No Limits: A Dark Romance Page 4

  Two Girls Kidnapped in Twenty-Seven-Hour Trip to Hell! the headline screams, and I click, curious. It's not a normal news website. It's one of those sensationalist tabloid-like sites that have spawned in the past few years. As I read, I feel my stomach twist into knots as the story lays out on my monitor. Abigail Rawlings and Shanice Holliday . . . a lake house near Atlanta, kidnapped and bound. The story doesn't come right out and say it, and the name isn't quite correct, but the hints are all there. Kidnapping, torture, and I suspect nastier things that would scar most people for life. Even worse was that the kidnapper was a socially connected man, Chris Lake, from one of Georgia's richest families, half-owner of a chain of car dealerships in the area.

  I do a quick search on this Chris Lake, and it’s not pretty. Two kidnappings proven, suspected in the rapes and possible murders of other women throughout the Southeast, serving time after he was arrested for what the legit papers are calling 'sadistic molestation of two local university students.' There's only one type of crime where the victims' names are withheld as a matter of course, although since the tabloid site has them, the cops didn't keep their lips sealed as much as they should have.

  I reach for my phone and dial up an old connection of mine, Fox Scalia. He’s an FBI agent who did security checks for me, and I returned the favor when he was stumped on a case. He owes me one still. “SSA Scalia.”

  “Can the official cop speak, Fox? It's Rafe Meyers.”

  Fox at least sounds semi-happy to hear from me. “Rafe! Good to hear from you. How's it going at Hottieville?”

  Fox, who apparently has a thing for coeds, has called Stanford 'Hottieville' ever since he came onto campus twice in order to conduct interviews with me. I don't quite understand it, since he actually lives in San Francisco. I doubt there’s a shortage of attractive young women for him to drool over, considering the size of the city.

  “Not bad. Listen, I need to cash in my marker with you.”

  Fox shifts around by the sound of it, and when he speaks next, he's whispering. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t the right time, Rafe. I'm looking at a promotion soon, getting on a real action team. I can't keep running this records department and background check bullshit.”

  “I understand that, but this is totally within your own department. I just need you to look up the specifics on a case for me.”

  Fox sighs, then nods. “Fine, whatever. But we're even after this. Like seriously, unless you've got some Phi Theta Kappas or something that you're going to introduce me to, I've got other things on my mind. What's the fucking case?”

  “An Atlanta kidnapping case, a little over a year ago, name of Chris Lake. I'm interested in one of the victims, Shawnie Holliday.”

  I can hear Fox type at his computer, and then he whistles between his teeth. “Damn, you called in the chips on some sick shit, you know that? Why the fuck do you want to know about this case, anyway? It's not even officially closed. The Atlanta field office is tracking down more women this fucker drugged and raped.”

  “What about Shawnie?” I ask, my voice intense with a part of me that I normally keep under a tight leash demanding answers. “What happened to her?”

  Fox gulps before replying. “Bound for over twenty-four hours, suffered a dislocated shoulder, apparently the result of trying to actually free herself from the chains that fucker had her bound up with. Numerous cuts to the arms, torso and thighs, nothing life-threatening but most likely leaving scars. Why do you have me looking this shit up?”

  “What did that asshole do to her? I'm asking because she was just in my office and I need to know.”

  Fox grumbles, but answers. “She was drugged. Specialized cocktail of some sort. Basically a souped-up date rape drug. The chem lab boys are still trying to figure out how he got his hands on it. This was one sick, twisted fuck, Rafe.”

  “Was she . . . was she raped?” I ask, and he reads some more.

  “The results were inconclusive. Victim was too delirious to testify, and the other victim states that she was drugged too, so she doesn’t remember much. The notes about the drug say that she probably wasn’t in control of her body and that there’s a good chance she was unwillingly aroused during the ordeal. There's a note that she's seeing an FBI-approved counselor. You happy now?”

  Happy? Hell no, but I have my answers. “I got what I need. Thanks.”

  “Yeah . . . listen, Rafe, what I just told you, you know you didn’t get that from me, right?”

  “I know. And I'll use the information correctly. I don't want to hurt this girl. Actually, I'd like to help her if I could.”

  Fox goes silent for a bit, then mutters, “I'm not going to ask how you plan on doing that. Knowing you, I wouldn’t understand it anyway. Good luck, Rafe.”

  He hangs up, and I sit back, letting the pieces fall into place in my mind. Kidnapped, tortured . . . drugged. Now that I think about it, I remember some clues. The first thing I noticed, of course, was just how beautiful she is. Long, curly hair with a natural bounce that would make a shampoo company envious, those light brown eyes that glow with intelligence, a face carved by an artist. She has the body to go with it from what I could tell. She looked almost impossibly voluptuous, but she didn't wear overly sexy clothes. If anything, she was covering up her body. A long sleeve blouse for a woman in August? She's hiding her scars.

