Page 23 of At Her Pleasure

It was intriguing and arousing, the two of them circling one another in semi-darkness, but she still wanted that advantage. So she tested the rope anchoring the nearest straw bale tower and figured it would hold. Putting her feet in between each bale and using the twine holding them to haul herself up, she reached the top, eight feet from the ground. As she slid onto the surface formed by two towers, she moved slowly, trying to blend with the eerie wind and corn symphony.

She stretched out on her stomach. The expanse was flat but prickly through her shirt. Her eyes had acclimated to what little light there was, so she could make out shapes and track movement. She noted the motorhome in the distance, the dull ivory sides captured by the flickering entrance light.

She moved her gaze over the pathways enclosed by the bales. Nothing. If he thought she would seek a higher vantage point, he could be gliding close to the bales rather than walking down the center. It would make him part of the shadows.

Or he could be on top of his own set of bales, watching for her. Though he’d be heavier, those recent rains would give the bales more weight, that and the rope anchoring making it possible for him to do what she was doing.

She perused the top of every tower, the sides, taking her time, her hands folded under her cheek. There. She saw a shadow move, at a turn two corridors over. She kept her gaze pinned on him, but even after being sure she had him, he almost managed to disappear twice.

How did a man learn to move like that, a part of the night itself? A more important question: Why did a man learn to move like that?

Maybe he practiced for primal play. Yeah, maybe. But instincts for hunting and killing, developed through experience, had a different stamp than those practiced for role and game playing, no matter how seriously it was taken. Neil and Lawrence had the former kind, so she recognized them in Mick.

He was coming her way. Cyn debated her strategy, and decided she’d let him go by, so she could launch a rear attack. Her lips curved at the obvious double entendre. Here she was, without her best strap-on. Would Mick go for being fucked in the ass? It would be fun to find out, and get creative with it.

She’d said she didn’t normally do role play, and he’d said the same. However, she did have a prison rape scenario that sometimes flitted through her mind. Him in his cop uniform, cuffed against the bars of the cell, fighting her, the prisoner, as she dropped his pants, and drove a nice slick dildo through his tight sphincter. Listening to him roar from the burn, threaten her, telling her just what he'd do when he got free. Hunt her down and…

So many possibilities in that dot dot dot.

He’d passed by, and she slid to the ground while the frogs or crickets burrowed in the bales were still silent from his presence. As he made the turn and disappeared to the left, she flattened herself against the tower, so she’d appear part of its silhouette. Peering through the crack, she waited to see him pass on that side. But not hearing his footsteps when she expected to do so alerted her.

She slowly turned her head back toward the direction he’d disappeared, and there he was. Back at the end of her alleyway. The tilt of his head and set of his shoulders suggested he was staring at the shadows that cloaked her.

She didn’t move, and he started in her direction, casually. She wasn’t fooled. He knew she was there. Maybe he’d scented her the way she’d scented him.

She exploded into motion, tossing a laugh over her shoulder as she ran. At the end she turned right, then, out of his sight, took another immediate right. It would bring her back on a parallel track with the alley where he’d spied her.

Because she was fast, she intended to flatten herself against the bales again before he saw her. He’d assume she’d gone left or kept running, entering another part of the maze further down.

She’d made it to her chosen spot, almost even with where she’d lain on top. Before she could take cover in the shadows, the bales exploded, their ties cut, and he came crashing through. When he caught her around the waist, they both hit the ground, but she scissored up, twisting loose.

That night long ago, he’d moved so fast. He moved faster now, but she’d learned far more about fighting since then, too. Extensively trained in MMA, she could hold her own. Plus keep it to a fight, not a death match. No need for broken bottles anymore.

They faced one another, circled. When they came together, she wondered if he felt the same electrical charge she did, like lightning dancing over Olympus when the gods battled. It was a dance. A series of holds, broken by pulling loose at the right angle, or using a pressure point strike, as he’d done that night, to get her to drop the bottle.

He used his size to put her in the dirt and pin her down. She hit his chin with the heel of her hand, wrestled her body free by shoving against the ground with her legs.

The primal play she’d witnessed at the club used modified moves to keep the participants from doing one another worse harm. Kicking with the flat of the foot, or dropping a closed fist like a stone against the body, rather than giving it the propulsion of a punch.

Neither of them cared about that, but she noted he still refused to hit her above the neck. She used elbows and fists to hit wherever needed to drive him back. He was good. Damn good, even holding back.

She had outstanding endurance, but so did he. Eventually he found a hold she couldn’t shake, his arms banded around her just above the wrists, holding her arms pinned against her torso. He lifted her off the ground, leaning back so she could only kick at the air. All she could do was rake his thighs with her too-short nails. She thought longingly of her claw rings. Engraved and pretty, they were wicked sharp, able to puncture or tear flesh.

As she kept struggling, he began to tick off that eight second rodeo count. She made sure the description fit, fighting with all her strength, trying to kick him, knock her head into his, bite any part of him she could reach. She had the satisfaction of hearing the strain in his voice.

“One…two…three…four…”

A grunt as she slammed her boot heel into his shin. It would leave an impressive bruise. She whipped her head around in a different direction, looking for contact with the bridge of his nose or an eye socket. He swung her toward the bales and straw stabbed her cheek instead.

“Christ… Five…six… Damn it…”

She pushed against the bales, hoping to shove him back, put him off balance, but instead he put her face down on the ground, landing hard on top of her, holding her fast with sheer body weight and male determination. Déjà vu again.

“Seven… Eight.”

“You better not be looking to me to yield,” she panted.

“No.” There was an odd note to his voice. He lifted off of her and she rolled over. As he was pushing himself to a sitting position, she was already on her knees, throwing the punch toward his jaw, fast and straight.