The Trip

Chapter Two



Mark eyed the woman, standing right near the edge of the circular barrier of flares, her hands shaking as she lit yet another cigarette. The woman smoked too much—she was on her third while he'd just finished his first. But that didn't bother him nearly as much as the way she avoided even looking at him. She swayed from side to side on her spiky, silver stilettos, looking like a teenaged hooker in her huge sweatshirt and miniskirt. Her expression gave the impression of frightened innocence. What was she playing at? Was she really as scared as she seemed?

Maybe he'd come off too strong, but he didn't think so. Ever since they'd boarded, he'd watched her, studied her face once he'd managed to tear his gaze from her thighs which were fit to split wide. He pictured her tied to a suspension rack with her legs stretched out, her tits jiggling as she struggled, her p-ssy glistening and wet.

But she wouldn't be wet unless he could figure out what had her all wound up inside.

Even in sleep, she'd been tense, tossing her head from side to side as though plagued by nightmares. Several times, her quiet whimpers had pulled at him, tempting him to go to her, to pull her into his arms and soothe her, but he knew she wouldn't welcome him.

Not yet.

But soon. Between his experience and her barely restrained passions—obvious in her body language and the flush in her cheeks while she read her book—the rest of the ride would offer plenty of opportunities for mutual satisfaction.

Once she realizes there's nowhere else for her to run.

Mark approached her when she turned away from him to light another cigarette and whispered in her ear. "You smoke more when you're nervous. Tell me I'm not the reason you're turning your lungs black."

Letting out a bitter laugh, she tossed her hair over one shoulder and looked up at him. "Please. After the week I've had, you don't affect me at all."

Well, now, that was a bit harsh. His eyes narrowed, and she edged away from him.

"I mean . . . I . . . ." She ducked her head and gulped.

Better. He smiled and grazed her chin with a knuckle. "Was it really that bad?

What were you in Detroit for? Work or pleasure?"

She rolled her eyes. "Work."

"Ah. And what was so horrible about it? What are you, some kind of secretary?

Not important enough to travel with your boss?"

Her nose wrinkled, and she scowled at him. "I'm an artist."

"A struggling artist apparently." He grinned when her scowl darkened. "Oh, don't take it like that. I think it's sexy."

"Right."

"Seriously." He didn't like how quickly she assumed he was mocking her. Didn't she have any faith in her own talent? "Everyone starts somewhere."

"I know, but . . . ." She cut herself off and hunched over. "I don't want to talk about it."

Mark could almost feel her pull up steel walls of defense, hardened by insecurity, by uncertainty. He wanted to take a torch to those walls, find a way through them so he could stand beside her, so he could wield the flame to strengthen all the weak spots in her armor. But he knew his interference would be unwelcome at this point. She'd have to let him in; force would only get him so far.

But it would get him somewhere.

Reaching out, he took her bag and set it aside. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and massaged the rigid muscles through the bulky cotton of her sweatshirt.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Her muscles went slack, and she leaned into him. "I don't feel like talking at all."

"Then what would you like to do?" He nestled his chin in the soft slope between her throat and her shoulder, grazing the soft lobe of her ear with his lips. "Tell me."

The muscles under his hands bunched up and she groaned. But not with pleasure. She sounded quite irritated. "Ugh. Just leave me alone."

Not likely. He let out a low growl and set his teeth into her throat. She whimpered as he slid his hands down her arms and clasped her wrists, pulling them behind her. "I won't leave you alone. But I will give you what you really need. Tell me your safe word."

"Maple leaf." She gasped, curving her throat until he could feel her pulse against his lips.

"Good girl." He held her wrists with one hands and hitched his thumb under the thick elastic of her skirt. "Use it if you need to. There's some nice cover in those bushes just beyond the ditch. I'll release you go so you can maneuver your way down there, but, unless you use your safe word, that's where I'm going to f*ck you. Understand?"

For a while she said nothing, and doubt, murky as swamp water, filled the silence. What if he'd read her wrong? What if this wasn't what she wanted?

But then she whispered. "Yes."

He tightened his grip on her wrists. "What?"

"I said 'yes.'" She swallowed and shivered in his arms, causing his dick to press against the confines of his snug boxer-briefs. "Sir."

He released her, and his chest swelled as he watched her carefully make her way down the rock- and weed-ridden ditch. No one had called him 'Sir' in months. In all honesty, he hadn't earned the address yet, but he would earn it now. And, damn it, whatever he had to do, by the end of the night she'd call him Master.

Dust and rocks kicked up from the road as the driver strolled up to him. "You have twenty minutes. I'm not throwing away my job for this."

Pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket, Mark counted out a thousand bucks, and then pressed the bills into the driver's hand. "You won't have to. Just consider this a nice bonus. You were ahead of schedule anyway."

"True." With a gruff chuckle, the driver tucked the folded stack of cash into the snug pocket of his uniform vest. Then he shook Mark's hand and nodded towards the dark overgrowth along the road. "Go get her, buddy."

A predatory smile curved Mark's lips as he climbed into the ditch. He stalked around the bushes, silently at first, then cracking branches under the heels of his boots just to make the woman gasp. Blood pumped into his dick so fast it felt like his erection had its own heart, wedged up in the mushroomed head that had probably turned purple. F*ck, he wanted her, so bad he considered forcing her to her hands and knees as soon as he reached her and just taking her. The way she responded to his firm grip, to his commands . . . fine, there might be a token struggle, but then her ass would rise up to meet each thrust like a bitch in heat.

Hell, she wants it rough. Why not give it to her?

Because he hadn't paid all that money for quick, savage sex. What he had in mind would take time—and patience. Both of which he had in spades.

"You didn't happen to overhear my exchange with the bus driver, did you?"

Snap, snap! Silence. Snap! "I paid him not to disturb us."

Hearing a soft rustle to the left, he paused. Light padding sounded from a little deeper in the undergrowth. She'd taken off her shoes, sneaky brat. Did she really think he'd let her get away?

"You didn't just pay him not to disturb us," she said, quietly. Her voice sounded like it came from the right. He squinted, but he couldn't see her. She must be crouched down low. "You paid him to stop the bus."

"Clever girl." He crept forward— there!-- he caught sight of a patch of gray between the branches of a bush. "So you understand, I can do whatever I want to you out here." He reached out and grabbed a fistful of fabric.

And nothing else. She'd taken the sweatshirt off.