room with what she hoped looked like two bold, confident steps.

He was hardly capable of even wondering what she was doing there, in his room, just a couple short hours after he'd… His brain cut the thought short.

"Can we talk?"

Her voice was so soft he wasn't sure if he knew what she'd said because he'd heard it, or because he'd read her lips. He forced what he hoped was a gentle smile.

For the second time he tried to speak, to say a simple 'yes,' and for the second time, he failed. He didn't trust his voice to make a sound soft enough.

In this agonizing moment he felt his size more painfully than usual. Like a Cyclops in a small cave with a wood nymph. He didn't want to be towering over her with his bulk, didn't want to be looking down at her as she spoke. Farther and farther he backed away from her, their gaze leveling a little with each step, but never enough.

Finally he sank down on the edge of his bed, then blushed instantly with regret. She was watching him intently, and he was hoping she'd laugh derisively at his miserable awkwardness, show a little of the hate he deserved. But she only looked sad and nervous.

"I read your note."

He nodded, knowing that if he spoke, he would cry. He didn’t care if he looked pathetic, or unmanly, or whatever she'd read into his tears. But he was determined that she would have no reason to let any of her hatred, her rage be eroded by pity, or even forgiveness. He didn't deserve either.

She stepped toward him. Not one step, but several, until her feet were almost between his, their bodies just two feet apart. Involuntarily he leaned back a little on the bed, putting fresh inches between them.

"I know you're sorry," she said in her soft, sad voice.

It hurt him, the realization that that was the way he thought of her voice as sounding most of the time, that the few times she'd laughed and sounded light and 149

happy were contrasting accents in their interactions. She stepped closer, between his knees. His chest banged painfully as her thighs brushed a little against the insides of his thighs, as her body loomed so close to him. He locked his eyes tight on hers, desperate not to notice her breasts just inches from his face, not because he was thinking lascivious thoughts, but because he was terrified she'd imagine he was.

"I'm sorry too."

She gave him a forced-looking smile.

"Please," he finally managed a rough whisper, "please don't apologize." It was excruciating, facing her as he said this, but masochistically he forced himself to endure it. "What I did was monstrous…"

He'd wanted to say more, but his voice had already broken, and the tears he'd been desperate not to cry in front of her were running down his face. Clenching his jaw hard he turned his face down, hoping she hadn't seen the tears, hoping she'd only think he was too ashamed to meet her eyes any longer.

He flinched. Small, soft, warm, her hands were cradling his jaw, lifting his face toward her.

"Don't Vaughn. You didn't hurt me." She studied him a moment, scrutinizing his stinging eyes. "I'd guess you've suffered more today than I have."

Gazing up at her she seemed angelic to him, her huge gray eyes lidded, tranquil in their downward gaze, her pale face soft and serene, framed by her long black hair, uncharacteristically loose.

Startled, shaking, not knowing what to do, he let her pull his face gently against her, cradling him like a hurt child against her breasts. Utterly broken, defeated, unable 150

to stop himself, he sobbed silently against her, letting his warm tears spill, soaking into her shirt.

"You hold me, too," she whispered after a long while, when his shuddering breath had smoothed and slowed.

He couldn't understand how she could possibly be there, in his room, touching him, inviting him to put his arms around her. The only thing he could do, he thought, was what she wanted. As if he were about to embrace a spider's perfect web so as not to damage a single gossamer segment he crossed his arms behind her, put his hands softly at the base of her back.

"I wish you'd really hold me, Vaughn."

Her tenderness, and its impossibility, were excruciating. Slowly, gently, he slid one arm close around her waist, his other hand curving against her neck, and pulled her close against him. Warm and pliant she pressed her body to his, still holding his head to her chest, her fingers gently combing through his hair, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"Will you do something for me, Vaughn?"

Afraid to speak again, sure he'd lose his frail grip on his emotions, he pulled a little back to look up at her, hoping his eyes were telling her that yes, he'd do anything, anything she asked. He'd shoot himself on the spot, if that was what she wanted. Or the harder thing--write out a confession she could take to the authorities or the press when they got back, endure public humiliation, destroy his career. Go to prison.

