Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [35]
She lay pinned beneath him, no longer fighting, as he pumped away at her, cursing and grunting, his fingers pinching her breasts, his tongue running over her teeth. She should have had more to drink, enough to knock her out, enough, maybe, to make her like what he was doing. He’d told her she’d like it. He told her she was a frigid bitch and a cock tease. And then he stopped saying anything, stopped talking, just put his hand over her mouth and unfastened his pants.
He ripped off her plain cotton underwear, and it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain of him pushing inside her, forcing her, and she tried to push him away. She felt like she was tearing inside, and then she was, as he ripped through her virginity without anything more than a grunt.
The longer it took the better it was, or so she’d been told by her more experienced friends. They’d lied. He went on forever, hunching, grunting, and there was nothing she could do but lie still beneath him and cry.
With a final string of obscenity he finished, collapsing on top of her for a brief moment. And then he sat back, fastening his pants again, looking at her out of hooded eyes.
“Jesus, are you crying?” he demanded. “I hate girls who cry all the time. They’re just trying to get you to do what they want, but I’m not buying it. If you think just because you put out it means we’re dating then you’re wrong. Charlene will come back to me—she always does. And if she doesn’t, no offense, but I can do better than you.”
She’d found her jeans on the floor of the car and managed to pull them back on, and she scuttled into the corner of the back seat. She could see her blood on Dillon’s leather seats. He wouldn’t like that.
She looked at Paul, but she couldn’t see him very well, probably because she couldn’t stop crying. She was making embarrassing little hiccup noises, and he was looking even more disgusted.
“For fuck’s sake, shut up!” he snapped. “You don’t want to be making a scene, do you? Here!” He shoved the bottle of tequila at her. “Have a drink and stop crying.”
The smell of the tequila made her stomach roil. She shoved at the door, blindly, but it wouldn’t open beneath her desperate hands. She climbed over the side, tumbled out and made it into the woods just before she threw up.
When she finished she collapsed in the dirt, crying silently. It was too late for tears, but she couldn’t stop. She just lay there, weeping, curled into a ball.
And then she heard the voices. Drunken laughter. She sat up, trying to wipe the tears from her face in case someone decided to come in search of her.
She should have known it would be her worst nightmare. Dillon and a woman had arrived back on the scene, probably to use the back seat of his car. Whether it was the same woman he’d been kissing earlier or a different one was immaterial.
“Hey,” Dillon said. “We want a little privacy, man.”
Paul hadn’t wandered off, after all—she heard him grunt in response. “Hey, I’m outta here. Next time you ask me to take care of someone you might pick someone who knows her way around. Virgins are a pain in the butt.”
“What do you mean?” Dillon’s voice was casual.
“Man, all she did was cry. Do you know how hard it is to ball someone when they’re crying all the time? Took me for-fucking-ever. And even then she wouldn’t stop crying. We made a mess of your back seat—you should have told me she was jailbait.”
“Killer, you’re hurting me” came a plaintive female voice. “Let go.”
“Hey, Dillon.” Nate’s voice carried into the woods.
Jamie couldn’t listen anymore. She pushed herself to her feet and started running. She could only hope she was headed toward the highway. Sooner or later she’d reach the road, and someone would pick her up. She’d