Dead and Loving It (Page 7)


“I'd rather wait until you dropped your guard. Then you'll be sorry.” She said this with total confidence.

He rested his forehead against hers. “God, you're delightful.”

“I'm going to skin you alive, you f*****g undead monkey. Then I'm going to set your skin on fire. Then I'm going to roast your skinless body over the fire I made with your skin.”

“And so ladylike, too! Umm…” His cool mouth closed over one of her nipples, and she brought her fist down on top of his head, hard. Then yelped when he bit her.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the top of his head. “That was you, not me. You hit me so hard my teeth nearly clacked together.”

“Just you wait,” she said ominously.

He kissed her wrist, her pulse point, and then the crook of her elbow. She balled a fist and got ready to sock him again.


“Jane, as delightful as last night was-for me, anyway-I'd rather not tie you up again.” She punched him square in the face, a poor blow with her lack of leverage, but his head rocked back, which was gratifying. He went on as if nothing had happened.

“So let's make a deal, you and I. I won't tie you up, and you won't fight me. As of now,” he amended.

“You won't tie me up?” she asked suspiciously. “But I have to let you f**k me?”

He looked pained. “Yes, you have to let me f**k you.”

She pretended to think it over, but it was an easy decision. She could stand almost anything but being tied down. It went against her very nature, made her want to bite somebody. “Okay. I won't punch, and you won't get out the elastic bubble gum.”

“And you'll kiss me back.”

“Forget it.”

“All right, then, I will do all the kissing for both of us.” He smiled at her, put a hand on the back of her neck, and pulled her to him.

“What, I can't eat first? This deal blows.”


“Later, Jane. I'm begging you.” His mouth was slightly warm, and his tongue slipped past her teeth to stroke her own tongue. She felt his hand cup one of her breasts, testing the weight of it, and then his thumb was rubbing her nipple.

She wriggled, pushing more of her breast into his palm. “So, the quicker you get off, the quicker I can have eggs?”

He sighed. “You're really killing the mood here.”

“What mood? I'm a prisoner, for f**k's sake. And I'm hungry,” she whined.

“Oh, for-” But he let go of her and she bounded off the bed. She wolfed down her breakfast-eggs, six strips of bacon, four pieces of toast, and two glasses of milk-in five minutes while he laid on the bed and watched her with his fingers laced behind his head and a mildly disbelieving look on his face. She got up, wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed it over her shoulder, and climbed back into bed.


“All right, then,” she said, infinitely more cheerful.

He smiled at her. “All right, then.” He reached out, took her hand, and led her to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, they were in his giant bathtub and the floor was soaked. Her legs were spread wide and resting on each rim of the tub, and she was gripping the sides so tightly her knuckles ached. Richard was beneath the water, nuzzling and tonguing and fingering her c**t. He'd been down there for five minutes, and she was about ready to lose her f*****g mind.

Now his tongue was inside her, and one of his fingers was worming into her a*s.

She'd never been interested in assplay-the idea had always grossed her out-but the sensation of his long finger sliding up inside her while his tongue darted and stabbed and licked her c**t made her throb. She had no control over her reflexes, she simply started to thrust her hips at his face. Her muffled groans (for her teeth were tightly clenched) bounced off the bathroom tile.

He rose, water dripping down his marble-white skin, and grinned at her. He pulled her up to him and growled, “Now you'll kiss me.”

She did, without hesitation. He sucked her tongue into his mouth as he pushed her thighs wide, as he took himself in hand and rubbed his c**k against her sopping c**t.

She moaned into his mouth and strained toward him. He tore his mouth from hers, sought her neck, and she felt him bite her just as his c**k thrust inside. The combination of sensations-slight pain, swamping pleasure-made her come so hard she bucked against him, and another gallon of water sloshed over the side of the tub.

“Ummmm,” he said against her throat. “Oh, that's very good. I could do this all day.”

“Better…not…” she managed. “It'll kill me.”

He laughed and leaned back. She was still spread up against the sloping end of the tub; they were connected only by his c**k. He ran his hands over her soapy breasts, smiling as she groaned again. “Oh, you are going to marry me,” he said huskily. “Believe it.”

“Why don't you…stop talking…and finish f*****g?”

