Page 17 of Willing Prey

THIRTEEN

Claire

It’s day eighteen, and I still haven’t given up on my dream of making Shane blow that damn whistle. Besides my moment of clothing thievery, the hunts follow a fairly predictable pattern.

Shane summons me.

I run into the woods.

He trails, chases, catches, and fucks me.

I’m having a fantastic time, but that suspicious little voice in my brain won’t shut up.

Stop being predictable.

He’s going to get bored.

He’s going to replace you.

There’s no doubt that the voice is a jerk.

But just because the delivery is shit doesn’t mean the voice is wrong—I could be boring Shane.

It waters the seed of insecurity planted by Keith’s betrayal.

When I get insecure, I do things. Sometimes these things are wonderful; sometimes these things are ridiculous. Today’s is going to be wonderful.

Hopefully.

At a quarter to eleven, Shane summons me.

I have a ten-minute lead, but for once, I’m not bolting in an attempt to get as far away as possible.

I’ve been wanting to use a hidey-hole I found when I explored the woods after our first hunt.

Today’s the day. It’s all I can do not to skip through the trees.

The sunshine is warm, there’s a light breeze, and Shane took the day off, so he should have plenty of time to hunt me. He’s going to need it.

The rocky nook is as secluded as I remembered, a crevice begging to become a hiding spot.

Barely off the entry trail, it’s close enough that I should be able to hear him go by, but not so close that I’m in his line of sight.

A large, angled rock creates a mini cave, the open side facing away from the trail.

Moss clings to the rock, and shrubbery surrounds it.

I’m about to slip into the space when I realize I’m not the only one who thinks it’s the perfect place to hunker down.

A large spider occupies a spot toward the right side of the gap, working diligently on a web.

I feel a prickle of guilt as I herd the spider out with a stick, careful not to break the fragile web.

“Sorry,” I whisper as I slide into the crevice. “I won’t stay long, swear.”

It’s the truth. I’ve barely found a semi-comfortable position when I hear Shane.

Holding my breath is unnecessary, but I do.

Images of the temporarily evicted spider returning for revenge dance through my brain.

Am I willing to get molested by an arachnid to keep Shane interested and possibly win this hunt?

Yes.

It’s hard to tell how much of my motivation is insecurity-based and how much is pure competitiveness.

All I know is that when Shane’s footsteps pass me, the butterflies in my stomach grow rowdy.

I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the woods.

A whiff of bug spray or the sound of Shane’s boots, and my butterflies are cheering, my pussy waking up because things are about to take a turn for the orgasmic.

I’m going to be $30,000 richer at the end of this venture, but I’m also going to have to figure out how to decondition myself.

Spending the rest of my life getting wet every time I smell bug spray is not ideal.

I’ll just stay out of the camping section at Walmart.

Shane’s footsteps—sexy, sexy footsteps—fade.

I wait a moment to make sure he’s truly moved on and isn’t doing something sneaky.

I wouldn’t put it past him to see me and perform some sort of elaborate fake-out.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I shimmy out and slink down the trail after him.

It’s a gamble because it involves being closer to him than I usually am during a hunt, but I don’t think he’ll expect this.

At the very least, it’s something different.

I’m also more than a little bit aroused at the prospect of stalking him.

Even though I know I shouldn’t get close enough to watch him, the temptation is too strong to resist.

I’m staying a few hundred yards back from him, moving as quietly as I can.

Stalking is more challenging than I anticipated, but the rush makes it worth it.

It’s been nearly an hour, and his movements are growing agitated.

Every so often he stops hard, and I freeze, terrified he’ll look behind him.

So far, so good. While I linger near the trail’s edge to increase my chance of being able to slip behind a tree or blend into the scrub, I don’t go entirely into the brush.

It’s too dense, making it impossible to be quiet.

The longer the hunt goes without him noticing me, the more optimistic I feel that I’m going to make him use the whistle today.

It’s official: stalking Shane does it for me.

This isn’t the same as getting to play the role of predator, but it’s so fun that I understand the appeal of being the hunter. I’m watching him, and he has no idea. It’s wrong. It’s creepy. It’s hot.

