Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I adjust my trajectory, following her with the same methodical pace, as I slip my suit coat off and let it drop to the floor. I'm not trying to catch her yet. I'm herding her. Cornering her. Letting her tire herself out while I conserve my energy and enjoy the show.
"You're making this so much better than I imagined," I tell her conversationally, my voice carrying easily across the space between us as I pull my shirt out of my pants and unbutton it. "I knew you'd written chase scenes—'Hunted,' 'The Cottage,' that short piece called 'Prey'—but I wasn't sure if you'd actually enjoy being chased in real life."
She's panting now, her chest heaving, her eyes darting around the room looking for escape routes that don't exist. "You're insane," she spits out, her voice shaking. "You're a fucking psychopath."
"Probably," I agree easily, still advancing, letting the shirt slide down my arms. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You knew what you were signing up for when you clicked that confirmation button. When you filled out that questionnaire. When you got in the helicopter."
She moves again, circling around the St. Andrew's Cross, trying to keep furniture between us. Her legs are trembling—whether from exhaustion, fear, or the aftereffects of multiple orgasms, I'm not sure. Probably all three.
"I didn't sign up for this!" she shouts, her voice cracking. "I didn't consent to being stalked! To having cameras in my home! To—to—"
"To having your darkest fantasies brought to life?" I interrupt, my tone almost gentle. "To being hunted by someone who knows every sick, twisted thought you've ever had? To being cornered and claimed by a man who's read every word you've written about wanting exactly this?"
I shift direction, cutting her off before she can dart toward the suspension rig. She backpedals, stumbling slightly, and I watch her catch herself against the padded wall.
"You wrote seventeen different versions of this scene, Scarletta," I continue, still moving toward her with that same inexorable pace. "Seventeen different stories where the protagonist is chased, caught, claimed. Where she runs knowing she'll be caught. Where she fights knowing she'll lose. Where she surrenders knowing it's inevitable."
"Those are stories!" she screams, her back now pressed against the wall, her hands spread flat against the padding as if she could somehow push through it. "They're not real! They're fantasies!"
"Are they?" I stop walking, standing about ten feet away from her. Close enough that she can see every detail of my now exposed body—the tattoos covering my torso, the wet fabric of my slacks clinging to my erection, the predatory stillness in the way I'm watching her. "Because from where I'm standing, you look exactly like the heroines in your stories. Naked. Terrified. Aroused."
"I'm not aroused," she lies, but even from here I can see the evidence. Her nipples are hard peaks, her thighs pressed together, the telltale shine of wetness between her legs.
"Your body says differently." I take another step forward. "Your pussy is dripping, Scarletta. You're scared, yes. But you're also turned on. Just like Sally when Brett chased her through the woods. Just like Claire when her captor hunted her through the abandoned warehouse. Just like every single protagonist you've ever written who ran from a man who already owned her."
She shakes her head violently, her hair whipping around her face. "No. No, that's different. That's—"
"Different how?" Another step. "Because those women wanted it? Because they secretly hoped to be caught? Because they were running toward their fate instead of away from it?"
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. No words come out.
"You're not different from them," I say softly, taking two more steps that bring me within arm's reach. "You're exactly the same. You're just too afraid to admit it."
She bolts.
Tries to, anyway. She ducks under my arm and makes a desperate sprint toward the open space near the cage, her feet sliding slightly on the smooth concrete. But she's exhausted now, her movements sloppy and uncoordinated, and I'm fresh, and patient, and have been planning this for six months.
I catch her easily.
My hand closes around her upper arm, spinning her around to face me. She immediately starts fighting—clawing at my chest, trying to knee me in the groin, her small fists pounding against my torso with surprising force.
I let her.
I stand there and take every hit, every scratch, every desperate attempt to hurt me. The pain barely registers. Her nails rake across my chest, probably leaving marks on the tattoos, and all I feel is satisfaction that she's finally showing me the real her—the one who fights back, who doesn't just submit quietly, who has fire underneath all that anxiety and self-doubt.
"That's it," I murmur, catching her wrists when she aims for my face. "Fight me. Show me what you've got."
"I hate you!" she screams, still struggling. "I hate you, I hate you, I—"