Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sabrina

After a moment of weakness and longing for the "us" we used to be, I came to my senses. Bracing my hands flat against his chest, I shoved him away.

He let me, but we were both panting. I was in shock, and Damon… looked scary. He may have let me end the kiss, but this wasn't the end of it; that much was clear.

It became even clearer when he backed up two steps, bent at the waist and flung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The breath whooshed out of my lungs and for the first time, I really took in how much he'd changed. He'd gone to prison a wiry, punk-ass kid. He'd come back a man. His hair, usually shaggy and in his eyes, was all buzzed off, and his muscles strained the fabric of his shirt instead of being hidden underneath. Right now I was staring at his back, but I'd seen the filled-out, manly face, with its stubble beard, strong cheekbones and piercing green eyes.

Damon took a dozen steps, across the tiny house, flung open the door to my childhood bedroom, and flung me down on top of the decade old, purple and black comforter, a remnant from my ‘rebellious' phase. And then I was staring up again, at those dark, glowering green eyes, the full lips, the hard cheekbones. My gaze traveled over his chest, down to his stomach, where the waves of his six-pack was visible through his shirt, and down to where he was so obviously hard, and so obviously packing.

"Stay there," he growled, shaking a finger at me.

I thought about running, but the truth was, I couldn't have if I wanted to. And I wasn't sure I wanted to.

He returned moments later with a duffel I hadn't noticed before. Maybe he'd had it stashed somewhere. I watched with my heart in my throat and my stomach in my toes as he wordlessly unzipped it and withdrew a roll of duct tape and a package of industrial strength zip-ties. The hardware-store stalker starter pack.

Run. Run before you end up dead.

My brain was screaming at me, but my heart didn't want to hear it. This was Damon. My Damon. At least, I was pretty sure my Damon was still underneath there somewhere. Maybe. The stalker starter pack was begging me to think differently.

Run!

Fuck. I waited until he was struggling to unroll a length of the thick, silvery tape, and once he was distracted, I rolled sideways off the bed and leapt to my feet, sprinting for the bedroom door, and then the front door.

His scream of rage was right behind me, and his hand reached the front door mere seconds before I did.

Gulping hard, I turned to face him.

He looked like the proverbial bull someone had waved a red flag in front of. His eyes were squinted into angry slits, icy-cold. His cheeks were red with anger, and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. The hand that wasn't holding the door shut to prevent my escape was balled into a fist at his side.

Before I could stop myself, I licked my lips.

His eyes narrowed farther, and when he spoke, I no longer recognized his voice. "You are playing with fire, Sabrina. Even if you had gotten out the door, where would you have gone? There's no one for miles."

I knew he was right, but desperation and pride had me puffing out my chest and declaring, "Maybe not, but I can run a lot faster than you."

Damon rolled his eyes, unclenched his fist, and closed the space between us. "You've been a naughty little girl, and now you must be punished."

At the same time fear flooded my senses, arousal flooded my pussy, soaking my panties.

Not that I'd admit it.

Just hold him off a little longer, that's all you have to do. Fin will be here soon.

That thought was as comforting as it was messy.

Damon dragged his hand beneath my skirt again, and this time he pushed aside the fabric of my panties, dragging a finger between my plump pussy lips. "Damon," I breathed. "Stop, you can't."

"I can't, huh?" He slipped a second finger to join the first, pushing them inside me.

My breath caught. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. This was so wrong, but it felt so good.

Fin never touched me the way Damon did. Our love was comfortable, stable, companionship, trust, the love of people who've gone through something traumatic together and come out on the other side.

But Damon… was our something traumatic. And before he went away, he'd been my Daddy. He'd been my hero, my world, my everything. My pussy had curved to his dick. He'd been my one and only. I'd never felt prouder than when I wore his marks across my ass. I'de never felt so cherished as when he called me babygirl.

It was hard to forget that. It was hard to remember that this was wrong, when in a way, it still felt so right.

He slipped a third finger inside me, and his eyes sparkled with a dark mischief. "Looks like I can, babygirl. You're not even really trying to stop me."

My whimper of distress was more like a mewl of pleasure as I writhed under his touch.

And when I did, his gaze darkened. Something evil came over him. I wasn't supposed to do that. I wasn't supposed to like it.

Before I could process the change, he quickly withdrew his fingers, and grabbed the package of zip ties.

He withdrew four and advanced forward, toward the top of the bed—the headboard. When he grabbed for my wrist, I moved my arm out of his reach and shook my head.

"You don't need to," I whispered. "I won't fight you."

He reached over to caress my cheek and when I curled into his touch, he grabbed my wrist, held it over my head and used the zip tie to secure it to the bedpost.

"Maybe I want you to fight." His voice was cold. The lines of his face, the set of his jaw hard.

I could see there was no point in fighting, no point in trying not to fight. No matter what I did he was going to be angry; he wanted to be angry.

This time when he reached for my wrist, I just let him have it, and soon both my arms were secured above my head to my metal-frame headboard.

Now what?