Page 34 of Chad's Chase

SEVEN

Through many dangers, toils and snares…

I’d allowed myself to let the moment consume me.

I’d allowed myself to relish the feel of a man—this man—on top of me way too much.

I’d allowed myself to get too comfortable, forgetting this wasn’t me.

Way too much.

And thus, when Chad pushed up off me, took off the condom, and pulled up his pants, the warmth left me in a sudden rush, and the terrible, cold, voidness returned, cackling like a wicked old witch, whispering to my psyche, “You fool”.

That was it. The moment of pleasure, the moment of warmth, the moment of safety, had all been temporary. It was never meant to last, and wasn’t a feeling I’d ever get to keep. Because I wasn’t allowed to have it.

I wasn’t normal.

I wasn’t free.

I was owned and commandeered.

So, even though the last hour or so with Chad—my target—was the utmost highlight of my detestable life, I couldn’t hold onto it and let it screw with my mind. Screw with my purpose, or with my freedom.

Yeah, his cock had felt huge and filling inside me. His tongue had felt deliciously divine in my mouth. His body had felt amazingly searing over mine. But…

I still had to kill him.

For revenge.

For freedom.

After disposing of the used condom, Chad buckled his LRG leather belt, all the while staring down at me. Even in the dark, red glow, I knew, now, in this moment, he was no longer the man who’d touched me in the most tender, altruistic way.

No, he was the vacuous, hard-hearted bastard who’d wipe out the Byrds.

He was no longer the man who promised me he’d never hurt me.

The way he was looking down at me now—vulnerably naked and post-coitally spreadeagled—was nothing short of a warning. An I-dare-you. Like setting up landmines around my bloodless heart, letting me know if I so much as inhale too deeply, it would explode into tiny bits and pieces.

And I feared.

I feared him.

“Get yourself cleaned up and get back to work,” he said once he was fully dressed again. Legs in a wide stance, he slipped his hands in his pockets; a sign of peace, no hard feelings. “You got wet wipes in your purse to clean up? Or should I have Nadia bring some for you?”

“Fuck you,” I spat out, still spread open wide on the sofa banquette, unable to move for some unknown reason—or maybe I was justunwilling.

Dark gaze sliding over my body and back, he deadpanned, “You just did.”

“Enjoy the afterglow, boss, becausethis…”—I tore my legs open wider and rubbed my fingers down my soaking wet folds— “is never happening again.”

A few seconds passed, then he shrugged. “I have my picks.”

Unexplainable anger gas-pedaled through my veins, pumping through my arteries, and without thinking, I lurched up off the sofa banquette, catching him off guard as I slammed an uppercut under his chin.

He grunted in surprise as his teeth clacked together from the unexpected impact, and his hands flew up to grab the sides of his head in an effort to temper the pain, his eyes squeezed tight, face crunched up.

That particular hit would leave him dizzy and out of it for a few quick minutes. As many times as I’ve inflicted it on others, I’ve also received it during training, so, having experienced that pain a dozen times over, I knew what he was feeling at the moment: like someone was electrocuting his brain as he literally lost sight for a moment, seeing nothing but blackness. Not even stars.