Vanquish (5 page)

“You look gorgeous tonight.” The bastard's voice was grating. Besides, she was always gorgeous.

She turned in his arms and whispered something, but he didn't miss the last three words. “I love you.”

The beefed-up Boy Scout palmed her ass. “Love you, too.”

Van's chest clenched. He'd said those words to her often, but it hadn't changed a damned thing. Hadn't prompted her to say them back. Hadn't prevented another man's hands from groping her now.

As those hands caressed her, he remembered her velvety skin, the minty fragrance of her hair, and the biting flavor of her pussy. His dick grew warm and hard, throbbing for her touch.

He unzipped his jeans as Joshua removed his. He stroked his length, anticipating and dreading the scene he'd witnessed so many times. They would fuck on the table, their go-to in the kitchen. As she slid off her panties, he jerked his fist, hating the man she loved and hoping one of these kitchen romps would roll him onto the fatal end of a butcher knife.

She angled Joshua's bulky body against the table edge, pushing him onto his back and pinning his arms above his head. Her skirt hiked up, and the view of her heart-shaped ass rushed more blood to Van's cock. He stroked harder, his breath quickening with the sound of hers.

After a few wriggles of her hips, she seated herself on Joshua Carter and fucked him the way she did every night. Hard and wild, her face slackened with passion. All the ways she'd never fucked Van.

He knew he should stop. He should stop coming here and fucking his hand. Stop fucking up his head with something he'd never have.

But he could have her if he took her.

His fist tightened, and his balls pulled up. He was close. So was she. Her head fell back, and her features morphed in pure bliss as her body bucked. On another man.

He lost the rush to climax, which happened more often than not. The lonely, wretched feeling that took its place made him want to knock on her door and remind her he existed. Then what? Wait for her to invite him in for a beer? What if she turned him away and started closing her blinds? What if she shot him again?

He relaxed his fist, his insides squeezing in a miserable grip despite the needy throb in his engorged dick. She was happy, and her happiness meant more dark porches and unreachable orgasms in his future. He needed to let her go.

Same damned thing he told himself every night.

Had anything changed since that night six months ago when he decided to put mics on her window? The intel he’d gained through spying hadn’t brought him any closer to his daughter. As for Liv, he’d tried for seven years to make her want him. It was an impossible pursuit then, and even more so now.

Watching her night after night with Joshua might’ve killed some of his desperation for her. But for some perverse reason, he couldn’t stop. Witnessing her get off gave him more satisfaction than the faceless men and women he fucked when he left her window.

A click sounded from the door behind him, lifting the hairs on his neck. The deadbolt twisted three more times. What the fuck? He turned, yanking the ear bud from his ear, and his blood ran cold.

Five feet away, the front door opened, and a high-heeled foot tapped slowly, inch by inch, over the threshold. The interior light highlighted long, toned legs and a narrow body wrapped in a short skirt and business jacket.

She lingered in the doorway, half-in, half-out, fingers gripping the frame. She stared at the street as if unsure whether she was coming or going. In fact, she clung to the house as if it were supplying her air. A house that no one lived in.

He didn't move, didn't blink. He could slip off the side of the porch, but he was glued to the bench, captivated by shock and curiosity.

Her breaths grew louder and more shallow, and her profile shifted from the concealment of the doorway. A mass of blond curls framed her face, her delicate features twisted in indisputable pain and horror. It wasn't him she feared. Her focus hadn't moved from the end of the driveway, her wide eyes cutting a circle around the mailbox.

The empty street was dimly lit. Not a car or a snake or a bogeyman in sight.

She stumbled forward, releasing her clutch on the doorframe, and choked on a sob. Another step. Her heels wobbled, and her hands flew to her busty chest as she gasped.

Fuck, she was a beautiful sight. Dainty fingers, tiny nose, pink cheeks streaked with tears. His cock twitched in his hand. He was sick and selfish and insanely turned on by her body and the lost look in her wide eyes, the whole damned package. He stroked his arousal, praying she wouldn't turn his way, hoping she would.

She threw herself forward, her heels landing with a clop. She bent over, hands on knees, and whispered, “Four.”

The light from inside outlined the cuts of muscle in her calves, thighs, and ass. Muscles that quivered so violently he was surprised she could stand. But the girl was built. Not an ounce of fat. Perhaps too thin, like body-builder dehydrated, but Christ, she worked it with those huge tits and tiny waist.

And she still hadn't noticed the pervert rubbing his dick behind her. She cracked her knuckles and shook out her arms, seemingly lost in her head. Then her shoulders jerked back and her chest heaved. He leaned forward. What was she up to?

She took off. Amazingly fast in heels, she sprinted down the driveway, her ass flexing with her strides. She slammed to a stop in front of the mailbox and yanked out the envelopes. Her free hand covered her mouth, and the muffled sound of her sobs reached the porch.

What was wrong with this girl? The intensity of her fear resonated deep within the depraved part of his being. It was as intoxicating as her beauty, but where did it come from? What was she afraid of? How the hell did she live in this house? That would mean she never left. Watching her stagger up the driveway, it made sense. Kind of.

She was heading back to the door, and however breathlessly and hunched over, she would surely see him. He tucked his semi-hard dick in his pants and shoved his things in the bag. The side windows on Liv's house glowed from within, the rooms empty. He needed to get the fuck out of there.

Wobbling, she squeezed the mail to her chest, eyes fixed on her feet as if willing them to keep moving. Her shoulders curled forward and seemed to be dragging her toward the ground with each step. She didn't look like she'd make it to the porch.

A few steps away, her attention jerked up, fixed on the cracked door. As she inched toward it, her gaze cut right, then left and collided with his. The anticipation in his stomach coiled into a knot, and he stared right back, daring her to look away. Would she scream? Run? Or confront him? Fuck if he couldn't wait to find out.

