Page 93 of Exposed

I feel motion, feel the whispering breeze of your passage from behind me to in front of me. There you are. Perfect, handsome. Calm and collected. Cool. I smell your cologne. Black suit, crimson shirt, top button loose, no tie. You have a pistol in your hand. Flat black, small in your large paw.

You glance at me. You do not smile. “I thought I could let you go,” you say. Your expression is... almost sad. Regretful. You glance at Len, behind and above me. “I was wrong.”

I feel something sharp touch my neck. A needle. It pricks me, and something cold rushes through me.

Darkness rises from the shadows at my feet. Reaches up for me.

I fight it.

You point your gun at Logan.

No!

No!I scream, but it comes out a faint whimper.

I watch in slow motion as your finger tightens on the metal crescent of the trigger.

NO!

I want to scream and cry, but I cannot. I can only fade into darkness.

I don’t see it happen. I only hear a loudBANG!

And then there is nothingness.

Only cold and black and empty.

Chapter

Fifteen

Consciousness eludes me. I seek it, struggling up through darkness, wallowing in silence, floating in absence of sound and sensation. Near consciousness. A slow delicate sliding across the meniscus of wakefulness. Where there is awareness of self, but no ability to truly perform higher functions.

I struggle. But it is like being wrapped up in a cocoon; it is a fight I cannot win. I succumb.

There is a fist in my hair. My head is tugged back. I’m moaning. I’m faking the sound, though, because the grip on my hair is painful, but the moans are expected.

I’m on my hands and knees. On a bed. In the dark. Silence, but for my moans, and the low male grunts behind me.

It hurts. Too big, too much. Too hard, too rough.

I’ve been here on my knees for an eternity. Taking the punishing, driving thrusts for forever. I’m raw.

I want it to stop.

But I’m not allowed to talk. Not allowed to make a sound but for the moans. I know the rules. I know the punishment if I break them.

I am expected to orgasm. But the breath washing over my neck breath smells of whisky, and orgasm seems to be out of reach.

A hand smacks across my buttock. “Say my name.” The order is a rough, slurred growl.

“Caleb . . .” I whisper it.

Another smack, to the other side. “Say it again.”

“Caleb.”

“Louder.” A harder smack.