2. Aksel

2

AKSEL

T he blonde shakes out her drenched hair, glancing around my cabin. Her full lips are parted, those green eyes wide with what? Fear? Excitement? Uncertainty?

I can't quite read the emotion flickering within, but it doesn't matter. The second Zara Driscoll stepped across my threshold, she ceased being a person. She became a thing—an object for me to possess and defile.

My cock is achingly hard just from the sight of her in those soaked clothes. The flimsy fabric clings so tantalizingly to the curves of her tits and the flare of her hips that it's obscene. I have an overwhelming urge to rip those garments from her and fuck her against the wall.

Claim her fully as my own so she can never escape me.

I shouldn't feel this way—not after weeks of meticulous planning and preparation to hunt her like the helpless prey she is. But something about Zara stokes the raging bonfire of my desires into an inferno.

During the drive, I carefully schooled my expression and body language into that of a cold, indifferent host, trying to seduce her into a false sense of security so she would be too distracted by my manner to detect the steel trap closing around her.

Yet weeks of calculated planning come undone with her standing in my home, droplets from her sopping hair rolling down the soft, pale skin of her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her blouse. The hunter's restraint and patience are shredded by a primal, untamed need to claim her in an utterly different way.

The silence between us is deafening—the void filled only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the wail of the storm raging outside. I can feel her uncertainty like a living force between us.

I take a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until I inhale her crisp, clean fragrance. Zara instinctively retreats a step, her back hitting the wall. Her eyes lock onto mine, reflecting confusion and a flicker of dismay as I prowl ever nearer.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill," I murmur, deliberately allowing my eyes to travel down the lines of her body as if I'm visualizing peeling each soaked layer from her.

She crosses her arms over her chest, swallowing hard. "I...I don't have anything dry to change into," Zara stammers. "My luggage is still out in the jeep."

"I've got clothes you can borrow." I take another calculated step forward until my body almost grazes hers. Her scent is a siren's call, luring me to run my hands over every sweet curve and soft hollow of her flesh until I know her form as intimately as I know my own.

She shrinks back against the wall. Her eyes have widened into saucers, and her pupils dilate with what has to be fear.

Good. I want her scared of me.

"A-alright," she concedes, unable to disguise the tremor in her voice. "If you could just get me a change of clothes..."

My mouth curves into a smile. "I'll take you to my room and find something to slip into. This way."

I gesture for her to follow, then turn on my heel and stride through the living area. A glimpse over my shoulder confirms she is rooted in place, clearly considering disobeying my suggestion. Foolish girl.

"Did you mishear me, Miss Driscoll? I said this way to my room." My tone dips into a low, gravelly command.

The way her teeth dig into her plump lower lip tells me she is seriously debating how to handle the situation. But the predator in me finds her feigned bravery and insubordination irresistibly intoxicating. Such innocence and resistance only inflame my need to break her to my will. I continue to my room, grab a pair of jogging pants and a flannel shirt, and place them on the bed. Once I turn around, she's still nowhere to be seen.

I leave and find her lingering in the hallway, looking like a frightened rabbit caught in headlights. "You can change in there." I nod toward the bedroom.

Zara brushes past me warily. The scent of vanilla and roses infiltrates my senses like a narcotic. My lips part instinctively to draw in a lungful of her intoxicating aroma—vanilla and rain-soaked roses with an underlying musk that has my mouth watering.

It takes every ounce of self-discipline not to grab a fistful of her golden hair and drag her against me. To pin that lithe body flush against mine so she could feel the undeniable evidence of my need for her. So she knows there's nowhere she can run—no escape.

Zara disappears into my bedroom, shutting the door firmly in my face. I can hear the telltale sounds of her shimmying out of those form-fitting wet clothes: the rustle of damp fabric sliding over damp skin, the whisper of a zipper being pulled down.

The mental picture has my cock straining shamelessly against the prison of my jeans. I give in to temptation and palm the aching length, biting back a guttural groan. If the thought of her undressing is this maddening, how far will I be pushed once she's finally laid bare before me?

A harsh rasp comes from the other side of the door. "Aksel...?"

Her timid call rakes its nails down the length of my fraying restraint. I take my hand off my cock before responding gruffly, "Yes?"

"Where...um, where exactly did you leave the clothes for me?"

The naked vulnerability in her voice is like a physical caress against my cock. I can imagine those full, pink lips parting while I shoved it into her throat. My jaw ticks as I grind my molars, fighting back the basest of instincts. How easy it would be to barge through that door and end this game right now on my terms.

"They're on the bed," I reply roughly. "A flannel shirt and some sweatpants that'll be too large but better than nothing."

"Oh...okay, thanks."

Silence falls, the loudest sounds being the ragged rasp of my breathing and the thrumming of my pulse between my ears. I pivot to lean my forehead against the smooth wooden door. When my eyes fall closed, I can almost envision her on the other side—droplets clinging to the slopes of her bare breasts, trailing icy paths down the flat plane of her stomach to where her tight little cunt waits.

Enough!

I give a violent shake of my head and straighten, running both hands through my damp hair. I need to put some space between myself and the temptation on the other side of this door before I lose control. Before the predator inside me descends on the girl who is changing just feet away.

"I'll make some coffee," I toss over my shoulder, already walking from the hallway before she can reply. "Take your time."

I practically flee into the living room and beeline for the small kitchen, desperate to put physical and mental distance between myself and Zara. My muscles are rigid with the strain of controlling my baser urges. My breaths come in sharp pants, nostrils flaring like a bull's as I work to bring my raging hormones back under control.

Seizing the coffee grounds, I yank open the cabinet and fumble for a filter with shaking hands. I need a distraction, a tether to hold me steady before I spiral into the depths of my depravity.

Because if I thought my fantasies of hunting Zara Driscoll were dark before, they're nothing compared to what's percolated in the twisted recesses of my psyche since laying eyes on her in person.

My sordid imagination feasts on the ripe reality of her pliant body, shuddering at each gasped plea as I shatter her and take everything she has to give. To hear her cry and beg and scream as I unleash the full ferocity of my desires on her.

The images have me squeezing the counter's edge in a white-knuckled grip. My cock is a steel rod grinding against the zipper of my jeans with each slight shift.

How am I supposed to look into those clear green eyes again as she obliviously puts her life into my calloused hands? When all I want is to ruin her—to destroy her in both body and spirit?

Morality has never been an issue; after all, I intended to hunt her like an animal. Kill her. And yet, this seems so much worse because what I want to do to her means it's never over. She'll be mine forever.

Zara has awakened a long-dormant devil inside me that I fear may be too powerful to contain.

Is bringing her here to my isolated lair a terrible, unforgivable mistake that will end in tragedy?

But as her soft footfalls sound behind me, I turn with a carefully veiled expression to find her swimming in my oversized shirt. And there's no denying the truth in the pit of my stomach:

It's already too late to turn back.