Color bled from her face, the whites of her eyes rounding with terror. Her muscles spasmed, shaking her arms and loosening packages from her grip. Several dropped around her feet. Was she having a seizure?

She reached back, squatting, as if she knew she was going to fall. Fuck it. He jumped off the porch and closed the distance in three strides.

Sweet God, why was there a man on her porch? Oh fuck, a murky, fast-moving wall of man. He charged toward Amber in a blur of dark clothes and unimaginable purpose. Why was he running toward
her
? She didn't need help. She just wanted to be left alone to return to her house.

The door was so close. Eight feet at most. But convulsions shook her hands so uncontrollably she lost her grip on the remaining envelopes.

Silver eyes stabbed from the depths of his hood, seizing every cell in her body. She couldn't look away, couldn't breathe. Not when her stomach bucked and her chest simmered with bile. And not when his hands shot out and locked around her elbows, preventing her fall.

Saliva rushed over her tongue, and vomit hit the back of her throat, hot and humiliating. What if he was trying to help her? She couldn't puke on him. Please, no. She swallowed past the burn and breathed through her mouth as bursts of black dotted her vision.

The man's fingers clamped her arms, his chest too close to hers. She needed air, tried to jerk back. Her knees buckled. No, she wouldn't let her panic beat her. Not when she was so close. But she couldn't stop it as the assault bore down in crippling dizziness, the path to the door whirling around her feet.

Another surge of nausea ripped chills through her bones and liquefied her joints. She twisted to face away, stumbled, and fell into the darkness.

The steel brace of his arm caught her mid-section, and she hung there, mucus and anxiety spewing from her mouth and stringing over the mail at her feet. Thank God there was nothing in her stomach to eject. The saliva on her lips was embarrassing enough.

He bent over her, his body surrounding her back, hard thighs supporting her butt, his arm hooked beneath her folded waist. “There you go.” His low, steady whisper sounded like a shout in the wind, snuffing out her surroundings. “Better?”

Her vision tunneled. Ringing blared in her head. She couldn't focus. “I'm fine. You can let go.”

“Do you have meds? Do you need a doctor?”

A paralyzing freeze spread through her veins, sucking heat from her face in tingling waves. No doctor. No medication. None of that fixed a damned thing. She clutched the muscled forearm at her belly, pushing at it, dry heaving.

Who was this man? No way was he just passing by in the middle of the night. Was he going to hurt her? Rape her? Or do something that would disfigure or permanently damage her body? Did he have a gun?

She choked. Why her? The rapid wallop of her heart accelerated. She yanked at the arm, an unmoving restraint, and forced bravado in her voice. “What do you want?”

He leaned in, his chest heavy against her back and his breath feathering her hair. “You live here?”

His gentle tone conflicted with the pressure of his fingers. She rammed her head backward. He dodged her strike, and the cage of his body curled around her, straightening her with his arms around her chest.

Blood thundered in her ears, and her heart hammered to escape, to give up, to shrink and die. She stretched her jaw and wheezed a pathetic shout. “Help.” Need air. The door. She angled toward it, throwing her fists behind her and colliding with nothing.

“Easy.” The coil of his arms held her upright, his body a brick wall at her back. “If there's no heart condition, no epilepsy, then what's wrong with you?”

She might've laughed if she weren't failing to breathe. This man didn't give a shit about her condition. No one did. With his arms wrapped around her and his exhales on her neck, she'd never felt more helpless. She wanted to drop to the ground and retreat into herself, but she was better than that, dammit. “Let go.”

He didn't. She might not be able to overpower him, but she still had her voice. If all he wanted was an answer, she could give him a revolting one. “You want to know what's wrong with me? My genital herpes has flared up. You know, blistering sores, cracked open and itching? My Valtrex prescription is in one of these packages.” She scanned the ground, gasping, humiliation screeching through her voice. “To make matters worse, I started my period. I can feel it dripping down my leg.” There. That would send any guy running.

He laughed. The motherfucker
laughed
. Either he knew she was lying or he was a sick fuck.

Somehow, her struggling only shifted her closer. A waft of cut hickory and citrus flooded her nose as his lips brushed her cheek. “You are a captivating surprise, Amber Rosenfeld.”

Oh my God, he knew her name? Her muscles heated, more desperate than ever to get away from him. She threw an elbow, and it bounced off his rigid stomach. “If you don't let me go, I...I'm—” She sucked in a breath, her voice gravelly and broken. “I'm going to bleed all over you.”

He chuckled. “I don't mind a little blood.” He tightened his grip. “Besides, you can't even stand on your own.”

Ragged sobs swallowed her breaths. She lurched forward, hands slashing at the air, reaching for the door, going nowhere. “How do you know my name?”

He kicked at the scattered envelopes. Her name and address labeled overdue bills, fliers, and catalogs in block print, glowing in the stripe of light that escaped the crack in the door.

Okay, so he knew her name. She just needed to grab the package with the dye and hustle her ass inside. She twisted in his arms and swept a foot, toeing for an envelope with bulk. Her lungs burned with exertion. Fucking shit, where was it?

A renewed bout of panic hiked her pulse and sealed her airway. What the hell was she thinking? Fuck the package. She had to break free. Lock the door. Call the cops. She could reach the door in one or two running leaps.

Her heart raced, nearly exploding, as she thrashed against him. His arms pinned her biceps, so she swung her fists, aiming for his groin and missing. He wrestled her hands to her sides, everything moving too quickly to process. She simply reacted, slamming her head back again and collided with his chest.

The grunt of pain that followed resuscitated her flight response. She thrust all her weight against his arms, her heels scraping the concrete. “Let me go, you psycho.”