He grinned, flashing fangs, and obliged. When he finished she was indecently satisfied, and there was only a few inches of water left in the tub.


                                                                          * * * * *

Later, he brought a second breakfast. “After that half an hour,” he explained,

“even I could eat a few more eggs.”

“Not bad for a dead guy,” she said casually, pretending she wasn't still throbbing. The man had a fiendish touch between the sheets-or in the tub-and that was a fact. “I'm sure the ladies like you all right, when you're not being such a jerkoff.”

He didn't answer, just sat down across from her and watched her eat. After a few minutes, he started drumming his fingers on the table.

“Yeah, that's not gonna get annoying. The kidnapping and the f*****g I can take, but not the nervous tics. Cut it out.”

“Why only twice?”


He was nibbling thoughtfully on his lower lip and watching her. “Why was last night only your second time? You're in your thirties. You should have had hundreds of experiences by now. It can't be a dislike for the act itself-you're sexy, responsive, and open to new experiences. So what's the explanation?”

Her mouth was suddenly dry-weird!-and she gulped some juice. “None of your goddamned business.”

“Did he hurt you? Because if he did, I'd be delighted to track him down for you and teach him a richly deserved-“

“Am I speaking a language you don't know? I said it was none of your business.” Her hand was shaking. She put the juice glass down with a bang and hid her hands under the table. “And even if it was, I don't want to talk about it. Especially with you.”

His eyes were narrow, thoughtful. “Ah…you hurt him. And felt needless guilt ever since-Jane, for heaven's sake. Whatever you did, it was an accident. You didn't mean it.”


“Are you deaf? I said I don't want to talk about it!” The glass zoomed at his head; he ducked and it slammed into the far wall. Orange juice and broken glass sprayed everywhere.

“All right,” he said calmly. “We won't talk about it.”

Her hands weren't the only thing shaking. She grabbed her elbows and squeezed; clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. She was morbidly afraid she might puke, and soon.

He got up from his chair, came to her, and scooped her up as if she was a child.

For a wonder, she didn't try to pull his eyeballs out of his head. “You're tired,” he soothed. “You've had a rotten week. Why don't you take a nap?”

“Why don't you go f**k yourself?”

“Can't we do both?”

She chuckled unwillingly.

Chapter Eight

Two nights before the full moon, and she was actually torn.

Torn! It was almost like she was dreading her impending escape. Which only proved a steady diet of rich food and amazing sex lowered I.Q. points.

Every day, he asked her to tell him the truth, promising to let her go if she did.

And every day, she told him the truth…a lie would have choked her. She hadn't broken their date by choice. She had wanted to see him again. And she almost didn't hate him.

That one she kept to herself.

He hadn't tied her up since that first night. And she hadn't tried to attack him.

Another example of her quickly-lowering I.Q. When they were between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or on the floor in front of the fireplace), the last thing on her mind was leaving. But far more disturbing, when they weren't between the sheets, the last thing on her mind was leaving.

And it wasn't that she was thinking with her p***y instead of her brain. Well, it wasn't just that. Because to be perfectly honest, what, exactly, was she going back to? To be at Mikey's beck and call? To hang out with a group of people who disapproved of her, then go home to her lonely bed? The pack didn't much want her, and she sure as s**t didn't want someone who wasn't pack, someone who was fragile-who would break if she really let loose.

Dick fit the bill admirably, and he approved of her-to the hilt! He thought everything she did and said was swell. She could have farted on him and he would have rhapsodized about it. In fact, she did…after a particularly strenuous sexual marathon and when she was relaxing in his embrace. Relaxing a little too well, in factshe really cut one. Quick as thought, she pulled the blankets over Dick's head, trapping him with the noxious odor. Cursing, he finally freed himself, and then they both laughed until they cried.

She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. It was getting rapidly dark in the bedroom; the sun would be down in a few more minutes. She'd adjusted nicely to his schedule, and now slept her days away. Frankly, she preferred his schedule-she'd never been much of an early riser.

He'd be here any minute. Any minute. She felt a tightening in her stomach and was disgusted with herself. Just thinking about him-about his long fingers and his mouth and his tongue and his c**k-was making her wet. Some prisoner. Now she had Stockholm Syndrome. Except it was more like Bimbo Hypnotized By Bad Guy's Huge C**k Syndrome.

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