He rewards me by curling his fingers deeper, pressing firmly against that spot that makes my vision blur. "Like this?" His thumb circles my clit in tighter, more deliberate strokes.
Electric heat shoots up my spine, pooling low in my belly. My thighs start to tremble around his hand. "Yes," I gasp, "God, yes right there," I breathe, my voice breaking on the words as the tension coils tighter, tighter.
The pressure builds until I'm balanced on a knife's edge, every nerve ending alive and screaming. Nick's fingers work relentlessly inside me, thumb circling my clit with perfect, maddening pressure. His eyes never leave my face, drinking in every hitched breath, every flutter of my eyelashes.
"You're so beautiful like this. Falling apart just for me, Sugarplum."
The orgasm hits like a thunderclap, sudden and overwhelming. My body seizes, inner walls clamping down on his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I cry out, the sound echoing in the cabin as my hips buck wildly against his hand. My bound wrists pull tight against the back of his neck, forcing our foreheads together as I shatter.
Nick's breath catches, his pupils blown wide as he watches me come undone. "That's it baby," he whispers, working me through each pulse, each tremor.
I collapse against him, trembling and boneless, as aftershocks ripple through my body. His fingers still move lazily inside me, drawing out every last shudder until I whimper from oversensitivity. Only then does he slowly withdraw, leaving me empty and aching.
He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes locked on mine. The sight sends another jolt of heat through me, even as disgust and shame flood my system.
What have I done?
I just came on the hand of my kidnapper. I just begged for it.
"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my temple as I struggle to catch my breath.
My cheeks burn with humiliation, with pleasure, with confusion. I can't look at him. Can't face what just happened. Can't reconcile the storm of contradictions raging inside me.
Nick gently lifts my bound hands from around his neck and cradles them in his palms. His thumbs stroke over the angry red marks where the zip ties dug into my skin.
"You did so well," he says softly, pressing his lips to my wrists. "My perfect girl."
I should hate those words. Should recoil from his touch, his praise. Instead, my traitorous body melts into him, craving the comfort even as my mind screams in protest.
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline crash hits hard, leaving me hollow and wrung out. Nick seems to sense it. He tucks me against his chest, one hand stroking my hair as he murmurs soothing nonsense into the crown of my head.
Chapter Eight
Nick
Christmasmorning.Ifinallyhave her in my bed.
Not the way I used to imagine it when I was sixteen, still in that house without her, half-feral, sleeping on a thin mattress and staring up at mold-speckled ceiling tiles. Back then, it was all blur and fantasy and raw need. No context, no hope — just wanting. This is…more.
The room is dim, lit only by pale winter light sneaking through the curtains and the soft, blinking glow of the string of Christmas lights I draped around the headboard last night while she slept. The lights are old and cheap; some bulbs barely glow. But theypaint color on her skin, faint reds and greens and golds, like she’s wrapped in the holiday whether she wants it or not.
She’s on her side facing me, blanket pulled up to her chest and one shoulder bare. Her hair is a mess on the pillow between us, lashes dark against her cheeks. For a moment I just lie here, drinking her in, watching her breathe.
I carried her in sometime after midnight. She finally sagged against me on the couch, limp and warm and utterly done. I cut the zip tie binding her wrists and fastened a new one with s little more wiggle room, soft enough that she could rest, tight enough that I knew she couldn’t do anything stupid in the night. Baby steps.
That plastic band is still there now, a pale ring around her wrists where they’re tucked between her chest and the blanket. I hate it. Ineedit. I exhale slowly, chest tight. She shifts at the sound, a tiny crease forming between her brows. Her lips part on a faint sigh.
“Meredith,” I murmur, voice low. “Hey. Sugarplum, time to wake up.”
Her eyes blink open, unfocused. There’s a sliver of softness there, a second of borrowed peace.
Then it hits.
The cabin. The couch. My voice in her ear. The fact that she is not in her own bed, not in her own life. Her gaze snaps to the window, the door, the shadows, the blink of cheap lights overhead. Her breath catches and her pupils widen as she remembers who I am and what I did.
Her cheeks flush, and something hot and heavy flares in my chest.
“Morning,” I say, forcing casual into my voice as if this were a normal morning. “It's Christmas.”
