50

Over the years, I've become an expert at escaping from things.

The first night I stay at Jackson's house, I think I won't be able to fall asleep. But minutes after he fucks me, I'm in a deep sleep with his body next to mine.

When I wake up, I'm alone. I lecture myself as I get dressed. No more sleeping with the enemy. No more letting my body make decisions. I need to watch the exits and look for escape routes. Jackson took my phone from me last night.

As I walk downstairs, my eyes skate over the windows and doors.

If Jackson is still pissed off at me after last night, he doesn't show it this morning. When I wanderintothe kitchen, he's already up and making breakfast.

I clear my throat, realizing I have no idea how to greet the man who's technically holding me hostage. "Hi."

"Good morning." He smiles that crooked grin at me. Damn it, I'm sure I look a tousled mess after last night; how does he always look so perfect, no matter if he's post-sex or post-murder?

He places a mug of black coffee on the counter in front of me, some expensive fancy Colombian grind. It's totally wasted on me.

I take a sip and wrinkle my nose at the bitter taste. "I prefer Dunkin'. With a packet of sugar dumped in."

"Spoken like a typical cop."

I flip him off. "I had to turn in my badge thanks to you, remember?"

"If you'relooking foran apology, you're wasting your time. Your talents could be used much more effectively elsewhere."

I bite my lip. It sounds like Jackson is still set on luring out my killer instincts, so to speak. Is that part of my training, too?

Before I can answer, he slides an immaculately presented plate of pancakes drenched in maple syrup onto the counter. "I'm not apologizing for the coffee either. The best things in life are a little bitter. But this will help balance it out."

I glance down at the pancakes. Damn it, they look good. "Oh, so you're a chef as well as a psychiatrist and serial killer? Congrats on being a multi-hyphenate, but you can't buy me off with sugar."

My stomach audibly rumblesandJackson smirks. "Can't I?"

My actions don't back up my quip. I suddenly realize how hungry I am. I ruefully grab a knife and fork. "Okay, maybe you can for a certain number of grams."

I feel bashfulstuffingmy face with pancakes in front of him while he standsthere,leaning against the countersippingexpensive coffee.But when I close my lips around my thumb, licking off some maple syrup, his eyes follow it as if it's hypnotizing.

When I'm finishedandon a sugar high, he points at the chess board in the living room. "Sit down. We're going to play."

"Right now?"

"You don't exactly have a job to go to,Detective. You turned in your badge, remember?" he echoes.

I'm not used to having free time, and there's suddenly ahugevoid where my work used to be. The empty hours ahead of me would feel like a terrifying prospect, but being in a room with Jackson always feels like my mind is stimulated and alive.

Every timeI think I'm starting to get the hang of it, he knocks over my king and casuallyannounces"checkmate".

"I'm no good at this," I complain. "I don't have the attention span."

"I've seen you spend hours poring over a case file, debating whether the perp tied his shoes with a single or double knot. Youjustdon't like losing."

He's got me there.Plus,I don't want to admit it, but I love watching him play.Sitting opposite him, watching his dark eyes scan the board, staring at the veins in his strong hands as hemakes hismovesis electrifying.

"If you can't be the bestthenwhy play?" I say stubbornly.

He smiles. Patient, unfazed by my sass. "Give it time, little dove."

"Maybe you should've kidnapped a woman who already knew how to play chess."

The smile fades from his face. "Kidnapped?"

"Well, as much as I enjoyed thismorning, and last night…" I clear my throat pointedly. "You got mearrestedthen gave me an alibi to force me to come with you."

He lazily rolls a chess piece between his fingers as a person might fidget with a cigarette. My eyes linger on it. The queen.

"You're telling me that no part of you wants to be here, Ava?"

The tone in his voice has shifted. He sounds like Hyde again. Did I just get too comfortable with this killer?

I cast my eyes down, muttering out a lie. "No. I'm here because I had no choice."

He stands, and Iflinch. But there's no attack, nothing of the sort. He walks around the table to where I sit. There's a hungry look in his eyes that makes my body tighten with a differentsortof nerves.

He's still holding the gleaming black chess piece; he reaches out, teasing it along my cheek. Although he's been holding it, its surface is still coolto the touch. Or maybe my skin is just on fire.

