Free Abduction by Varian Krylov Page A

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    the table next to her shoulders, forcing her to raise her hips to him. In this position his rapid thrusts seemed to plunge even deeper inside of her and, flushed with a potent mixture of embarrassment and arousal she writhed and moaned.
    As he fucked her he released one of her wrists and brought his hand down to her pussy, laying his palm flat on her mound, pulling the soft skin there taut as he drew his hand slightly upward. She squirmed and, unable to stop herself, let out a little gasp as he moved his thumb down, onto her clit, stroking it lightly as he slowed his fucking, drawing out, out, out, letting her feel momentarily empty where he had been before plunging slowly back in. The way he was touching her clit, so softly, teasingly, was excruciatingly pleasurable. All her exhales were soft moans now.
    Her excitement thrilled him, but he kept his hips in check, pumping into her rhythmically, teasingly as he worked her into a writhing frenzy with his caresses. Then, knowing she would not be able to hold out against the combination of his gentle touch on her tender little button and his hard length bowing in and out through her resonant depths he shifted tempo, moving from his gentle adagio to an exhilarating allegro, giving her a flurry of deep staccato notes. And as he went lower, deeper, fuller, her voice flew up the scale in perfect opposition, rising higher and higher in pitch but always small, quiet, a tiny accent until, at last, with a high, crying moan she came and in her moment of abandon he let his own orgasm burst from him.
    She had brought on her fantasy climax in sync with the orgasm she had given herself. She lay there, feeling the ebbing throbs in her sex pulse against the hand that cupped her. It felt strange, those muscles convulsing involuntarily around her finger, 68
     
    against the heel of her palm, as if they were being shocked by electrodes in a laboratory.
    She wondered why it was that all her life she had never had normal sexual fantasies, but always imagined some kind of coercion. She’d always felt a little ashamed about this, as if there were something wrong with her. It seemed even weirder now, after all that had happened. And how could she be so frightened of Vaughn, and so aroused at the thought of him? He really did terrify her, but the idea of the threat, of the irrepressible longing of a man too strong to be fought off was irresistibly arousing to her.
     
    On the evening of the third day of their uneasy cohabitation Devan was curled up on the sofa, reading. Vaughn was sitting at the dining table, watching her. Considering.
    She had come to his cabin on purpose. Come for him. But she was playing her game very coolly. She didn't flirt. She never asked him about himself. It galled him; she was winning. His every waking and dreaming thought was wrapped up with her.
    Christ. Why, after months of physical and even mental celibacy, was he so terribly, darkly aroused now, with her there? Every night when he went to bed, every morning when he awoke, he found himself masturbating furiously to thoughts that twisted his gut the moment after his orgasmic spasms subsided. Even during the day he would become suddenly, unbearably aroused and have to retreat to his room to silence, momentarily, the irrefutable demands of his body. And then he would come out of his room and find her, looking at once innocent and somehow disturbed, inevitably devouring the pretty prose of a book from his shelf. Like him she seemed to prefer the Russians.
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    As she sat, at the dining table, on the sofa, or curled up on the floor by the hearth, he would gaze at her, sensing that she sensed his eyes on her though she rarely met his gaze, and his mind would drag her into the dark, unexplored recesses of his imagination.
    He wasn't a violent man. Or predatory. Or misogynistic. Even as a teenager he hadn't been one of those guys who'd try to get girls to do more than they wanted. If he ever sensed reluctance in a