Page 23 of Wanna Play A Game?

I try to push up to get away, but I can’t move his heavy body. “What you asked me to, you dumb fuck.”

I grab a fistful of dirt and throw it back to where I guess his face is. I hear it hit the mask, and he ducks down. “Jesus. Give me your hands, woman. I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“Sure you are, fucker.” I grab more to throw at him, but he snatches my arm up, twisting it behind me.

“I’m trying,” he grunts against my struggling, “to help you.”

“Would you stop being a bipolar motherfucker?” I snarl. “Just kill me now. Stop playing these games.”

The man’s smothering weight presses the rocks and prickles into my stomach. He snatches up my other hand, pinning both against my lower back. Something hard closes around them, and I hear a zip. There’s a pinch around my wrists.

No!

“Relax,” the man says.

“Fuck you,” I spit back. I’m still heaving for breath, and he’s barely breathing.

“Did you try to smash my brains out?” he asks.

“It’s a shame I failed,” I growl.

“Jesus. You really are aggressive, aren’t you?” Suddenly, the weight is off my body, and he heaves me over his shoulder for the second time.

I struggle anyway.

“A cheerleader,” he growls. Then he says, almost too low for me to hear him, “Fucker.”

He walks me back to where he found me. I try running again when he places me over the fence, but he wraps his hand in my hair, keeping me there while he hurdles the fence.

I’m flung on the ATV so I’m straddling it, and almost immediately, the man sits behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist, anchoring me tightly to him. My skirt is so low there’s nothing of my legs left to the imagination.

The man grunts softly with my movements and turns on the ATV. He smells different now. More like sweat and musk and something savory.

I feel his dick pressing into my lower back. It makes me scream and thrash harder.

The ride back is short. I’m almost ashamed by how quickly we make it back. The man snatches me off the bike before he’s hauling me up the front steps. I drop all my weight and go limp.

He cusses and picks me up and holds me against his chest like I weigh nothing.

I struggle again.

As we walk through the front door, I’m hit by a blessed wall of air conditioning. For a second, I gawk at the house. I didn’t have time on the way up to take it all in. On our left is a small hall, a large open living room straight ahead, and on the right is a modern-looking kitchen with a long hall branching off it. Everything looks professionally decorated. This dude has serious money.

“That took a while. Get caught up in the outfit?” a male voice says.

I jump. A man emerges from behind the fridge door. He’s tall as fuck, and built, with black and red tattoos on his arms and long, shaggy light hair that’s tired up on top of his head. He’s familiar. Alarm bells ring in my head.

He makes eye contact with me and winks, “Oh hey, bunny.”

Everything slows to a stop.

Oh shit. There are two of them.

The man holding me hisses, “Not cool, dude.”

I panic and struggle for real. The man’s arms band tighter around me. I scream, long and bloodcurdling.

“Easy,” he mutters, loosening his grip enough so I can breathe.