Stranded with the billio.., p.16
Stranded with the Billionaire, page 16
His tongue flicked against her clit, urgent, a frantic expression of need that electrified her blood. She cried out, her head against the stone as he slid his fingers inside her, pressing against the front wall of her pussy, massaging her G-spot.
Beg me, she heard Charles whisper. She pressed her lips together, shoving the thought aside.
John seemed to sense her tension because he pulled back and looked up at her. “Are you okay?”
Beg me, Charles said inside her brain. Tell me why I should fuck you.
When she didn’t answer, John rose before her and took her face in one hand, the fingers of his other still buried in her pussy, flicking her clit with his thumb. He stared into her eyes, a look that said, Do you want this?
Asking. It wasn’t a demand. All he wanted was to make her happy. His ultimate goal was her.
“May I fuck you, Anne? Please?”
Yes—absolutely, yes. It wasn’t that he needed to hear the words, that he wanted to boost his narcissistic ego into the stratosphere, not like Charles. John was asking permission. And just hearing the plaintive note in his voice, the longing, how much he needed to be inside her, smashed the remnants of Charles’s voice into insignificant pieces, replaced with a heady urgency that could only be lust.
Anne reached between John’s legs, his dick solid, veiny beneath her palm, the tip beading with moisture—ready for her. She widened her stance and tugged him closer.
He smiled and brought his lips to hers. She returned his kiss, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck while she guided his dick between her legs.
John lifted her knee and hooked it around his elbow, positioning the head of his cock at her opening. He thrust into her deeply but completely, and Anne cried out, a guttural sound that only made him fuck her harder.
John moaned with her, the hiss of their breath mingling with the howl of the wind, all of it echoing back at them from the stone walls. The fire crackled and spit.
“Do you like the way I feel inside you?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said. “I love your cock.” The words sprang from her lips unbidden. They were things she’d never even thought with anyone else, and the forcefulness with which they invaded her brain sucked all other thoughts from her head. “I love the way you fuck me. I never want you to stop fucking me.”
He pulled back, eyes wide. “Why, Ms. Backstrom, I’m absolutely shocked at your language.”
She grinned, but then he thrust his hips, making her cry out once more. “Fuck me, you idiot,” she moaned.
“I’m offended! Could an idiot do this?” He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
She laughed again, but the contractions in her pelvis only intensified the feeling of his dick inside her, the pulsing of his hips. She hissed a breath. “Jesus, John.”
He was still grinning when he lifted her into his arms, off of her feet, his hands on her ass, spreading her as he thrust his hips. She tightened her thighs around him, keeping him close—as deep as she possibly could. But the man didn’t need her help. The public didn’t know how ripped he was, and they certainly had no idea what he was packing below the belt.
John quickened his pace, planting soft kisses on her cheeks as he claimed her pussy—made her his. Every thrust was a pulse that she felt not only between her legs but somewhere deeper, in a place that wasn’t physical. It was as if he was knocking himself against a door she’d kept locked for years, splintering the edges, breaking the deadbolt—smashing through it as he’d smashed into that cottage. She could feel herself on the other side of the door, terrified but absolutely starving for what he offered.
The flames shuddered in the wind, dying down to dark, cold shadows washing over them before the fire blazed back to life. But that single moment of chill air brushed gooseflesh over every inch of her skin. Anne shivered.
John paused and ran his fingers through her hair. “You okay?”
“The wind is picking up.”
He pulled out and set her on her feet. She held onto the wall; her legs felt like jelly. Her thermal underwear lay beside the flames, toasty from the fire, and John returned with the shirt and tugged it over her head. The gooseflesh settled.
John slipped her jacket over her shoulders, too, between her and the stone wall. Then he lowered his lips to hers, and when she opened her mouth, he slipped the head of his dick between her legs—tongue, cock, both of them inside her in one thrust.
She wrapped her ankle around his hip, and he hooked her knee with his elbow. “I’m not sure I need the jacket,” she panted.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.” He thrust extra hard, grabbing her ass. “Don’t destroy my fantasy.”
She laughed, but with him filling her like this, the contractions of her abdominal muscles sucked the air from her lungs. She clutched at him, her teeth against his bare shoulder. She bit down.
He grunted, but he did not stop—rotating, rocking, slamming his dick into her. The angle pressed his pubic bone against her clit, stimulating that sensitive nub every time he moved his hips. “Jesus, I love fucking you.”
The firelight was too intense, the smoke too thick, the rock jagged and chilly—every nerve ending in her body was on fire. The only stimulation she wanted, all she could tolerate, was his cock buried deep inside her, massaging her G-spot exactly right, his breath hot against her throat. Anne screwed her eyes closed, cutting off the night that was all too much.
Him. Just him.
The locked-door barrier inside her shattered without warning. Warm heat flooded her belly, her brain, and then her entire being contracted in a wave of euphoria so intense that she could not breathe, could not speak, could not think. She was shivering in a darkness behind her eyelids, adrift as her muscles spasmed, every burst intensifying the wave that flowed through her body, her brain, her soul. Connecting her to him.
She was his. He was hers. Even if they didn’t end up together, she’d always belong to this man.