So, so hot.

After another half hour passes, I get bold and decrease the distance between us.

Only to up the stakes, definitely not to check out his ass.

It is a spectacular ass, though. Hugged by his black hunting pants, it calls to me, luring me even closer.

Truthfully, it’s begging to be smacked. Part of me wants to run up and swat it, even though it will mean giving myself away. It’s fantastically round and firm.

Does he do glute bridges?

He must.

Ahead of me, the owner of the fabulous ass is growing frustrated.

When he runs his hand through his hair, the movement is rough.

Every time he stops to scan the woods along the trail, he does it quicker, more irritated.

Satisfaction fills me. He wanted a challenge, and now he has one.

It feels good not to be caught immediately.

Our journey continues, me following Shane’s glorious ass through the woods like a moth chasing a runaway candle.

Another hour passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Then I stop checking my watch because I’m tired and thirsty, and paying attention to how long we’ve been out here only makes me more tired, and more thirsty.

Miles, we’ve gone for miles, far deeper than I’ve ever gone in the woods.

I try not to think about the trek back out.

Winning is worth the suffering, so I continue to creep as he takes what feels like every possible trail through the property.

He checks the ground at intersections and splits, bending down to run his fingers over the earth as if he might be able to feel some energy I left behind.

His level of dedication is impressive. It would be even more impressive if there weren’t a rock in my left shoe.

Stopping to get it out is too risky. The second I do, he’ll spot me, and I’ll be forced to either hop away from him or run with one socked foot.

Frustration radiates off him.

At least he’s not bored.

That feels like a victory, even if he turns around and catches me between this step and the next.

There have been a few close calls when he spun to look behind him, but both times the trail and foliage camouflaged me.

That I’ve managed to go unnoticed this long is shocking.

If I had a pine cone, I could hit him with it, that’s how close I am.

Hit him right in the ass.

That perky ass is begging to be pelted with a pine cone.

The pine cone would probably bounce off.

Maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe his ass is that spectacular, but it’s all I can think about.

It’s mesmerizing me, its attractiveness overriding my good sense.

I can no longer judge sailors for wrecking their ships over sirens; I’d maroon myself on Mars for this ass.

The object of my admiration stops hard.

Shit.

I hit the brakes. Dropping into a crouch, I hope the scrub covers me. He’s tall enough that if he looks at the right angle, he’ll see me. The urge to close my eyes is overwhelming. Seconds slip by, and he remains immobile. My muscles grow tighter and tighter, tension increasing with each heartbeat.

What is he doing?

This suspense causes an entirely different type of tension than being chased.

Though the anticipation of being grabbed while I’m running is intense, there’s an adrenaline rush that makes the nerves feel good.

Right now, I feel like a bottle of Diet Coke someone dropped three Mentos in and re-capped.

If this man doesn’t start moving, I’m going to fizz all over myself.

Leave.

Come on.

Git. Go.

I shoo him mentally, thinking go away thoughts as hard as I can. There’s a rustling, and it sounds like he’s starting to move. The tiniest bit of pressure eases. I may make it out without snapping from the suspense—

Stillness shatters, a high-pitched whistle cutting through the forest. Clamping my hands over my ears, I try to stop the auditory dart from hitting the bull’s-eye of my eardrum.

Motherfucker.

Busy fearing for my hearing, I almost forget what the whistle means.

I won.

He couldn’t find me.

Oh my god, I won.

Ridiculous pride fills me, and I’m far more excited than any adult should be over winning glorified hide-and-seek. I burst from my hiding spot with the elegance of a piece of popcorn, nearly tumbling over in my enthusiasm.

“Oh my god, I won!”

Shane whirls. Shock is the only word for the expression on his face.

If I’m a huge piece of popcorn, it isn’t in a good way.

He doesn’t look at me like I’m delicious and hot, with movie theater butter drizzled on me.

It’s more like I’m stale kettle corn, the kind in the metal tubs my students sell every Christmas.

Uh-oh.

Awareness smacks me in the face too late to do any good.

Shane’s a lawyer. Keith’s a lawyer. There’s a certain personality type that gravitates to that job. Driven. Focused. Intense. Competitive.

