The Trip

The Trip By Bianca Sommerland


Chapter One


Wind whishing on glass drowned out the rumble of the heavy engine, rising to an off-pitch howl as the bus swerved and picked up speed. Napping on the road—not something to be undertaken unless one was desperate or getting paid.

Shawna angled her hip beneath her, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Each spring inside the worn jacquard polyester seat jittered into her pelvis like a mini-jackhammer, sending vibrations along her bones straight up to her teeth. The fuzzy veil between sleep and wakefulness wavered. A loud laugh from a few seats back tore right through it.

God, she hated this. Being hogtied for an hour would be preferable. She checked her watch, rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, and checked again. No way.

She'd only slept for forty minutes?

Uck! My definition of hell. This ride's gonna take forever!

If only the gallery that had displayed all her best paintings wasn't all the way in Detroit. If only she'd braved a plane—which would have gotten her there from Toronto in an eighth of the time it had taken her on the bus . . . .

Too late now. As usual, she'd ignored all the sage advice she'd been given. Fear trumped practicality. This is what she got for making last-minute, emotional decisions.

She'd have to deal with the trip and learn from the experience the same way she learned every other lesson. The hard way.

Less than an hour in and five more to go—there had to be a better way to pass the time than trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. A book might help, but the one she'd started at the hotel . . . . She glanced around at the other passengers, who were all either sleeping or absorbed in their own books or in conversation. She doubted they'd notice—

or care about—the image of the bound woman on the cover of her dog-eared book. And they were all sitting too far away to see the bloody stripes crossing her pale back.

Do you really care if they notice? It's just a book.

A voice in the logical part of her brain said, no, she didn't care. But the entire trip had worn down her social defenses, and all she could think about now was how much she hated being embarrassed. Unlike the heroines in some of her favorite books, she wasn't turned on by humiliation. At all. Ever. Actually, the thought of being humiliated made her feel a little sick.

But boredom wasn't high on her list of favorite experiences either, and, since the batteries in her laptop and e-reader were dead, she could either read the book or watch the pretty scenery through the bus window. And, tempting as it was to observe scores of trees shrouded in darkness whip by, finishing the scene in which the blindfolded heroine strapped to the sawhorse got f*cked by all her master's friends held much more appeal.

Decision made, she reached up, flicked on the small, round light over her seat, and fished the book out of her carry-on. Tucking her feet beneath her, she flipped through the pages until she found the one with the folded corner and picked up where she had left off. Immersed in the story within seconds, she chewed on her bottom lip while hands stroked the heroine's silky, blond hair, caressed her breasts, and molded her heart-shaped ass. Fingers stroked the heroine's wet folds, filled her—oh god, there were more pressing into her anus, shoving past her body's natural resistance without any lube. The pain would be almost unbearable, calloused fingers scraping soft tissues .

. . .

The bus jerked forward, and her stomach flipped. Bile rose in her throat with a feverish wave of heat, and she swallowed spastically. The last time she'd gotten motion sick, she was ten, and she'd picked more strawberries for her belly than her basket. This time, she hadn't eaten in hours, so she should be fine.

I will be fine. I'm not puking in front of these people.

The intercom sputtered on overhead, giving her something to focus on besides her efforts to not throw up. "Attention, all passengers. Due to unforeseen mechanical difficulties, we're going to have to ask you to temporarily disembark. Please remain close to the bus. Flares are being set up to warn oncoming traffic, but, for your own safety, stay off the road."

Static, and then the nervous chatter of passengers as they made their way off the bus . . . . Shawna felt nothing but relief. The mere thought of getting off the stuffy bus helped her stomach settle. Too bad she couldn't walk the rest of the way home. Her feet would hurt like hell, but her tummy would be very happy!

Laying her book facedown on the empty seat beside her, Shawna grabbed her carry-on and propped it on her knee so she could retrieve her thick, gray sweatshirt. If it was this chilly in the bus, it would be worse outside. And who knew how long they'd have to wait?

She dropped her bag on the seat and then pulled the sweatshirt over her head.

Heavy footsteps coming from the back of the bus halted at her side.

"If they want us off the bus, there's probably a good reason. You might want to hurry."

Her thick, golden blond bangs fell over her eyes as she pushed her head through the neck hole. She blew her hair away from her face and found her field of vision filled with a large, muscular chest straining the buttons of a black, silk shirt and framed by massive biceps. Her gaze traveled up to the face of a man who looked like he could be either a professional wrestler or a bouncer—she'd never met a bouncer who wasn't hot .

. . in a scary kind of way.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to get cold." She straightened and picked up her carry-on, holding it in front of her like a bulky, rectangular shield. "It's nippy on the bus."

"The driver had the AC on too high." Arching a thick, dark eyebrow, the man reached over and picked up her book, using his thumb to mark her page. "Hmm . . .

interesting reading material. Have you tried the tie 'em up and beat 'em stuff, or do you just fantasize about it?"

Damn the man. He was looking at her exactly the way the Doms in her book would. His tone was light, but, beneath the words, she sensed exactly the kind of edge she craved. And she hadn't played in way too long.

Hiking up her chin, she frowned at him. "That's none of your business. And you're right—we should get off the bus."

"Perhaps." He smiled a slow, knowing smile as he tucked her book in the opened top of her carry-on. "But you have to admit—the privacy we have is rather convenient.

We'll have awhile before anyone notices we're gone."

He's got some freakin' nerve! Hugging her bag, she shook her head. "No. I don't think so."

The muscles in his jaw ticked. "No? Are you sure?"

She wasn't sure, and that made the whole scenario even more wrong. How could she even consider letting the jerk have his way with her on a broken-down bus? Was she really that . . . pathetic?

Great big NO.

"I'm sure. Please move." She turned sideways, prepared to jet the second he gave her the space to pass. Or knee him in the balls if necessary.

He gave her a curt nod and backed up a few steps.

She scurried toward the front of the bus, wincing as his cold words reached her.

"You're going to regret this."