He reaches my lips with the piece and pushes it past them. I murmur in surprise but close my lips around it on instinct. I don't realize he's reached for my pants until I feel him jerking them down.

He draws the chess piece back out of my mouth with an obscene pop, before palming it and reaching between my legs.

He kneels down, my legs splayed. He drags the tip of the piece along my clit. My body flexes, alert at the sensation. My core tightensandI feel the wetness growing between my legs.

He teases my clit, rubbing a blissful pattern into me before sinking his fingers into my slit. He flexes theminjust the right wayandit"s only minutes before I'm trembling, sweat rising on my skin, my back pushed hard against the chair.

I thought I was satisfied from last night, but my body is already close to convulsing in another overpowering orgasm.

He suddenly draws his fingers back from my clit. "No. I feel your beautiful, tight little pussy clenching around my fingers. But you're not going to come yet, Ava."

I whine, blinking my eyes open in confusion. "What?"

"Say it."

"S—say what?"

His eyes glint."What you refused to say last night. Tell me you belong tome,and me alone."

"I told you," I murmur, breath ragged. "I don't belong to anyone."

"Fine. Lie to yourself and to me." The look of concentration on his face turns into a sadistic smile. "But you don't get to come until you admit the truth."

My stomach lurches.

The animal part of my brain is going wild, pushing with all its might to topple me over the edge into the abyss of pleasure. It's screaming at me tojusttellhimthatheowns mesohe'lllet me come.

"I—I —" I stutter.

The words die on my lips.

He exhales sharply, rising to his feet.

"Don't touch yourself. I'll be able to tell."

His eyes scan my body. I'm a trembling mess, half-dressed and moments away from coming. He's not bluffing; he seems to know my body better thanevenI do.

"Fine!" I yell after him as he leaves the room, a smirk on his lips. I'm left breathing heavily alone.

I want to tell myself I didn't say it because of some feminist, independent woman principle. But therealtruth is much more pathetic.

Jackson has my heart, but I'm too scared to say itout loud.

***

Jackson goes out for a few hours. I spend the time scanning the locked exits.I could break a window and climb out, but I'm still afraid ofwhat the consequences will be.If I run from him again, will he drag merightback into the spotlight as a Hyde suspect?

And am I even willing to leave this behind?

The door opensandJackson walks back in. My eyes scan him for signs of some terrible crime he's committed while he was out:flecksof blood, bruised knuckles, ruffled clothes. But there's nothing. I open my mouth to ask where he's been, but suddenlyhe'sup against me, his mouth finding mine.

I moan into his kiss. I'm still pent up with need from my interrupted orgasm earlier today. He wastes no time in tearing off my clothes and kneeling between my legs. My face reddens as I feel how wet I am already, my ache for him blatantly on display. He groans, his tongue pressing into me. Everything goes dark behind my eyelids.

It's like worship, but it ends more like torture. I'm already getting close, thanking god that Jackson's lust has made him forget about his new rule from this morning. My fingers bunch in his hair, my pussy convulsing as his tongue draws perfect circles over my clit.

The feeling vanishesandI whine in protest. Jackson draws back, hairtousled,annoyingly perfectly. There's a cruel smile on his face.

"Got anything to say to me?"

Damn it.

"No," I mutter.

"Too bad," he murmurs. I'm expecting him to leave me hanging again, but it's worse than that. He pulls out his hard cock, and pushes deep into me. I gasp, pleasure swelling through me. He fucks me, fast and rough, but doesn't let me find my own release.

***

This goes on for the next three days.

We fall into this blissful, tortuous routine. We play chess in the morning as I sip on a mug ofhisfancy coffee. The coffee grows on me, but I still can't seem to win at chess. Throughout thedayhe teases me, then fucks me, and murmurs words of worship against my skin as he comes deep inside me.

Sweet little dove. My soul. The most perfect pussy, so tight around me. So needy. I'd kill a thousand men just to touch this skin. I'm never fucking letting go of you, understand that?I'm yours for eternity.

His wordsjustlight me on fire all the more. But he doesn't let me come.

I wake up sweating beside him, dreaming of the releasethat I'mdenied in waking life. I never even cared that much about sex before I met him. Now, there's a constant flicker of heat in my clit.

The way Jackson indulges me the rest of the time is what makes it all so much more damn confusing.

