Free Stockholm Syndrome by JB Brooks

’round her opening. She hadn’t had sex since her
divorce, and although he’d climaxed quite quickly, Mason had given her a real
pounding last night.
    She pressed more firmly, gently massaging herself, and then
looked down at her fingers glistening with silky moisture. She ran her thumb
over the wetness then brought her fingers to her nose and sniffed. She could
smell her own familiar scent of arousal, combined with a hint of something
strange. Mason. His come was inside her, mixing with her own excretions,
creating a new odor. She inhaled again.
    But why was she so wet?
    Yes, she’d been admiring his naked torso while they picnicked,
but not in a sexual way. He was a strikingly handsome man with a magnificent
body. She’d have to be dead not to appreciate how his muscles bunched and
flowed with effortless strength as he moved. He was like a sculpture come to
life, hard marble hidden under golden skin. However, she’d been to many museums
and galleries around the world, and admired many works of art, and other than
pleasing her aesthetic sense, they hadn’t affected her at all. So why should
Mason Brady?
    Yes, when he’d crowded her against the van, her heart had
raced and her body had flushed and tingled with adrenaline, but that was from
fear. Nothing else could explain the intensity of the reaction. She was so
jumpy around him that her body obviously panicked when he was in close physical
proximity to her. She nodded firmly to herself. It didn’t explain the wetness
though…
    She shrugged and pulled up the panties then struggled back
into her jeans, wishing she’d thought to change into a pair of shorts for the
heat. But she wouldn’t put it past him to come looking for her if she took too
long, so she yanked on her trainers and jogged back to the van. He wasn’t
there, but she heard him whistling in the bushes on the right.
    She checked the cab of the van. He’d taken the keys with
him, of course. She took the opportunity afforded by his absence to dig out her
birth control pills from her backpack and swallow one of the tiny orange
tablets. She’d just started a new card, having timed her period to end right
before her African trip, so she had a whole month’s supply. Thank goodness Owen
had found her pack.
    She jumped when Mason spoke just behind her. Damn, how had
she not heard him?
    “Are you ready to go, Evelyn? Owen texted me a few minutes
ago. The roadblock has gone.”
    “Do I have a choice?” She stuffed the pills away and faced
him.
    “Not really.” He smiled at her, and she blinked, so disarmed
by the transformation it brought to his otherwise uncompromising features that
she almost missed what he said next. “I’m going to tie you up for the drive
through Rockhampton.”
    “What? No! Why? Please don’t!”
    “I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the chance that you might
do something foolish, or try to attract attention.” He went to the back of the
van and leaned inside, reaching for something.
    ‘“I won’t, Mason. Please, I’ll just stay in the back.” She
was furious to feel tears prickling behind her eyelids, but she’d be damned if
he saw her crying.
    “Come here, Evelyn. Give me your hands.” He held the lengths
of soft black rope that he’d used to tie her up before, running them through
his fingers caressingly.
    She looked around frantically. There was no obvious escape
route, and running was pointless since she didn’t know where to go. Her heart
thrummed. He stood waiting patiently for her to figure it out.
    She approached him slowly, reluctantly, her unwillingness
evident in the taut lines of her body. She stopped an arm’s length away from
him, pressing her arms stiffly to her sides.
    “Hold them out, Evelyn.” His voice was barely more than a
rough whisper.
    Hesitantly she extended her arms toward him, holding them
awkwardly, palms down, fingers curled into fists. He took her hands gently and
turned her palms inward, placing them together.
    “Keep them like