Begging for It Lilah Pace Read Online

Folio one

Prologue

My fantasies always begin . . . normally. Whatsoever normal is.

The motion picture or TV prove I'm watching features a sexy scene: a man and adult female in a assure, their lips silhouettes that almost affect. A carol by Dinah Washington comes up on shuffle, raw and yearning. Hugh Jackman shows upwards shirtless on the cover of a supermarket mag. The usual things go me started, I guess.

Then then I'm in my boyfriend's bed (when I accept a boyfriend) or alone betwixt the sheets, or in the shower (when I don't). I shut my eyes. I attempt to forget everything except the pulsing between my legs, the force per unit area and rhythm that's making my pulse race. The images in my mind jumble together, without narrative or emotion or sense—like a pornographic kaleidoscope of tongues and lips, erect and cunt, the rut of peel on peel. Normally I first to moan; I'g not one of the quiet ones. Then far, so good.

Merely no matter how explicit and erotic the kaleidoscope gets, no matter how talented the guy'due south tongue is, or how constant my hand's pressure level might be—information technology never, ever gets me off.

Only one fantasy does that.

I try not to think well-nigh it. I tell myself it's sick, it's wrong. A lot of times, when I'yard with a guy, I merely don't come. It's embarrassing to be this good at faking it.

When I'm lone—or when I'thou with a lover and I desire to get off then bad that I can't accept it anymore—I have to go there.

In my heed, ropes wind around my wrists, my ankles. Or I'k rolled onto my stomach, hands pinned behind my dorsum. Sometimes I'g blindfolded. Sometimes he makes me look at him. If I'grand going down on a guy, I ask him to pull my hair, and the whole time I'one thousand pretending that he's making me exercise this. Forcing me. In reality he says, Baby or You lot're cute; I imagine him saying, Whore. Suck information technology, you cunt.

I don't get off unless I'm imagining being raped.

Sometimes it'due south "softer"—a guy backing me against a wall at a party, or taking advantage when I'thousand sloppy drunk. Other times information technology's brutal. Tied down spread-eagled. Or in a ditch on my hands and knees.

At least I don't fantasize virtually weapons at my throat, or pointed at my head. Not still, anyhow.

I detest this about myself. I hate it. I've tried to alter so many times; I've e'er failed. While I wish I could say I don't know why I'm wired this way . . . I do.

Maybe information technology doesn't matter. Lots of people take sexual fantasies they'd never human activity on, whether they're tearing or perverse, silly or apartment-out biologically impossible. If information technology's all in my caput, and it makes me come up, what's the harm?

(It makes me come hard. )

The damage is when the lines between reality and fantasy get blurred.

Like they did last dark.

Ane

Highway 71 stretched in front of my car, black asphalt scrolling beneath my wheels. 7 hours into my drive back to Austin, I was wondering why I hadn't just flown Southwest.

Sometimes I like taking a long road trip by myself—listening to my music, relishing the freedom of knowing I absolutely, positively can't work on my thesis for a while. I'd enjoyed most of this drive back from New Orleans, only now that the sun had gone downward and I however had an hour to go, I felt restless.

Peradventure if you hadn't left your car charger at domicile, where it can practice you exactly no good—

I groaned, thinking of my prison cell telephone in my bag, dead for more than an 60 minutes at present. Instead of putting on my favorite high-energy playlist for the terminal leg of my journeying, I was at the mercy of the radio. Every station seemed dedicated to putting me to sleep.

Then once more, it was late. After ten P. M. Near people were winding downwards, taking information technology easy equally they listened to mellower music, maybe snuggling up to someone they loved.

A sultry Latin number began, soft guitar and thumping drums suggesting sensuality with every vanquish—and reminding me how long I'd been alone.

My last breakup had taken place four months before. Sometimes I missed Geordie, even though I knew splitting had been the correct selection. At age 30, he's notwithstanding in party-hearty manner, while at twenty-five I already feel more grown-up than he probably ever will. We'd always been more friends than red-hot lovers anyway. Our sex life—well, I couldn't arraign Geordie at that place. Probably virtually women would accept been more than than happy with what he had to offer. I was the 1 who had longed for something Geordie couldn't provide.