He moaned and pulled out, semen coiling over her thigh as he lowered her leg gently to the earth. Anne was still trembling so forcefully that she wasn’t sure she could stand. She reached for the wall again, but John tugged her against him, supporting her—holding her.
John stroked her hair. “I know we’re in this desolate place, that we’re sore and starving and freezing, but… I feel like this might be the best day of my entire life. Does that sound insane?”
It might be the last day of their lives. But she felt it, too. A warm calm had invaded her senses. She was still throbbing with the aftershocks of her orgasm, but she’d had orgasms before—this feeling wasn’t that. It was something life-changing. She could only hope they lived to…
Her eyes slipped away from his. Huh. What was that sound? But she saw nothing strange, only the firelight flickering against the cave walls.
“Anne?”
The sound came again—a hiss that might have been wind but almost sounded like… breathing? “Did you hear that?” she asked.
John was no longer looking at her, his gaze on the back wall. He had gone stock-still as if the wind had instantaneously frozen his limbs, his arms still around her. But he’d heard it, too. She knew he had.
“Is that thunder?” Please let it be the storm.
He glanced back at her, frowning. “I don’t think—”
A noise wheezed through the space, a low breathy shhhhhh. John released her and grabbed his pants off the floor, spine stiff. She followed suit, the panic hot and terrible, constricting her chest as she grabbed her clothes and retreated back to the wall. John was in front of her, clambering into his pants.
We aren’t alone—she felt it in her bones. They both stared into the darkness at the back of the cave.
The pitch was absolute beyond the reach of the fire. No movement—nothing but jaundiced light flicking against the stone walls. The wind threw a whirl of snowflakes into the rocky room, disappearing when they hit the warm air over the flames.
And then she saw it beyond the bulge of John’s shoulder.
Orange glittered out of the black like a pair of rogue sparks. But they weren’t sparks. Far too uniform. They moved together, twin orbs in the darkness.
Another huffing rush of air, then a rumbling growl. This time, Anne could see the source. The furry brown face was the biggest she’d ever seen, breath fogging from vicious jaws in clouds of pure hate.
Chapter 26
John
Not a wolf, as he’d thought when he first heard that low growl. This was so much worse. Because while a wolf might have friends, a bear needed no help to kill them.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. John’s breath was locked inside his lungs. He’d checked the mouths of the tunnels, but he hadn’t been able to explore. Somewhere down those passageways had lurked a hibernating killing machine—awoken by the heat of the fire. And it was none too happy to have them disturb its nap.
John widened his arms, trying to make himself appear bigger, taller, wider, but the animal did not appear to notice. It lumbered into the room slowly, enormous shoulders rolling. Five hundred, maybe six hundred pounds. Spittle foamed at the corners of its lips.
His heart thundered in his ears as he scanned the room—A plan, we need a plan! Anne’s eyes were wide, terrified, locked on the bear. She’d managed to get into her clothes… mostly. Socks, no boots.
The bear stopped, the campfire crackling between them. It watched them over the flames, eyes glittering. John slipped his shirt over his head, slowly, slowly, convinced that at any moment, the animal would charge, and they’d have to run into the storm without a stitch of protection against the wind. A different type of death sentence, but lethal all the same.
The animal remained still. Watching. Waiting.
John pulled his jacket over his shoulders. Grabbed his snow pants. Eased his socked feet into his boots—untied.
He stared at the bear. The bear stared back.
Would it let them leave? Maybe if they slunk out—nonthreatening.
He cut his eyes at the darkness, the tornadoes of snow. The opening to the cave was less than fifteen feet away, but it felt much too far. Though the creature had only just woken from hibernation and would perhaps be slower for it, John was outmatched in bulk. He had no claws, no gun. They weren’t going to make it out—at least not both of them.
“Go,” he whispered to Anne, his eyes on the bear.
Anne did not respond. She remained standing behind him, silent at his back. Not breathing—terrified.
“Grab your boots and go. Now. We won’t both—”
The animal reared up on its hind legs and roared, the sound silencing the wind, exploding through his brain. Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck. He’d been wrong about hibernation slowing the thing down. Anne slid right, snatched up her boots, and he shifted with her, staying between her and the bear.
The bear did not seem to see Anne at all. It lunged straight at John.
John leaped back, and Anne stumbled, shoved aside by the force of his shoulder. The wall of the cave was too close—they’d both be pinned against the rock if the animal advanced.
John half turned, reaching back. He shoved Anne away, out of the path of the animal’s claws, as it swiped its right paw toward them. He felt the air against his face, the barely there sting of claw on flesh as it opened a fine seam along his jaw.
John leaped right, following Anne’s trajectory toward the mouth of the cave as she sidled around the fire—Go, Anne. Go!
The bear swiped again, jaws snapping, mere feet from John’s chest. He could feel the heat radiating off the animal. Sweat trickled down his back in oily streams.
The bear swiped again, a murderous paw slicing through the air. John dodged, jerking his face away, razor-sharp claws so close he could see the dirt beneath them. But leaning his upper body back had thrown his legs forward. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance, but his right foot didn’t get the memo in time.
