The Hunted (Sleeping With Monsters Book 2) (2 page)

 “Always,” he said, his
voice low. He was so handsome it was hard to look at, especially knowing why he
was here. 

Then again, handsome
guys could be dicks. They were used to getting their own way.

“How do you want it to
go?” I asked, pushing a leg out, letting my skirt ride up an inch as I promised
him things with my eyes.

“I want it with these,”
he said, reaching behind him.

I tensed. Was he going
to pull out drugs – or a knife? When he pulled out handcuffs, I laughed in
relief. 

“I’m not going to let
you do that,” I said, shaking my head.

“Why not?” His face and
voice were lightly questioning.

“Because.” Maybe on the
north side of town, upscale escorts used handcuffs all the time. But on the
southside, hookers who went that route wound up on the evening news – or at the
bottom of some overworked cop’s file.

He grinned at me,
undaunted. “What if I let you use them on me?”

One of
those
. No
worries -- I could do that. “Sure.” I got up and knelt on the bed and pointed
at the mattress. “Get on the bed, nasty boy,” I said, trying to dredge up some
sincerity for the occasion.

He laughed. It was
awkward and strange. Most johns didn’t laugh when they were on the clock. But
it wasn’t threatening. It was the sort of laugh that made me want to laugh
back, with him. I stared at him, not sure if that was okay, or how I should be.

“I’ll use them,” he
promised, “but don’t worry, I’ll still be the one doing all the talking.” He
moved to the other side of the bed, lay down fully clothed, and proceeded to
chain his wrists through the headboard.

I watched him like a
confused dog, tilting my head from side to side. When he was done, he looked at
me. His eyes were an intense brown, and his gaze made me more uncomfortable
than the room had, like he wasn’t just looking at me, but reading me. “Help me
take off my pants?” he suggested, the corners of his lips lifting.

I sat there for a
moment, studying him back. I couldn’t help myself from asking, “What’s to stop
me from just stealing your wallet?”

He laughed again.
“Well, my wallet’s in the back pocket. So’re the keys to these.” He shook the
cuffs over his head.

I knelt beside him,
cautiously. He could still kick me or something, right? He watched me just as
carefully -- he had something planned, and I didn’t like that. I could see the
outline of his erection, straining against his suit pants. But I reached for
his belt and followed it with both hands to his taut ass and sank my hands into
his pockets, pulling out keys, wallet, and condoms.

“See?” he said. I
opened his wallet up, out of habit. So many twenties – had he already paid Ray?
“So you can either take the wallet now – or you can stay.”

The part of me that was
used to living on the southside, never taking anything for granted, and always
assuming the worst was screaming
take the wallet and run!
Ray might beat
me, but he’d never know how much I’d stolen if I hid it from him fast enough.

But the part of me that
knew about hotel rooms that had not only soap but sewing kits and mouthwash,
the part of me that remembered wanting men that looked like this, was the one
that spoke.

“Stay and what?”

“Use me until you
come.”

I sank back on my heels
a little. “Come on. I probably get more dick than you get pussy. And yours is
supposed to be more magical than all of this cash?” I said, waving his own
wallet in front of him.

He was undaunted. “The
only thing I want is to see you come.”

“I come for all my guys
–“ I started.

He cut me off. “Sure
you do.”

I frowned down at him.
He was so confident so – what was the term? Cocksure. I snorted. But who knew
how hard it’d be to hail a cab from here that’d take me back to my side of town
again, and not just drive off when they heard the street name? And I didn’t
like getting hit by Ray –

So what would it hurt if I
did use him? I’d been used often enough. What was the harm in taking my turn
and do some using?  

I looked down at him
again and found him watching me. “We’ll see.”

He nodded.

I folded the leather of
his belt back and undid the latch that kept his slacks smooth, then reached for
the top of his fly.

I moved my hand
fractionally, undoing the zipper tine by tine, unwrapping him like he was a
present. I reached inside his pants and felt him underneath the thin cotton
that kept him bound. Then I went for the waist band of everything together.
“Help me?” I asked, giving him a look.