At to the lowest degree you lot told him what you really wanted. You finally trusted someone else enough to tell, and that alone counts for something, doesn't it? He just couldn't become at that place with you lot.

But I'd felt so shamed. Then exposed. I'd confessed my deepest fantasies to Geordie, hoping he'd play along, and instead he'd freaked out. Oh, he tried to exist sympathetic, all "But why practise yous think you feel this way?" That's what I pay my therapist for. What I needed from him was something a whole lot dirtier. A whole lot scarier. And gentle, funny Geordie couldn't give it to me. Page ii

Maybe I was being the rigid one. I figured I shouldn't condemn a guy for not getting off on the thought of forcing a adult female. So I reminded myself, Geordie gets to take limits too—

The steering wheel jerked in my hands. I managed to go on my Civic from spinning out, but barely. Information technology wobbled violently, pulling difficult to one side as I guided it onto the shoulder. The hum of tires confronting highway gave way to jagged pops of gravel nether my auto. In one case I'd cleared the road, I put the motorcar in park, turned the central, and sat at that place for a moment, one hand held over my wildly thumping centre.

Shit. I've blown a tire.

I stepped out of my machine, my sandals crunching in the roadside grit, as I inspected the harm. Every bit I'd thought, the rider-side front tire was completely blown out; strips of blackened rubber had peeled away, and it was already completely deflated against the ground.

Biting my lower lip, I glanced up and down the highway. I hadn't quite made it as far as Giddings, which was the closest thing to a real boondocks in this office of Texas. The side by side outpost of culture was probably at least one-half an hour's walk from hither . . . in the dark, without fifty-fifty a streetlamp to guide me. Why hadn't I brought the stupid car charger? I'd have given a lot to have my prison cell phone with me so I could telephone call for assistance. I could've bought another one in any gas station along the way; information technology wasn't similar they were expensive. But I hadn't. So I was lone, in the dark, totally on my ain.

Of form, as a modernistic, contained woman, I'd learned how to change a flat tire. I'd practiced then I'd be able to exercise it in a crunch. Except that the terminal time I good was eight years earlier, when I was a junior in loftier school.

I squared my shoulders. Okay, Vivienne. You can exercise this. Allow's make it happen.

As I took the jack from the trunk, I decided to ditch the little cardigan I wore over my crimson sundress. In Texas in August, the atmospheric condition was as well warm to work hard while wearing extra layers, even this late at night. Besides, I didn't want to become grease all over my entire outfit if I could help it.

A truck'southward headlights appeared on the horizon, heading toward me. I was torn. Wave for assistance or duck behind the car, so the driver doesn't encounter that I'chiliad a adult female out here alone?

My fantasies were one thing. Reality was another. I wanted assist really badly, merely I walked behind the car.

Non that it mattered—the eighteen-wheeler barreled by me and then fast my meaty car rocked in its wake. The breeze blew my hair in my confront and whipped the skirt of my sundress. Once the truck was well ahead of me, I took off my cardigan and tossed information technology into the front seat, then got down to business organisation.

Okay. Manifestly the first step was jacking upwards the car. I knelt abreast the apartment tire, angled the jack—and heard another car driving toward me.

Slowing downward.

And stopping.

Headlights bathed me

in their luminescence. I held upwards one hand, unable to run across for the glare. Fear prickled along my skin. I took the lug wrench firmly in my fist as I stood, still holding my other hand against the light, and tried to continue my voice steady as I chosen, "Hello?"

"Looks like you've got trouble. "

The driver stepped frontwards, the headlights silhouetting his tall, masculine form. As my eyes adapted to the brightness, I could finally come across his face.

Oh, my God.

All the adrenaline in my bloodstream changed. The fearfulness was still there, sharper equally I saw how broad his shoulders were, and the muscles in his arms—merely now that fear was matched by excitement, raw and primal. This man . . .

He was tall, a couple inches over six feet. His jeans were slung beneath his most impossibly tapered waist, which only exaggerated how muscular his thighs were. His black T-shirt clung to him tightly. Stubble adumbral his angular jaw, and his dark pilus was cut almost military machine-short in a way that emphasized the strong lines of his face. His gray eyes raked over me, as I remembered why I'd worn the cardigan to begin with—my sundress was low-cut, and his gaze fabricated it articulate he'd noticed.