Jaws clamped around his boot, his toes, a vise of leather and rubber and teeth. The pressure was intense and immediate, a searing burn that sizzled through his brain like lightning. He could not feel the cold, only the humidity of the animal’s foggy breath. He could not smell the smoke, only the stench of the bear—dirt and rot and feral rage.
John struck out with his other boot, nailing the animal in the snout. It released his crushed foot, and John rolled, scampering toward the flames, his palms scraping against the jagged stones. He collapsed to his belly and stretched one hand toward the fire, but not before he saw her—Anne. Still inside the cave. No!
“Go! Fucking go!” he shouted at her, his voice booming in the small space, high-pitched, hysterical.
The bear was closing the distance between them. He could feel the vibration of heavy footfalls.
John grabbed for a stick, wrapped his hand around the wood. He yanked. Pieces of charred rocking chair went flying, flaming wood skittering, the fire collapsing. Blustery wind screamed through the cave, trying to finish the job, threatening to plunge them into darkness.
The stick burned his palm, charring his flesh, but he held fast. John twisted and swung. The flaming torch hissed through the air. It did not connect.
The bear growled, then roared, and John swung again, roaring right back, but the animal was beyond his reach—John’s arms were not long enough.
The bear’s legs were longer. One swipe across his torso, and John’s insides would be on the outside.
He was going to lose. He worked out, he was strong as hell, but he was no match for a fucking bear.
He tried anyway. Swinging, shouting, growling.
Feral.
Furious.
Pure adrenaline.
Burning heat through his sticky foot, the wretched scent of iron in his sinuses—blood.
Teeth and claws and screams that might have been his.
I’m sorry, Anne. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’ve never been able to protect anyone.
The animal clamped down on his foot again, jerking his body along, the pain white-hot as it yanked him over the stone floor like a rag doll. His head smashed into the stone, ankle popping out of its socket. He kicked again. Missed. Then he saw it: movement in his peripheral vision. A glowing stick behind the bear, rising, rising. And behind it, her silhouette, dim in the shadows of the dying fire.
Panic exploded in his brain. His foot was in agony. His lungs burned. No, Anne, run! Don’t do this!
But he couldn’t form the words. She wouldn’t have listened anyway—didn’t have time to listen. Anne was already bringing the club down, slamming it into the animal’s back.
The bear growled and reared up, releasing John. It twisted around to go after Anne, but she was already tearing across the rock, feet flying toward the mouth of the cave. She vanished into the darkness, hidden beyond the veil of white. Invisible in the blustery storm.
The bear turned its enormous face toward John as if deciding.
John waved his arms. “Choose me, you fucker! I’m right fucking here!”
The animal blinked at him.
Then it turned and lumbered into the storm after the woman he loved.
Chapter 27
Anne
She could feel the bear behind her, but she couldn’t see the creature. She couldn’t hear it either. While the growling had been amplified by the cave, echoing against the stone, out here, she could scream as loud as she wanted and not be heard. The storm kicked up gales that stung her cheeks and deafened her to all but the howling wind.
Anne slipped, stumbled, raced on. The snowdrifts made navigation difficult, and twice, she had to pause to take stock of her surroundings. She could not see anything but the white.
Which way? Which fucking way?
Ice pebbled her face and froze her eyeballs. Her boots were still untied; her hands burned with cold. John’s gloves—clutched in one palm. She fumbled them on with shaking fingers, tried to tug the scarf over her face, failed twice before managing. The single blanket she’d still had tied in her makeshift pack bounced against the small of her back. Just one, but it felt so heavy. Painful where it struck her spine.
Anne tore across the snow, whipping her head left then right. Which way? Which way? The question echoed in her brain, over and over and over, but she was no closer to an answer. Away from the thudding footsteps seemed a safe bet, but which way was that? She couldn’t tell. The storm was too loud to hear the bear, the barrage of snowflakes too thick to see it. Anne might have been staring at a brick wall.
She raced on, fast as she dared; the cliff still existed out there somewhere. She thought she was going the right way, that she was running away from the bear—the way they’d planned to walk tomorrow.
If she was going the wrong way… would John manage to find her?
He’s dead, Anne. He’s dead.
Tears stung her eyes, a sob ripping itself from her throat. John wasn’t dead—he couldn’t be dead. The bear had hurt his foot, maybe, but she’d distracted it. It had come out after her—left him alone so he could get up, dress his wound. So he could live.
Snow sucked at her boots, burying her to the shins. Her toes were freezing—wet. Shit. She paused, panting, jerking her feet from the snow one at a time, frantically tying the laces.
Thud, thud, thud.
Her breath locked in her lungs. In the time it had taken her to tie her boots, the animal had closed the distance between them. The sound… was it behind her? She whirled, crouching, trying to decide where the thing was. All she saw was white. And then… it was there. A vague shadow fifty feet back.
Anne turned and ran, but every step made her guts clench harder, her throat closing. Her lungs ached with cold. He’s alive, Anne. He’s alive, and you’re leaving him to die.
Once the bear got tired of searching for her, where would it go? Straight back to the cave. The second it got bored, it would run right into John. And he was already injured. He would not survive a second bout with those crushing jaws.
