FIERCED 2: A stepbrother Romance by Stephanie Brother Page A

Too fast for me to understand.
    Then the rear door to my prison is pulled back and powerful arms clasp around my chest yet again. I'm jostled out of the truck like a rolled up rug. With my arms pinned behind me I have no stability or even the sense of being a body. Every sense tells me my captor is a solid giant, more bear than man. The huge biceps encircle me and haul me up with almost no effort. There's no purchase against being pinned to the man's huge chest from tip to tail and again my tunnel clenches with hunger.
    When the FBI guy warned me against Stockholm Syndrome he never mentioned being physically attracted to a man I couldn't even see. Falling in lust with a massive pair of arms.
    My hunger reverses sharply into a bad case of nausea when the giant hoists me up to get a grip around my waist and a stench cloud envelops me. The stink arising from his body is something only an undertaker's formaldehyde could mask. Old leather, rancid oil, decades of heavy sweat, and something animalistic. Like thick hair and vicious aggression.
    The smell intensifies as the sack over my head is raised, lifting the only barrier sparing my nostrils. The gag reflex shudders through my stomach and stops short as a disgusting brute of a face leers up into mine. My heart leaps and starts doing the pogo in my chest as adrenalin finally pours through every limb. The man is more closely related to neanderthals on the human chain of evolution. More hair than flesh. His eyebrows a mossy outcrop along the cliff edge of his forehead and his chin protruding far enough that the long beard dangles against my chest.
    Euch.
    Instinctively I pull away from the greasy tendrils caressing the tops of my breasts, thrusting up toward him courtesy of my restrained arms.
    “Here's my baby girl,” he croaks with a voice like gasoline spilled on gravel. Rough and slimy all at once. His breath a cloud of beer and old socks.
    I would never be his baby girl and I roil backwards from his disgusting body, bucking awkwardly as I scramble to find a secure hold behind me. Every step I take back, he advances one toward me until I hit a metal wall with my fingertips and am preventing from any further retreat.
    “How's about you and me finish where you left off, cutie pop?”
    “No. Please. Leave me alone,” I say, trying not to whimper too pathetically.
    “Auw, come on Baby. I know you want it and daddy is feeling lonesome too. Youze and me we got a little time to kill. May as well pass it in ecstasy.” He roars as though his repulsive suggestion is funnier than the cast of Saturday Night Live and exposes the rotten molars in the back of his mouth. The thought of him putting that cesspool hole in his face on any part of my body is worse than the prospect of a bullet through my brain.
    “Don't touch me, you filthy pig,” I screech, making my tone aggressive. I'd been told that making the kidnappers angry is not a good idea but that weak-chinned FBI agent hadn't mentioned the protocol in the event of being abducted by a zombie.
    How the fuck had I ever been so dumb as to fantasize that that my snatcher was hot and sexy? From one instant to the next, his gnarled face changes from whiny seductive to vicious. Like a dog clamped on a bone, he's not about to let go of what he wants.
    “Now you don't have to get mean, you little bitch. Think you're too good for me? Daddy's girl doesn't want to mess with some low life? I reckon you need some low life to bring you down to earth, baby.” His hand curls up around the underside of my breast and squeezes harder and harder until I gasp with pain.
    A searing blade of nausea burns at my throat. My small palms press back into the metal behind me and I kick out at his shin. But all the force I can muster is like a butterfly batting at a cliff face. He seems to be relishing the fight.
    “Come on baby,” he groans as his fat finger strums across my nipple. “Be nice to daddy.”
    “Get off me. When my father hears about this,