My paw tightened around the wrench.

"What seems to exist the trouble?" He took a footstep closer.

"It's just a flat tire. I've got a spare. " I sounded incoherent. Agape. Would that encourage him to aid me, or brand information technology clear just how much power he had over me at this moment?

Ane of his eyebrows lifted. Conspicuously he'd picked up on the fact that I was nervous. It seemed to amuse him. "Tin you modify a apartment?"

"Of course. " That was possibly not the entire truth, but I figured I could manage if I had to.

"Do you have whatever help on the manner? Triple A?" His gray eyes met mine once again, but information technology was difficult for me to make out his expression with his headlights shining in my eyes. "A young man?"

Page iii

Is he trying to find out if I'm single, or trying to find out if everyone would know if something happened to me?

No one would.

I tried to smile; I probably failed. "Yep. Triple A said they'd exist here in—oh, another fifteen minutes or so. " My voice sounded abrupt, borderline rude, but I couldn't worry nearly that. All I could think was, Why did I say that? Fifteen minutes was likewise long. Fifteen minutes is more than plenty fourth dimension for him to . . .

His smile was a quick flash in the darkness, as hard-edged every bit a straight razor. "I can modify that flat in five. That is—if you're not too proud to ask for help. "

"Proud?" This guy had pulled over next to me in the dead of nighttime, started interrogating me, and wanted to lecture me on my mental attitude? Fuck being afraid; I got mad. "Listen, if you recollect it'south funny that I'd be worried about a stranger in this situation, I'm agape yous don't sympathise some very basic, sad facts of life. "

He drew dorsum, his gray eyes narrowing, almost like I'd slapped him. Had he taken my fearfulness equally an insult? Maybe it was ane; I'd as good as said I thought he couldn't be trusted. However, when he spoke again, his deep voice was gentler. Meant to soothe. "I wasn't thinking. Here. Let me take care of this for you and go yous on your manner. "

He held out his paw for the wrench. Obviously he'd need it to alter my apartment. Just it was too the only potential weapon I had.

Practice I trust this guy?

I took one step closer to him, squinting to encounter. At present his trunk blocked the headlights a picayune more, and I could examine his face more advisedly. Strong forehead. Firm, straight nose like a slash through his perfectly symmetrical face. A surprisingly full lower lip. He looked powerfully, about aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. And withal his optics never glanced away from mine, equally though he had nothing to hide—

Even though I wanted to trust those eyes, I couldn't. This human was a full stranger. What it boiled down to was this: If he was a proficient guy, then I could rely on him. If he was a bad guy, he could probably get the lug wrench abroad from me whatsoever time he wanted.

I hesitated 1 instant longer, and so handed him the wrench.

He took it and stepped past me to go to work.

During the side by side few minutes, while he worked in silence except for the clanking of metal, I stood awkwardly in front of his night sedan. Even now I found it difficult to relax around this guy. What if he was just toying with me? Trying to get me off my baby-sit?

Oh, come on, I told myself. Like whatever rapist on earth would go to the problem of irresolute a flat tire showtime.

But those fears weren't the main reason I plant it hard to relax. What got to me was that I found my rescuer sexy as hell. And he'd been sexy to me even when I'd been scared of him.

Just what did you think he was going to do to you lot?

What did you want him to do to you?

Every bit I watched him—his strong arms wrestling with the cycle, the headlights shining on the muscular expanse of his dorsum or his stern contour—my mind filled with visions I didn't want to want. Visions of him bending me over the back of my machine, pushing upwardly the brim of my sundress. Of him pulling me into the backseat, putting my paw on his cock, whispering, Time to thank me. His hands fisting in my hair as he towed me down on my knees—

Stop it.

I shook my head, pushing the loose strands of my hair back from my face. My cheeks felt hot. My pulse still raced, thumping in my chest, throbbing between my legs. I was turned on and confused and angry with myself. I wanted him to finish changing my flat so I could become dorsum into my automobile and bulldoze the rest of the way home, pretending I'd never had a bigger problem than crappy music on the radio.

So I could besides pretend he hadn't made me experience and then hungry. So ashamed.

