Calculated Exposure by Holley Trent

don’t like it.”
    She didn’t want to think about the other women who’d had that pleasure before her, but she wasn’t supposed to care about his conquests. A simple response would do.
    “Yes.”
    “Just let me know if you want me to stop.”
    His pace increased, and he gripped her waist. Although his thrusts accelerated, he had an expert control. Instead of feeling stiffly probed and pounded into, she felt full. Deliriously so. The combination of his girth and her tightness had her gut clenching, legs quivering already, and he’d hardly even begun.
    Her orgasm mounting, building within her with such a force, she didn’t worry she would get loud. It was pointless to fret about. She knew she would, and the knowledge was freeing.
    She wrapped her legs around his so her toes curled against his calves, and dug her fingers into the bedspread. She didn’t warn him, and just came, biting the covers as she moaned, her ass writhing against his cock.
    “Fuck, woman.”
    When she was done, her body trembling and throat emitting ragged, incomprehensible noises, he thrust into her long and deep several more times, then held her ass very still against him. His fingers digging into her waist was her clue he’d gone, too.
    He pressed a hand against the small of her back and nudged her horizontal. More than anything, it was a sort of permission for her to collapse.
    She did.
    “Sated, darlin’?”
    She mumbled something that may or may not have been “Yes.” She couldn’t even tell. Her body felt as if it’d lost molecular cohesion and had fused with the covers. Fuck moving. Curt could clean up his damn self.
    He leaned over her so she could see his grin before he edged off the bed.
    I guess he deserves to be smug.
    “Do you have a spare toothbrush, darlin’?”
    “Stash under the sink. Towels are in the closet next to the shower if you need ’em.”
    “Don’t go tellin’ a guy like me you have clean towels. You might end up with a lodger.”
    Doesn’t sound so bad, actually.
    He draped her afghan over her still form before shuffling to the bathroom. The words “thank you” caught in her throat. She was asleep before he made it out.
     

 
    Chapter 7
     
    Erica dreamed the same dream as always, a rerun she didn’t have the luxury to turn off. It didn’t matter if she’d fallen asleep happy or sad or anywhere in between. It was usually the same from one night to the next. Something this time, however, was a little different. The plot seemed the same. The characters were same. The mood, however, was off.
    She was running through the streets of Miami, constantly looking behind her for an attacker whose face she couldn’t see, whose voice she couldn’t hear. Her spirit just felt as though she were unsafe, that someone was going to get her, drag her home.
    Her feet were bare, bloodied, and bruised. But still she ran harder, pounding against the glass-specked sidewalk toward a moving goal.
    Strong arms clenched her waist from behind, and she struggled, kicking the air and trying to wrench herself free. The man would not let go.
    Finally, he spoke. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take care of you. No one’s going to hurt you,” Tate said in her ear.
    She capitulated, nodded as always, but this time her dream-self didn’t buy it. For once, she decided to just to play along. To hold her cards close for a while. She could run later.
    Odd.
    Erica, lucent now, stopped fighting the dream, stopped forcing herself awake. She’d let the story unfold to see if it would be the same.
    She followed Tate to his car and got in. That was the same.
    He pulled the seatbelt over the raggedy clothes she wore and buckled her in. He cupped her cheeks in both hands and focused his intense brown gaze on hers. He repeated, “I’ll take care of you.” That was the same.
    She felt herself swallow down bile, and watched as he put the child safety lock on her door, locking her in.
    “Wait!” she shouted, putting her hands out to stop the