Page 50 of I Would Beg For You
“Naomi,” a voice whispers near my ear, chilling me to the bone.
A cold pressure lands on the small of my back, making me recoil, but I bump into the counter. There’s nowhere to run. It feels like a hand on me, an unwelcome touch that’s icy and like dry tentacles.
Everything in me seizes up. The voice is saying something—I know it’s a man—and it sounds like “Finally” but I can’t be sure. His touch is now crawling up my spine, featherlight, disturbing. I can’t shake him off, because he has me pinned between him and the counter. My heart is galloping, my vision going black.
I can feel his hand slipping under my cashmere sweater. I didn’t think to wear a bodysuit or thermals underneath—it’s mid-February, and thus not so cold even outside. So, his touch lands directly onto my skin. It’s cold, but it hurts somewhat, like dry ice burning. It makes me recoil, but it also makes me edge backwards into him.Oh, God.His fingers are crawling up… I gasp, which seems to egg him on, as I can now feel the press of a stiff cock against the crack of my ass. I tense up, but is the asshole getting turned on by this? His wet tongue is now on the shell of my ear.
“Naomi, honey,” he murmurs, breath short and tone husky.
My blood has frozen by now. I can’t move. My vision is going dark, a loud ringing like the whoosh of water when diving filling my ears.
I’m gasping for breath, the movement heaving my chest up and down, and he’s now touching my bra—
“There you are!” an exasperated Anya bellows from somewhere behind me. “We’re going to be late, Naomi.”
I barely have time to blink before she’s grabbing my hand and pulling me in her wake. Did she push the guy away? Because I’m no longer caged in; I can move. The mug lands down and crashes into pieces. I can’t feel hot coffee on me—what happened? But someone is tugging on my hand, and the touch feels safe even though it’s clenched tight around my fingers.
I walk along like an automaton. A part of me wants to know who’s the man who just cornered me, but I also don’t want to know. Not yet. I don’t want this monster to acquire a face.
I’m bundled into the passenger seat, and we’re on the road, Anya silent behind the wheel. I can’t look at her, or at anything really. My vision is returning but it’s patchy, with no focus. My breathing is erratic, too, though it’s getting better as we keep going.
We’re in Newark when I blink and focus. Looks like Anya is taking us into New York again.
“Stop the car,” I mumble urgently.
She wastes no time easing onto the side of the road. I’m out before she’s killed the engine, half my body still in the car, half leaning out and puking on the wet asphalt.
This goes on a minute or so, then I ease back into the warm interior and close the door.
She hands me a tissue and a bottle of water. “Are you okay?”
I nod, then squeak out a small yes. I stumble out this time, use the water to rinse my mouth, and get back in.
“Did he hurt you?” she asks.
“No.” My heart skips a beat. “But he started to…”
“I know.”
The hardness in her voice makes me look at her properly, and what I see has me confused. Anya’s jaw is tight, her lips a thin line, expression thunderous.
She saved me. Literally.
“Did you see who it was?” I ask.
“Not here,” she bites out.
I don’t know why, but I suddenly know I can trust her. With my life, even. She’s on my side. I saw her as the enemy before. Who wouldn’t, when the first thing she asked after giving me another once-over once I’d changed the day of our initial meeting was, “Do you have anything to hide? Because it’s best you tell me now lest we find out later and end up in a shitstorm I’ll have to clean up for everyone involved.”
Not exactly bestie material. But today, she came through. Thinking of that man’s cold hand on me— I gulp and shiver.
We take to the road again, silent throughout the trip. Anya stops the car in a small alley in Tribeca. She motions for me to exit, then follow her into a brick building from the back entrance that’s hidden by the emergency staircase.
We stop in front of an elevator.
“Seven-seven-five-nine,” she says with a nod at the keypad on the wall. “It’s a keyless lock.”
I enter the code, and the elevator takes us up, the doors opening onto a loft apartment with brick walls and big industrial windows. The interior is done in shades of viridian green and terracotta orange, which sounds chaotic but ends up rather calming.