He makes me pancakes in the mornings, thoughdrawsthe line at picking me up Dunkin' coffees. He watches old romcoms and Law Order with me in the evenings, provided I lie along his lap or sit nestled up against him. It inevitably turns into a distraction. I've been trying to ignore the feeling of his hard length pushing against me for half of While You Were Sleeping. Sandra Bullock hasn't so much as kissed Bill Pullman yet whenpullsme onto his lap. I desperately grind against him, but he doesn't let me come.

Instead of new cases being piled onto my deskevery day, I suddenly have free time. The kind of time I've dreamedabout,because it lets me go back to the cases that still haunt me. The unsolved ones from my years working my way up the ranks.

I ask Jackson for paper, pens, and a space to work in. He obliges, watching me as I write out from memory all the details of a case that I've been longing to crack for years now.There'sa strange glowon his faceas he watches me intently, like I'm a great novel or an artist at work.

Aftera while of myscribbling and circling the papers on the floor, he rises and reads the notes over my shoulder.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he asks.

I shrug. "Sure."

"Did they ever verify the cousin's alibi?"

That's how it starts. We spend hours debating and discussing the cases.

Yes, he's a killer. Yes, this information is all technically confidential. But it feels incredible. Twominds,in sync. Whirring at a million miles an hour. We both know how to think like criminals. When I finally connect two pieces of a case, it feels like fireworks go off inside me.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're brilliant. Your mind is brilliant."

This man has seen me orgasming on his cock, but somehow this still makes me blush deep red. "You're not so bad yourself."

That's when I recognize the glow on his face, and it immediately makes sense why it felt unknown to me. It's something my foster parents never showed to me. It's something that felt impossible to wring out of Captain Hawkins.

It's pride.

***

But as deep as we've fallen into this routine of life together, Jackson keeps fucking me and keeps denying me my release.

By the third day, I'm sostrung outthat it's starting to drive me crazy. Everything is numbed by the constant ache between my legs.

He can read my body so well that he knowsexactlywhen to move quicker to bring me to theedge,and when to slow down to stop me tipping over.

I can't concentrate when we play chess. My core is on fire as I try tomake myselffocus on my makeshift case notes. I can't even bear to eat. My body is ruled by one urgent need.

I take a cold shower that afternoon to distract myself. I'm so tempted to let my fingers stray down to my clit, but I'm terrifiedhe'llsomehow know.

He grabs me when I leave the bathroom, tearing the towel off my body. MinuteslaterI'm stretched out around him, his cock hitting the perfect spot deep inside me. Slow and repeated. It feels like blissful fucking torture, because I know it's all going to end in frustration.

"Please," I moan. "I'm begging you, Jackson. Let me come."

It's humiliating, but somehowbegginghim for pleasure only makes the flames in my core roar harder and hotter.

"Begging won't save you. You know what you have to say, stubborn littledetective."

I shake my head and bite my lip so hard that I draw blood.

By the fourth morning, I'm losing all control. I wake at 3am, sitting bolt upright in bed. Everything feels hazy and dreamlike through the constant ache inside me.

A word hits my mind like a bullet through the haze.

Escape.

I was supposed to be watching for an escape route. It's been days since I've even thought of that word. The realization makes potent guilt pool in my stomach.

I'm happy here with Jackson. But I'm the girl who escapes before that can happenshecan get hurt.

Silently, I slip out of bed and grab the keys from his jacket pocket. I don't let myself look back at his sleeping form in the bed.Somepartof me knows that if I turn back, I won't goat all.

I stand in the hallway, staring down the front door. What if I ran out into the street and screamed for help?What if I went back to Hawkinsand pleadedwith him, begged him to believe my story?

This could all be over in seconds.

Yetsomethingis holding me back. I think I'll die ifhedoesn't touch me soon, relieve me of this raw,pulsingpent-up tension that's burning in my core. But I know it's not just the need for his touchthat'sstopping me from running.

I take a step toward the door.

If I escape, then I've won, right?

No.

It suddenly seems so obvious. I can't keep escaping. I have to face my fears at some point, if I ever want a life that isn't defined by them.

I let my hand drop to my side. The keys jangle.

"Going somewhere?"

I turn around. Jackson's eyes meet mine.