If Shane takes losing as well as Keith does, I fucked up.

Happiness deflates, a too-familiar feeling taking its place.

I don’t have a name for it, but it’s shown up often enough throughout my life that I should.

Coming out of a dressing room in a prom dress I thought made me look hot as hell, only for a frenemy to tell me I looked like a Clydesdale.

Thinking I was going the extra mile at my first bartending job in college when I helped unload the delivery truck, only for my manager to pull me aside and say I’d pissed off the barback, who thought I was trying to emasculate him.

I’m always an adjective with a too attached. Too big. Too competitive. Trying too hard.

Today I was too dense to realize that Shane might not want an actual competition. He wants to feel like there is one, but never lose. Exactly like Keith.

The rest of the month—and the money—is floating away.

Fix it.

“Well, maybe I didn’t really win.” Backtracking furiously, I spit the first thing that comes to mind. “Was stalking you cheating? It was definitely cheating, so what if we start over—”

Shane’s eyes blaze. He closes the distance between us in five huge steps, his gaze so intense it’s tactile.

“Why would that be cheating?” His voice is lower than usual, rougher, the way it sounds when he tells me to yield.

“My goal is to hunt you and catch you. Your goal is to not be caught. That’s it. ”

I’d wonder if he’s pretending to take the loss well, except for the fact that his crotch is bulging. He’s turned on.

Hallelujah.

The man’s still horny.

“Are you sure?” I don’t quite trust it.

His teeth flash, but I can’t call his expression a smile. It’s predatory, hungry, a wolf showing what it’s working with before it takes a bite. He looks like he wants to eat me alive, and I want to let him.

“You won, little deer,” he rasps. Stepping even closer, he invades my space.

We almost touch. I can smell him: deodorant, outdoors, and the faintest hint of sweat.

It’s heady and makes me want to press my face into his chest and take a deep inhale.

Someone shouldn’t be able to smell this good after walking through the woods for hours. It’s unnatural.

Moving closer still, he tilts his face toward mine.

Cotton brushes cotton, our T-shirts touching.

The hairs on my arms rise, a thrill running through me.

When he leans in until we’re nose to nose, I don’t know if I want to scream for him to stop because I’m nervous, or because I want him to hurry up and fuck me already.

Warm, lightly minty breath hits my lips, and for a reckless, fleeting moment I want to grab him, knot my fingers in his hair, and drag his face to mine.

See if his lips feel as good on my mouth as they do between my legs.

“I think you deserve a prize,” he murmurs, one hand toying with the hem of my T-shirt. “Should I kiss your cunt until you scream? Lick you until you come all over my tongue?”

Holy shit.

Words aren’t working for me. I feel like a goldfish—one of the bug-eyed ones—as I open and close my mouth, trying to process. Shane waits, watching me with starving eyes. He’d devour me if I asked him to. The temptation is great, so great.

But I want his cock, to be fucked until I’m too ravaged to walk. I want to crawl back to the house. That seems predictable, though.

Keep him on his toes.

Clearly, he expects me to be in it for an orgasm.

I’m not opposed, but I also like the idea of making him fall to pieces instead.

I almost reach for his belt buckle, but that isn’t our dynamic.

I’ve never touched him, not really. Shane always does the touching.

The grabbing, the stripping, the licking, working my body like he owns it, because until the end of the month, he does.

The realization of the one-sidedness is only making me want to go down on him more.

My request comes out breathy. I’d be mortified if I weren’t so turned on. “No. I want you to come on my tongue.”

Telling a man you want him to come on your tongue should provoke some kind of reaction. A spark of interest. A smile. A smirk. Even an eyebrow twitch. Shane gives me nothing.

Fuck.

Worry wriggles in my stomach. Ever unreadable, Shane’s eyes stay hard. He’s statue still. Have I crossed a line? Survived my win to ruin things now? Is he trying to figure out how to tell me he’ll be terminating our agreement?

Saying sorry comes as easy as breathing to me, and I have to force myself not to start rambling. The least I can do is let him speak before I start apologizing. I stare, willing him to say something. Anything.

Please.