Her black lacy bra is a perfect match to the tiny piece of fabric between her legs. I spend a solid minute staring at her, raking my eyes over her body. She looks fucking incredible, something I noticed even in that one-piece bathing suit she was wearing earlier today, but right now? She’s fucking delectable.
She’s still covering more in her underwear than the other woman was wearing in her white bikini, but that chick has nothing on Raya fucking Reed.
This girl is fucking trouble.
I knew after discovering who she was that I’d more than likely end up dead at the end of this.
I just didn’t realize that she may be the one to actually kill me.
“All of it,” I demand.
Chapter 8
Raya
He’s going to rape me.
I’m certain of it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his erection strains against the sweats he’s wearing.
I never considered this would happen to me. Not once in my entire life did I ever think I’d be threatened in this way.
Of course there have been times when men my father introduced me to crossed a line. It’s sad how young I was when I started getting looks, ones that said the man staring at me wished he had a few minutes alone with me. Men in power always think everything is theirs for the taking, but not once did I think I was unsafe. Creeped out, yes, but never this.
“P-please,” I beg again, even though I know it won’t work.
Will I survive this?
Would I even want to after he’s done with me?
I’m to the point of not being able to control my emotions. Until now, only tears escaped, but as he stands there with that threat ofif I don’t do it, he’ll do it for me, in his eyes, I can’t stop the sob from escaping my lips.
I press my thumbs into the elastic waistband at my hips, uncertain why I choose to take my underwear off before my bra.
“Do it,” he growls when I pause, and the constant threat just his presence brings moves me into action.
The fabric sticks to my damp skin all the way down my legs, but I’m quick to kick it free once it hits my ankles.
I fumble with the clasp of my bra at my back, but I eventually open it.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine when my bra joins my panties at my feet.
It’s a testament to his control, the way he holds my gaze rather than letting his eyes rake the length of my body the way they did when I took off my dress.
I see the desire in them, however, so him not taking the liberties he could doesn’t give me any hope that I’m safe in this situation.
Hatred, anger, and, for some reason, embarrassment heats my cheeks, and I’d claw his eyes out if I didn’t know what he’d do to me after would be much worse than any harm I could cause him.
His eyes move, first rolling over my shoulders before pausing on my breasts.
I’m doing nothing to entice him, but my ragged breaths cause my chest to rise and fall, and, for a brief second, he seems entranced at the sight of them before moving on to my stomach.
I fight the urge to close my legs in an effort to keep him from seeing me there.
The brief affair I had with my college professor was nothing like this. It wasn’t romantic. Each time we met was a rush to do the deed without getting caught. I couldn’t meet him at his house or in some discreet hotel room. It was always in his office, also always bent over his desk with my skirt hiked up only enough for him to pull my panties to the side.
He was selfish in the way he used me, but at the time, I thought that’s how things were supposed to be. He didn’t have to woo me or persuade me in order to have me. The slightest amount of attention from him drew me in.
A tingle I hate and would never openly admit to washes over me at the way he takes in every inch of my body.