re warm beer I call out. “I’m awake.”
But it’s not Frau Fischer. It’s Reinhardt, and he pushes open the door watches me from the doorway. He’s in a white shirt and gray trousers, looking smart as always but without his usual black tie. His sleeves are rolled back past his elbows and I can see his irritation in the taut muscles of his arms as he folds them. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. Come on, Evony. You’re stronger than this.”
I stare at the ceiling. “What’s got into me? It could be I’m being held captive by a madman in a country I hate. What do you think?”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head. “Tell me the truth.”
Damn his perception. Damn everything about him. “Fich dich.”
He strides forward and strips the bedclothes from me. I squeal with indignation as he scoops me out of bed and carries me out into the hall, struggling in his arms. “Put me down. Let me go.”
“No. If you’re going to sulk and swear at me you may as well do it in my bed.”
Anger and something else, something carnal, flickers through me. My nails dig into his shoulders and before he’s pushed open the door to his bedroom I’m kissing him. He kisses me back, fierce and needful, like a man dying of hunger. Then I bite his lip and he groans, and throws me down on the bed. I glare up at him through my messy curls as he begins to unbutton his shirt.
“You are the most obstinate young woman I’ve ever met. Am I ever going to touch you without it being an unnecessary battle?”
“No.”
He smiles his hard, unfriendly smile, shrugs out of his shirt and begins undoing his belt and trousers. “Good. Take off your clothes.”
At the sight of him naked some of my bravado evaporates, because it’s broad daylight this time and I can see quite clearly the hard lines of his chest, his flat stomach, and the length of his cock, thickening before my eyes, strange and beautiful at the same time.
He must see apprehension in my eyes. “Don’t worry, Liebling. I’m going to be very sweet about this.”
I strip off my vest and underwear, all I was wearing in bed, and level a look at him that very plainly says, I’m not.
When he gets onto the bed I pull back my hand to slap him across the face. I almost succeed but he captures my wrist and pins it to my side. I attack him with everything I have, my feet, my knees, my nails. He doesn’t try to stop me, though he deflects the fiercest of my blows without hurting me back. All the while he kisses me, plucks at my nipples, squeezes my behind. He finds my sex and the slickness there and he pushes one thick finger into me and the fist that lands on his shoulder suddenly clings to him. I moan his name, some of the fight going out of me. Capitulating shouldn’t feel good, but I let him lay me down on the cool mattress and he licks me while his finger explores. Then he adds another and I bury my hands in his hair. I teeter on the brink of coming for a long time, but the movements of his tongue are almost lazy and then when I finally think he’s going to push me over the edge he sits up, and I scream in frustration.
He yanks me down the bed, cutting off my cry, and, still unhurried, rubs the tip of his cock against my slipperiness. My anger grows again as I watch him consider me, his head on one side, drinking in my desperation, enjoying it.
“Do you want me, Liebling?”
I will not say yes. I will not beg.
He leans over me, sleek and smug, and pierces me slowly. It’s not like the first time. It doesn’t hurt. He feels good. So, so good, that I pull him closer and sink my teeth into the hard line of muscle across his shoulder and he hisses in pain. How dare he feel so fucking good. His thrusts are slow, easing into my tightness, exploring how deep he can push before I grab his hips and gasp. Every few thrusts he pushes a little deeper, and a little deeper, coaxing surrender from my body. And then he’s all the way to the hilt and he braces his hands on either side of my head, his eyes dark and goading.
“Do your worst then, you little cat.”
I rake his back with my nails, wanting to draw blood, wanting to hurt him, but he doesn’t care, and all the while he softly kisses my mouth, my neck, his fierce rhythm never letting up for a moment.
“That’s it, Liebling, get it all out. I can take everything you can throw at me.”
I fall back, whimpering, because what he’s doing to me is taking over everything else and I can feel myself tightening around him, reveling in the way my flesh yields to his. He drinks in every expression that flickers over my face. Hooking my legs over his shoulders he bears down on me heavily and the sensation goes nuclear. I still don’t beg but he must see the supplication in my eyes, the please don’t stop. It’s not fair that he can do this to me until I don’t want to fight back. It’s not fair that I fight him and yet I’m the one who ends up at his mercy and losing control while his body conquers mine.
As I come I pull him closer and feel him shudder against me, his rhythm stuttering as he pushes as deep as he can twice, three times, and then stills. I can’t make myself let go of him. In the hazy afterglow I cling to him, and he eases slowly off me until we’re lying on our sides, my cheek pressed against his chest.
His hand sketches circles on my back while his other holds me to him. I close my eyes, feeling more relaxed than I have in a long, long time.
“Are you having bad dreams, Liebling?”
It takes a few minutes to dredge myself up from this warm, sleepy place. Does he think nightmares have been keeping me up? I don’t want to answer, and so to deflect the conversation away from me I reach for the first reproachful thing I have to hand.
“You think of her when you’re in bed with me, don’t you?”