“Of course,” he said,
raising his hips so that I could pull pants and underwear down.

I reached for one of
the condoms on the bed and unwrapped it expertly, then reached out to touch
him. His cock was hard and warm and the equal of any one I’d ever seen – which
was, two years into this for me, saying a lot. I slid the condom over him and then
straddled him with my knees, pulling up my skirt.

There was always
something feral seeming about squatting on top of a man – which was one of the
reasons I liked it. I lowered myself -- not wearing underwear was one of the
few perks of my job -- until my pussy was right over his still hard dick, and I
slid him in.

Either the condom had
lube, or the tone of his voice – like he was used to giving orders and being
listened to – had made me a little wet. I settled myself down and the sound I
made as he fit inside me wasn’t fake.

I looked to him for
what he wanted to happen next.

“You don’t believe me,
do you?” he said.

I shook my head.

A wicked smile crossed
his beautiful face. “Use me like a fuck toy,” he repeated. “I’m paying you to
be happy. Nothing fake. And don’t think you can pretend. I can see you – and I
can feel you.”

I stared down at him,
with his cock hard inside. I’d never had a john like this before – and I had to
admit the him-being-crazy thing made him hotter. I rose up, experimentally,
made him move inside me, and saw his eyes close in brief contentment, like a
cat.

I’d just fuck him until
he came and all of this would be through.

I leaned forward,
putting my hands by his shoulders, so I could ride my hips up and down. “Is
this what you wanted?” I asked him, taking him inside me again.

“You already know what
I want,” he answered me, and closed his eyes.

What a strange kink
this was, finding poor hookers to pay to fuck you until they came, thinking you
were like some perverted Santa Claus. But whatever it took for him to get off.
And as for me getting off -- his cock would do just fine.

I rocked back on him
and groaned, sitting up almost straight, feeling him fill me, grinding my clit
against his stomach’s flatness. He moaned – and I could see the outline of his
triceps bulging against his dress shirt – maybe his arms wanted to grab hold of
me and take control, to make me fuck his dick how he wanted to be fucked.

But too bad. This was
my ride now. I licked my fingers and sent them down to rub myself, pulsing my
ass against his thighs to make his cock rub me the same.

His eyes opened and
looked up.

“Is this what you want
to see?” I opened my mouth and pulled my skirt higher so he knew where my hand
was.

“If looking helps you
out,” he said, one eyebrow quirked.

I snorted and closed my
own eyes, riding him in long smooth strokes, feeling all of him, and deep
inside my pussy began to clench. I brought my free hand up across my chest to
hold my right breast and pinch it’s nipple through my tank top. I moaned and
beneath me he moaned, feeling things tighten and change, leaning over so that
his cock rubbed me just right, my fingers slippery on my clit –

I gasped out, once,
twice, and came like I always did.

The ‘orgasms’ I had for
johns were shouting, thrashing shows, but when I really came I did it for
myself, hissing and panting, like I’d touched something that burned that I
couldn’t let go of. I writhed and rocked and whimpered and hissed and felt him
groan below me at seeing me come, and feeling me massage him. I moved my hands
out to hold myself and stayed squatting above.

“There. Happy now?”

“Very,” he said,
staring up.

“What…about you?” I
asked him. He hadn’t come.

“You can use those keys
to unlock me now.” He looked over at them on the bed.

“But –“

“Don’t make me repeat
myself,” he quietly warned. That voice – it was all southside, what I was used
to. I got off of him and reached for the keys, unlocking him quickly.

He took the condom off
with one hand and stood, tucking himself back inside his pants.

“You’ll come in time to
learn you can always trust what I say,” he said as he refastened his belt. I
nodded, because I didn’t know what else to do.

“This is your thing?
Confusing prostitutes?”

“No.” He threw the
condom away, and put the cuffs in his back pocket. “My thing is finding
interesting people and fucking them.”

“Am I interesting?” I
hated myself for asking it half-a-second too late.

“Oh yes.” He put his
hand out – and I handed his wallet over to him. He opened it and took the rest
of the cash out and gave it to me.

