His Forever Series Books 11-21

HIS ORDER, BOOK ELEVEN Nicole I wake up in a cold sweat, breathing so hard I'm wheezing. It's the same damn nightmare every night. Over a week has passed since I left the hospital, longer since Mark rescued me from Reynard. The dreams started the first night I slept at Mark's new apartment. And now it’s gotten so bad, I can't even look at the bed without getting glimpses of the terror. The nightmares aren’t any different than the reality was. They start with me running from the house, end with me tied to a tree, naked and so cold I'm not even shivering anymore. Yet I feel the knife Reynard's pressing to my throat. That's so cold it burns. Mark comes too late in the dream, and I'm just hanging off that tree, fully aware he won't be coming, that I'm alone, about to die a bloody, painful death. Pull it together, Nicole. It's just a dream. But that's not helping. Panic is like a cloud of icy snow, choking me. Mark's side of the bed is cold. I need him beside me, need his fire to chase away this cold. But the smell of his cologne is barely detectable in the air, as though he left hours ago. The thought scares me worse than the dream, feeds the fear choking me. I get up too fast, the room turning dark for a second, but I ignore it as I grab Mark's robe off the foot of the bed and rush out, bumping my elbow on the doorframe as I get dressed. I actually sigh in relief once I see Mark from the landing. He's facing away from me, staring out the window and talking on the phone. I nearly tumble down the stairs as I rush down to him. He turns to me, taking the phone away from his ear. "What's wrong, Nicole?" he asks, catching me in his arms. I can hear someone talking into the phone, but it's just noise. "I was afraid you left already," I mumble into his chest, my voice so desperate and cracked that shame almost drowns out everything else. I sound like a child. When did I turn into this helpless victim? The mumbling from the phone cuts off, and I hear a thud as he drops it. He leans down and kisses me, the taste of toothpaste masking something much sweeter, more lasting and all mine. It certainly chases away the shame, eats much of the fear, but not enough. One of my hands is pushing off his jacket, the fingers of the other fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, my mind not fully aware I'm doing it. But I need his skin pressed against mine, like the night he saved me. Because only that will make a lie of the nightmare. The one I die in every time I fall asleep. "Nicole, I have a meeting," he breathes into my ear. "Can it wait?" I stop undressing him, but sound like a little girl. He smiles and nods, shrugs his jacket off. His lips on my neck are softer than a summer breeze. I wriggle out of my robe, press against his naked, hard chest, sighing as his warmth fills me. He unbuckles his belt and pulls off his pants, without breaking the skin-to-skin contact. I wrap my legs around his hips as he picks me up, and try to get even closer to him. The glass top of the dining table feels like ice against my bare butt. His lips never leave mine as he lays me down on my back, and his kiss is stoking the fire inside me ever higher, banishing the cold. He runs the head of his c**k over my wet opening, and I moan into his mouth, letting nothing but the anticipation of what's to come fill my mind. His tongue invades my mouth as he presses his c**k into me, slowly but relentlessly, opening me up, until all I know is the fullness. I surrender to the burning pleasure completely, will this healing heat to consume all of me. But he's going slow, lets me feel every millimeter of his c**k as he kisses me deeper, with a low-burning passion that has me skirting the very edge of pure bliss, but won’t let me fall. "Harder," I breathe. He stops and squints at me. "I give the orders." He won't deny me this orgasm, will he? My heart sinks down into the pools of fear still bubbling just below the healing light that's the only thing that can drive them away. I say nothing more, just close my eyes and dig my nails into his hard biceps, holding on with all I have, hoping he'll make the right choice. He kisses me again, harder this time, and thrusts into me all the way, my shriek sticking deep in my throat. The table shakes as he starts pounding into me. But I'm past screaming, past feeling anything but the scorching heat rising inside me so fast, so high, I fear it's too much, that I won’t survive it. But the searing waves just keep on coming, a whirlwind, a tornado of heat wrapping around me, my only connection to the world my fingernails digging into the flesh of his arms. Until even that gets burned away in the all-consuming fire of my orgasm. I wake up on the sofa, white morning light blinding me. Mark's sitting in one of the armchairs already wearing his coat. "That was amazing, Mark," I say and smile at him. "Was it?" he asks, frowning at me like he doesn’t agree. I nod and smile wider, which makes his face soften. He chuckles as he stands up. "Now I really have to go." "What time is it?" I ask, sitting up. Today's the first day I'm going back to work. And judging by the light outside, I'm already late. "Almost nine," he tells me. "Maybe you should stay home for a few more days." Concern is oozing from his eyes as he looks at me, and I know defiance is shooting from mine. "Is that an order?" He shrugs, not breaking eye contact. "Ordering me around where my job is concerned is off limits," I snap. “I told you that already.” His eyes turn cold, reflective like the blade of a knife. He doesn’t say anything more, just leaves, the elevator hissing closed behind him echoing in my ears for a long time after he's gone. A hush falls over the office as I enter. The sliding door closing behind me sounds like an avalanche crashing high in