She was looking down at him so…sweetly. Like she was nervous in a way that made no sense at that moment. Then she kissed him, very softly, on the lips. His heart seized painfully.

"Please," she sighed softly between tender, innocent kisses, "let's forget this morning. Let's be how we were last night. Please."

Despite his own shaking he felt her quivering nervously, heard her shallow, rapid breath as she parted her full lips, as her warm tongue brushed tentatively along the crease of his lips. God, he wanted it so, so much—to forget the ugliness, go back to the tenderness, to be with her, and, more than anything, to give her what she wanted.

Feeling left no room for thought. He softened to her mouth, accepted her sweet, deep, kiss. Sadness and guilt gave way to hope, to want, to hunger and heat. Carefully, slowly he began to kiss her back, their mouths seeking and yielding in a quiet, urgent dance. Never allowing their mouths to part she quietly climbed onto his lap, putting one knee on the mattress, then the other, straddling him as she had the night before.

The sudden heat rising in his body startled him, and he struggled to check his arousal as she pressed her body against him. An erection he'd only vaguely noticed was now throbbing urgently, straining rebelliously against the confining denim. With just a timid fraction of the need he was feeling, he deepened their kiss, and she answered instantly with her incendiary little moan. She broke free of their kiss, panting a little as she caught her breath. Vaughn gave her a small, soft kiss on her cheek, ready, happy, in spite of the painful ache in his groin, to stop there, with the relative innocence of their kisses.

Fading daylight had painted everything in the room in warm tones of rose and orange, and her soft skin, her full lips were those same warm colors, the fine, long hair framing her face shimmered with them. It felt as though everything in him were being pulled into her. He looked at her, feeling a painful mixture of joy, disbelief, and fear.

Something in her face answered his fear most of all. He looked at her, waiting.

Everything was up to her now.

Suddenly she looked almost frightened. He took his hands off her, ready for her to leap up and away from him. Instead she guided his hands back to her waist, her anxious look unaltered.

"Show me what to do," she whispered, her voice heavy and foreboding as a rain cloud.

"What to do?"

"I want to…but I don't know what to do."

There was a sob in her voice, and a little twinge in her bottom lip.

"Devan, we…" Was she saying what he thought she was saying? "Why don't we go for a walk, get outside and talk for a while?"

He drew her hand to his mouth, put a soft kiss in her palm. She smiled and copied his gesture, then nestled her cheek in his hand. Then, watching him, drew his hand slowly down. He let it curve passively against her jaw, along the sculptured contours of her neck, over the jutting curve of her breast. She held it there. Then she kissed him. A deep, hot, wet kiss. Keeping his mouth locked to hers she took his hands, guided them beneath the hem of her shirt, and drew them up, over the hot smooth of her belly, the ridge of her rib cage, and drew his fingertips up against the firm swells of her breasts.

"Touch me." Her quiet plea was hot and damp against his ear.

Gently, carefully, he drew his hands back.

"Devan…" He smiled at her, framed her face in his hands. "…please. You don't have to do this."

"Have to?" she sighed in a coy manner that seemed utterly alien to her. "I want to."

She leaned in, put her lips to his again, coaxed him into another deep kiss. Then her hands were on him, trailing light and uncertain down his chest, over his belly. Heat surged through his whole body as her hand pressed tentatively against his erection.

"Devan, please. Don't."

When his words didn't stop her caress, almost too light to feel through the tight thickness of his jeans, he carefully curved his fingers around her wrist and took her hand away.

God, she looked like he'd slapped her.

"You won't?" Her lip trembled and her chin dimpled. "You don't want to now?"

He wanted to say she was beautiful. Astonishing and wonderful. That he adored her. But it seemed disgusting for a twisted, brutal fuck like him to feel those things for her, much less express them.

"Devan, please. I'm not sure why…I swear, Devan. I'd do anything, anything you asked. And apart from that…" he closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers, "you can't imagine how I want…you…this. But you don't have to do this, Devan, to punish me."