"Okay," he said. A few clicks of the jack, and my car settled back onto the footing. When he stood up, he had a smudge of dark grease along i cheekbone. "That should get you abode. Only information technology's simply a spare. You need to buy a new tire right away instead of driving effectually on this one for too long. "

"I know that," I retorted, stung.

"Sad. " His smile was knowing, almost disdainful. "I forgot I was talking to an practiced. "

Okay, and so he's a smug son of a bitch, but he'due south the son of a bowwow who just saved your donkey. I swallowed my irritation. "Listen—thanks. Seriously. I don't know what I would've done without you. I owe you one. "

His smile faded. "So practise me a favor. Don't try to be superwoman adjacent time. Join Triple A, stay in the car and go on it locked, whatever you lot have to do to keep yourself prophylactic. " He handed me back the wrench. "You should be more careful who you trust. "

Page iv

His eyes searched mine again, and I hoped my face was in shadow—enough that he couldn't run into how flushed I was. Then he turned and walked back to his sedan.

Equally his door slammed, I went to the commuter's side of my Civic, legs trembling beneath me. I got back in and striking the locks. His car pulled dorsum onto the highway, passed me, and kept on going. I saturday still, watching the taillights compress and laissez passer out of sight as he drove away.

I needed to proceed driving. Only for a few moments I just sat there, one mitt to my lips, and tried to stop shaking.

That'due south not what I wanted. It'due south not.

If only I could believe that.

Ii

Monday mornings mean Dr. Ward or, as she insists I call her, Doreen.

I've tried therapy before, but Doreen is the first psychologist who'southward made me feel like I might actually get somewhere. Everything almost her and her office is comforting. Instead of a sternly neutral face and a well-baked conform, she always wears a gentle expression and flowing, colorful knits. Instead of a common cold, clinical role, she meets with clients in a room of her own bright, sunny house, filled with potted plants and the African sculpture she collects. Most importantly, instead of lecturing, she listens.

"I didn't know whether I was safe. " I sit on the cream-colored sofa, my bare feet tucked under me. Doreen asks patients to l

eave our shoes at the door; supposedly it's to preserve her rugs, only really I call up it gets us to permit our guard downwardly. "I could've been in danger, for all I knew. I didn't know that he wasn't going to hurt me. And I still fantasized about him . . . forcing me. "

"He didn't injure you," Doreen says calmly. "He helped yous, and so he went on his way. "

And he had an attitude about information technology. Merely that isn't the point. "Nosotros were even so out at that place alone in the dark. The danger was real, and I wanted him anyway. It'due south like—similar I wanted to get hurt. "

Doreen raises an countenance. "Ever consider that you wanted him just because he was hot?"

I express joy despite myself.

She leans forwards. "Let me tell you what I'one thousand hearing here. You were in trouble. You were scared. A very bonny man helped you out. While he was doing that, yous let yourself fantasize about him. That's not abnormal. In fact, I'd say it'south the most normal thing in the world. "

"What I daydream about isn't normal. "

"Rape fantasies are among the most common sexual fantasies women accept," Doreen says, not for the first fourth dimension. As ever, shame lashes me when she says the bodily word. Rape. "Some men fantasize virtually being forced, too. That's not the same equally actually wanting to get raped. Non all fantasies are things we want in reality. "

"I should know. "

That's my endeavor at a joke. Doreen doesn't cleft a smile; she'due south not so easily distracted. "One of the reasons you came to me was that you wanted to end having this fantasy. I understand your reasons. But I don't recollect the fantasy itself is your most pregnant trouble. I think your main trouble is the way you shell yourself up almost information technology. " Doreen sighs. "That, and the reason y'all're fixated on the fantasy in the first identify. "

I can't talk about my reasons—non again, non now. My mystery man looms as well large in my mind. His shadow falls across everything I say and do today. "If I'grand having that fantasy at times when I might really be in danger—near men who really could—who might—"

"Nosotros've talked nigh this. Sometimes you necktie yourself upward in knots about what could have happened, instead of simply dealing with the facts. For a picayune while, permit's stick to the facts well-nigh terminal night. " Doreen'due south tone is kind just business firm. "This guy inverse your tire, and so he went on his way. That's all. "

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