“I work for the family,”
he said, by way of explanation. “Same time, next week?”

I nodded again.

He waited for a moment,
looking down at me appraisingly. “Good. But next time you’re going to let me
use the cuffs on you.”

#

A car slowed, and I
looked up. The man on the other end of the line hadn’t told me what he’d be
driving. The window rolled down and I started up from the building’s side to
walk over.

“Hey,” the driver shouted. He
was shadowed by his own car and I couldn’t see him.

“Hey,” I said back.

“I ain’t seen you down here
before, baby –“ he said, clucking his tongue at me.

Some john, or a pimp, Christ –
“Fuck you,” I flipping him off.

“Come on baby, I got cash –“

I turned away.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Come
on come on come on –“

I whirled and ran at his car,
momentarily insane. “Didn’t you hear me? Go fuck yourself!”

I kicked out at his door. The
anger I hadn’t gotten to take out on the Carminos I released now, swinging my
backpack off my shoulder and out at him, missing as he drove away. I spun off
balance in the middle of the street as he shouted, “Crazy bitch!” and peeled
off.

Vincent had promised me that
life was behind me – and I’d believed him. And now here I was, just hours after
--

“Hey. You.” There was a truck
parked across the street. I could only see a sliver of a man inside, glowering
at me from inside the cab. Without thinking, I flipped him off.

“Hey,
you
,” he said,
slightly louder.

I stood up straight. “What?”

“Get in the truck.” He leaned
over and opened up the passenger door.

I hesitated. I hadn’t
introduced myself on the phone. It could be him. Or it could be another hopeful
john. Or a hopeful serial killer.

I would have followed Vincent
into hell – but who the hell was this? I wish I’d asked for a code word.

“Get in,” he commanded. I
hitched my backpack higher. I had to get myself together. I had ID, money – I
knew how to get more money if I had to –

The light changed and the car
behind the truck honked its horn. The truck drove off, too fast, angry, I heard
tires squealing. I sagged against the building.

Had it been him? Had I missed
my chance?

Chance at what? What was there
left for me now that Vincent was gone?

I stood there, breathing raw,
the whole world pressing in. I had to get out of here, out of town, away – I’d
buy a flight to Mexico and start over again, somehow.

The sound of an engine roared
up behind me. I turned just in time to see the truck pass me and hop the curb.

It was the Carminos – my God –
I tried to run but before I could the driver was out on the sidewalk with me,
grabbing me. I screamed as he threw me bodily into his truck, knowing that
screams down on the southside were ignored, and he slammed the door shut.

I curled up into a protective
ball on the passenger seat, still wearing my backpack, no seatbelt on.

“You called
me
,
remember?” the man behind the wheel complained.

The truck was old and it
smelled like dog. He had dusty blonde hair, short-ish but shaggy, and a
five-o-clock shadow from at least two days ago. He took the next three turns
angrily, looking into his rear-view mirror after each one, before he calmed
down.

“Were you followed?”

I shook my head. If I’d been
followed, I’d be dead by now. The Carminos weren’t fond of witnesses.

He grunted at that. I kept
watching him out of the corner of my eye. He was the kind of guy who gave you
reasons to tip your bouncers when you danced. I didn’t feel any safer inside
the truck with him than I had out on the street.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t answer me, he just
kept driving.

“What’s your name?” I asked,
still trying – and failing – to sound tough.

“Max.”

I noticed he didn’t ask for
mine.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.”

I hoped safe wasn’t a matter
of opinion, as he took the next turn.

I lost track of where we were
when we left town and major highways. The fact that it was dark didn’t help –
and that this man drove down logging trails like they were actual roads. When
he parked and turned the lights off, I knew we were surrounded by forest for
miles around.

“It’s up there. Can you make
it?” he pointed up a hill.

“Sure,” I said, not really.
What choice did I have? I got out and he reached for my bag. I didn’t want to
give it to him – my clothes, my cash, my ID were all I had – but I’d be hard
pressed to walk up the hill in daylight, muchless in the dark. The waxing moon illuminated
a goat trail up. He started for it with my bag, and I followed close behind.