the mountains. Every one of my co-workers is staring at me, most have their mouths open too. I feel like I’m expected to make a speech. But that's the last thing I want to do. They all know what happened to me. The papers have been full of articles about Charles' arrest after he failed to kill me in the same way he murdered Lucy. I had calls from journalists, but I've ignored them all. Mark hasn't given a statement either, even though a lot of journalists are starting to connect him to my abduction in no uncertain terms. And to the fact that Charles is currently still in a coma and might not ever wake. I don't know how I feel about that. Some days I'm glad, other days I want him to suffer in prison, and know it. My hands are shaking as I hang up my coat by the door. I hope no one sees it. But they probably do, because I can feel their eyes piercing me like a thousand needles. "Nicole?" my editor Sam's voice cuts through the torrent of thoughts running through my mind. He's holding my shoulder, but I see it more than feel it. "How are you?" I shrug and nod, not meeting his eyes. "Come to my office so we can talk," he says and keeps his arm around my back, as he escorts me there. "You can take more time off, if you wish," Sam says, closing the office door behind us. "I miss my best worker, sure, but you need your rest." I match his smile, though my face feels very tight. "I want to get back to work." Sam sighs and walks to his chair, sits down with a groan. "I expected no less. Have you spoken to the police about it yet." They've been calling, but I haven't been returning the calls. Mostly at Mark's insistence. But I'm done resting. "I plan to make an appointment today," I say instead and sit down in the chair across from Sam. He glances at the door as though making sure it's still closed, then leans forward. "Martin's been pushing to write the story about what happened to you, and the one you were working on before. I said we should wait for you, but if you're not up for it, I understand. He can handle the assignment." I sit up, bumping my knee on the edge of Sam's desk. "I will write the story. It's mine." In fact, I already started writing it while Mark was at work. As much as I could anyway, since the memory of Charles and what he did to me still makes me nauseous. But that'll pass. Sam studies me for a few moments, and I glare right back. "Fine, it's yours then," he finally says and leans back with a sigh. "But I want it no later than next Friday. We're very late as it is. Though I’m sure the exclusive interview with Mark Cross will make up for it." I knew Sam would want an interview as part of the story, but I haven't mentioned it to Mark yet. And I have no idea how to, because I'm almost certain he'll say no. Hell, he might even tell me to let Martin have the story. I hope Sam can't read all that on my face as I stand up and force a smile. "Better get started then." He smiles too, but his eyes are serious, studying me like he's still not sure I can handle this. But I'll prove him wrong. I can feel everyone looking at me as I exit Sam's office, but it's not quite as obvious now, so I can ignore it. "How are you holding up, Nicole?" Cecilia asks as I sit down at my desk next to hers. "I'm all better," I mutter, searching my bag for the phone. "Almost back to normal." "I feel so guilty for giving you that ride," she muses. "Maybe if I said no, none of it would've happened." I shake my head and smile at her. "Don't worry about it. You did nothing wrong." Fact is, Charles is a raving psycho and he'd probably manage to grab me one way or another. From the corner of my eye, I can see Martin casting very furtive glances my way. He's called me at least fifty times, since I was rescued, and I haven't been returning his calls. I swirl my chair away from both Cecilia and Martin as I dial the detective's number, hearing Mark's cold, commanding voice telling me not to do it over the ringing. I do my best to ignore it. "Detective Carrington," a woman answers. I give my name and the reason I'm calling in a soft, shaky voice. "Yes, Ms. West," she says, and I hear the shuffling of papers through the receiver. "We need to speak with you as soon as possible. Would you be willing to come down to the station?" Thompson, the man Mark had guarding me before, accompanied me to work this morning. Not sure how me going to the police station would go over with him. "Can we meet somewhere else?" I ask. "We need a formal statement from you, Ms. West," the detective informs me. "And that can only be done at the station. But we can perhaps meet informally first, if you wish." "No, that's alright. I'll come to you," I say, since I'm suddenly not sure I can tell my story even once, let alone multiple times. But it needs to be done. If for nothing else than to make sure Charles gets locked up for the rest of his life. That was my promise to Mark when he let him go, and I mean to keep it. And who knows, maybe talking about it will finally drive away the nightmares? Mark Pierre's lounging on the sofa in my office, watching something on my laptop. He's too familiar with my things, my space. We're not soldiers in the barracks anymore, and it's time he understood that. I'm his boss and that needs to be evident, at least at the office. "Tell me you're in here because you discovered some new information," I say as I enter. He silences the video he was watching on the laptop. "No. But I wanted to continue the conversation we were having this morning before you hung up on me." He sounds like a needy girlfriend when he talks like this, and one of these days I'll tell him. Not that it'll shut him up. "I'll do what I can to get Reynard convicted, but he lives," I snap, pulling out my desk chair with so much force, it flies from my hand and slams into one of the wraparound windows.