CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two nights before the full moon, and she was actually torn. It was almost like she was dreading her impending escape. Which only proved a steady diet of rich food and amazing sex lowered I.Q. points.
Every day, he asked her to tell him the truth, promising to let her go if she did. And every day, she told him the truth...a lie would have choked her. She hadn't broken their date by choice. She had wanted to see him again. And she almost didn't hate him. Sometimes.
That one she kept to herself. He hadn't tied her up since that first night. And she hadn't tried to attack him. Another example of her plunging I.Q. When they were between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or on the floor in front of the fireplace, when he’d wrap her in soft blankets after, and rested while she dozed), the last thing on her mind was leaving. But far more disturbing: sometimes when they weren’t fucking, the last thing on her mind was leaving.
And it wasn't that she was thinking with her pussy instead of her brain. Well, it wasn't just that. Because to be perfectly honest, what, exactly, was she going back to? To be at Mikey's beck and call? To hang out with a group of people who disapproved of her, then go home to her lonely bed? The Pack didn't want her, she didn’t want the Pack, and she sure as shit didn't want someone who would break if she let loose.
Dick fit the bill admirably, and he approved of her—to the hilt. He thought everything she did and said was wonderful. She’d never met anyone so thrilled to be insulted. She could have farted on him and he would have rhapsodized about it. In fact, she did...after a particularly strenuous sexual marathon, she was relaxing in his embrace—a little too much—and she’d accidentally let one rip. Quick as thought, she pulled the blankets over Dick's head, trapping him with the odor and yelling, “Your just desserts, Sunglasses! Reap what you have sown!” Cursing, he finally freed himself, and then they both laughed until they cried. Juvenile. Kid’s stuff, to be honest. But...it was fun. He was fun. And never boring.
She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. It was getting dark; the sun would be down in a few minutes. She'd adjusted nicely to his schedule, and now slept her days away. Frankly, she preferred his schedule—she'd never been much of an early riser.
So twilight was deepening and he'd be here any minute. Any minute. She felt a familiar tightening in her stomach and was dismayed to find it was delighted anticipation. Just thinking about him—about his long fingers and his mouth and his tongue and his cock—was making her wet. Worse: she looked forward to their conversations as much as the sex.
Man, that Stockholm Syndrome is a bitch.
Later he’d bring amazing food, and they'd talk about everything and anything. And he'd read to her—they were halfway through Salem's Lot, which he seemed to think was a comedy—while she paced. She liked books but couldn't stand to sit still for the hours and hours required to read one, which is why she preferred audios. Or they'd wrestle—he’d been surprised by her strength but still chalked it up to “well within the range for homo sapiens”. (Idiot.) Once she'd thrown some leftover apple pie crust at him and they'd had a food fight that ruined the drapes.
Jane sighed. If it was just his dick, it wouldn't be so bad. She could always buy a new vibrator. No, it was Dick. (Heh.) She really, really liked him. More than any guy she'd ever known, which was probably pathetic. No matter what she told him, he didn’t flinch. No matter what she said, he never tried to get her to be (O dreaded word) nicer. And she was having a helluva time remembering she was a prisoner.
Sometimes she thought Dick might be having the same problem.
*****
Her vision doubled, trebled...then her knees buckled. Luckily she was bent over the footboard, so she had some support.
Dick let go of her waist and pulled her back onto the bed. "That was gratifyingly sweaty." Panting lightly, he flopped over on the pillows. "Jane, your stamina knows no bounds. Look at me; I'm actually out of breath. And I don't even need to breathe."
"My stamina? Look who's talking. We've been at it since—holy shit, the sun's gonna be up in another hour. You'd better beat feet back to the coffin, old man."
He snorted. "It's a bed, not a coffin. It's one of the guest beds, in fact. You're in my coffin, so to speak."
She’d thought as much. Even though he’d removed his things from the room and en suite bathroom, then filled it with things bought with her in mind, the room never had that lonely, dusty “most of the time nobody uses this” vibe. "So why don't you sleep here?"
There was a long pause and she figured he wouldn’t tell her, but then came out with, "I've been thinking about it." He propped himself up on one elbow, bent to kiss her shoulder, then added, "More and more, actually. In the beginning I dared not leave myself at your mercy, but now I wonder."
"What the hell are you talking about? You take longer to say something than anyone I've ever met."
He didn't smile at her bitching, like he usually did. "I'd be quite helpless, Jane. If you, ah, decided to be angry, there would be nothing I could do about it until the sun went down. And the tables in here are all made out of wood. So are the chairs. It wouldn't be difficult for someone with your determination to fashion a rudimentary stake. You’re so determined, you’d probably gnaw it to a point with your teeth."
She'd never thought of that. She couldn't believe she'd never thought of that. "Oh." She mulled it over for a minute, then said, "Well, I don't especially want to stake you in the guts. Right this minute, I mean."
He chuckled. "The guts I wouldn't mind so much. How about the heart?"
She rolled over and rested her chin on his chest. "There either. I dunno, you're okay when you're not being a total shit. Stay, go, I don't give a fuck."
"I can hardly turn down such a warm invitation." Still, he glanced nervously at the table in the corner before climbing under the plush comforters. "Ah, well, here goes nothing. Climb in next to me."
"I have chicken grease under my nails," she pointed out. “And in the interest of full disclosure, that’s not uncommon for me.”
He grinned. "It was kind of you to warn me. So, we'll take a nice hot shower together later tonight."
"Sounds like a date." She snuggled in next to him
Ugh, what are you becoming?
and rested her head on his shoulder. His body was still slightly warm from their earlier exertions and, as she pressed closer to him, remained that way.
"Ahhhhh," he sighed. "You're better than my electric blanket."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. You should write greeting cards," she grumbled, but inside she was glowing. He was trusting her with his life. He knew he was easy prey during daylight hours, and he was going to sleep anyway. Or drop into an eight-hour coma. Or whatever the hell vampires did. It spoke volumes about his true feelings for her...and her status as his "prisoner".
Well, shit, she thought, drifting into sleep. Her palm rested over his heart, which beat once or twice every minute. Maybe I’m not the only one getting Stockholm Syndrome.