Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"I'm not getting in the trunk of your car!"

The trunk .

Of his car .

This is not what I was expecting when I decided to stick my thumb out when I saw his car approaching.

He leans forward to reach into the car, brushing against my body, and I can't help it—I shrink back from him. He turns his head to look at me and his expression is stern, but there's a bright twinkle in his eyes, too.

Like he's amused at my reaction and wondering how else I'll respond to whatever additional plans he has for me.

"Look, boy." He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a freaking knife . Like one of those hunting knives, with a curved blade and a spine that tapers to a wicked tip.

My stomach lurches at the thought of all the things he could do to me with that knife. And because it turns out that I'm even more fucked-up than I thought, not all of them seem like a hard limit.

Still, I shrink back even more when he straightens up, but he doesn't do anything threatening with the knife. Other than having it in the first place, obviously.

"There are three ways this can go. The easy way is that you get into the trunk under your own steam and quit bitching about it. The hard way is that I put you there, and if you think I can't, you'll find yourself sorely mistaken."

At the word sorely , I know exactly what he means. I will end up very, very sore if I choose the hard way.

"And the third way?" I straighten my shoulders and try to project a level of sass I'm not really sure I feel.

He lifts an eyebrow at me. "You know what the third way is."

All the sass drains out of me. I look down at my feet, my sneakers scuffed with road dust from when he dragged me from the passenger side of the car.

There's motion in my peripheral vision and then a sharp, "Silas."

I look up. He's moved his arm to hide the knife behind his back and his expression has the most concern I've seen on his face since he stopped to pick me up. "Say ‘yes, Daddy' if you know what the third way is."

I do know what the third way is. One word and everything stops. And honestly? I'm…considering it. We're still on the side of the road and this has already gone in a direction that I wasn't exactly prepared for.

But that's the risk of hitchhiking, isn't it? And one that I knew I was taking when I got into his car in the first place.

I lift my head and look him straight in the eyes. "Yes, Daddy."

The smile that blooms across his face makes him look way less stern or threatening than just a couple seconds ago. "Good boy."

Wow. What those two words do to me, every freaking time. My shoulders relax, something warm spreads down my spine and all inside my chest. I can't help but smile back at him, despite the situation I'm currently in.

"All right, then," he says. "What'll it be?"

I'm not quite ready for the hard way, so I swing around and perch my ass on the edge of the trunk. He sets the knife on the car's roof and helps me sort of roll slash fold into the trunk. I end up on my side, facing the end of the trunk, my knees tucked up into a fetal position. Sir tucks the pillow under my head and rolls the blanket into a tight sausage shape, which he wedges behind me, bracing my back.

"Comfy?" he asks, with a slightly mean grin.

No, Sir, I'm not comfy . I'm tied up in the trunk of a car, this man is about to close the lid on me and drive me off to god knows where, to do god knows what to me.

What I am, though—aside from a little itchy where the rough fabric of the trunk's carpet is chafing my bare arms and legs—is hard.

With my wrists bound together between my legs, I can just barely graze the outer edges of my hands along the line of my dick. I can't stroke it properly, or get my jeans open in this position—and that's a good thing because I don't really need to give Sir even more proof of how depraved I am—but I can press the sides of my bound hands against it and the little bit of friction I can create by squirming around in the pretense of getting more comfortable gets me even harder.

"No, Sir," I repeat out loud, since I know better than to not answer him.

His grin gets bigger and that's the last thing I see before he closes the lid of the trunk on me.

The darkness is total. My heart pounds in my ears and for a while the only thing I can hear is my own breathing, shaky inhales and exhales that do little to calm the flashes of panic fluttering around the edges of my brain. I grind the edges of my hands against my dick and its hardness reminds me that I chose this.

Well, sort of. I elected to get into this car, although I didn't expect to be forced into the trunk of it. But even before sticking my thumb out on the road, I started this.

I asked for it.

Logan and I have been together for six months now, and since the beginning—since the night I showed up at his house planning to revenge-fuck my cheating ex-boyfriend's dad—we've been exploring all the kinky desires and fantasies I've ever jerked off to.

He's my Daddy in bed and out of it. He takes care of me, praises me when I'm a good boy, and disciplines me when he thinks I need it. He makes me feel safe, even when he ties me down, spanks me, or fucks me until I scream.

He makes me feel cared for.

And loved.

So, when I confessed my dirtiest fantasy, the one that's been living rent-free in my head for longer than I'm willing to admit, Logan said he'd make it happen.

I guess I just didn't expect it to feel so real .

The car starts with a low rumble that fills the trunk. It drowns out my unsteady breathing and the car's vibrations make me a little queasy as it pulls onto the road and picks up speed.