  Even more noticeable was when she got nervous, she would roll her left shoulder unconsciously, wincing slightly before answering. And the way she paused after calling me sir in the coffee room, then almost emphasizing the use of my title of Professor afterward. She's suffering from PTSD, and I suspect she’s broken inside as well. Maybe that’s why I sent her the offer as quickly as I did, seeing someone else who's been subjected to mental torture, taught that they're worthless and put through hell.

  I know what I need to do. I need to help her come back to life, to recognize the potential and worth she has inside her. The question is, how deep do the scars run? Where exactly are they?

  In my mind, I picture her exactly as she was, standing at my door half-turned, her breasts and hips outlined against the fabric of her outfit, her eyes sparkling with intensity as she tells me she won’t give up. My cock stirs, and I reach down, adjusting it in my jeans, telling it to shut the fuck up for a few minutes. One of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and the fact that she isn’t perfect turns me on. But she has something I lack, something drilled into me from the time I was born with the need to seek out and conquer. I can't fight that urge inside me, but at least I can acknowledge it without giving in to it.

  “I'm going to go back to my room and find out the answer. I'm pissed off that I got stumped. If I can say, though, Professor . . . I don't give up,” she said, her eyes burning with twin needs, a deep desire for acceptance and deep-seated agony. I don't think most people would see it, and those who can . . . are often the same type of asshole who hurt her in the first place.

  So what do I do? There's a simple answer, which is to do nothing. She's seeing a counselor. That's their job. But that doesn't sit well with me. I can see that at night, she's still caught up in the nightmare of that lake house in Georgia, and I don't think the counselor is going to be able to help her in time before she's taken advantage of again.

  Maybe it's time to risk it all. As weird as it sounds, I need to seduce her—I need to show her that she can be safe in her body and her sexuality again. Problem is, Stanford isn't going to look kindly on me fucking a student if word got out. Even with tenure, fucking your TA is not something the administration smiles upon.

  I just have to keep control of myself and my baser needs. I've done it for twenty-six years. I’m strong enough to do it this time too. I need to build her up, not just fuck her. I need to show her that she has value and worth. I need to show her that she’s not broken, or at least if she was, that she can rebuild herself. It’ll take some time, so I have to keep control. I can do it for a little while at least.

  I've still got forty-fiv
e minutes until my dinner date, but now I've lost all appetite, both for dinner and for anything else. I send a text message, breaking it off. She'll be pissed, but I didn’t really know her anyway.

  Chapter 5

  The Counselor

  So Shawnie, you look like you're having a good day today. How have the first few weeks of the new term been going for you?

  It's going really well. After shadowing Professor Meyers for the first week, he had me take over one of his classes, an undergrad class. It's a good challenge, and I'm doing well so far.

  He's having you teach the whole class?

  Not really. I kind of just follow the curriculum and materials he set up, so it's not like I have to do a lot of prep work. I like it though. Rafe's got a unique way of doing things. Different than the professors I had at Tech.

  You just called him Rafe. Any particular reason?

  That? He insists that I call him that around the office. I guess it just slipped out. He's an interesting man.

  How so?

  And what does this have to do with my counseling?

  I'm curious. Seeing you talk about academics is a good break from the more painful side of what we discuss on these weekly sessions. And after last week's hour-long talk about your nightmares, I think it’s good for you.

  He's interesting, that's all. He pushes me. He even checks my coursework for my other classes, making me do corrections on it until it’s perfect. And he gives me homework for me to do on my own just for him, stuff that’s light years ahead of what my other courses are asking me to do. And he doesn’t let up in the least with any of it.

  So he’s demanding.

  He is, but he just has a way of making me want to be better. I don’t know how to explain it.

  From what you've told me, you haven't been challenged academically in years.

  Good point. That might be it.

  Is that all there is to it?

  I know what you’re asking. I guess it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes. Let’s just leave it at that for now.

  Okay, I notice you’re starting to get short on your answers, so we’ll move on for now. How's your . . . what is it you call it again—your demon?

  It's been difficult this past week. I made another trip to The Club Saturday night.

  Well, at least you are going to a place where you can be as safe as you can be. I’d prefer you didn’t do it, though. What happened?

  I met up with a man, one of the more dominant ones at The Club. He whipped me, spanked me bright red before he took my ass.

  Shawnie, I guess it goes without saying that the way you usually talk about this, it doesn’t seem like you enjoy it that much. You speak of it all matter-of-factly, never with any emotion.

  I don’t enjoy it. That part inside me does though. But no matter how much I try and fight it, I just can't stop. I see something, the demon breaks out, and I'm getting dressed to go down there and be humiliated or abused just so I can satiate that need that’s so strong.

  As a counselor, I'm supposed to just sit back and let you talk, but sometimes it’s hard. Especially when it's compared to the obvious pride you take in the academic side of your life.

  It's hard to say, but I almost never feel any sort of arousal for the past year except when I'm being treated roughly.

  You say almost. That means there’s hope, at least. When are the other times?

  Well . . . I get aroused around Rafe. It’s not just his body, which you’d have to be a corpse not to notice. But he’s a professor, and I’m just a student, so I hide it pretty well. Still, he’s handsome, but I think it has to do with how hard he pushes me.

  That's quite normal. Many people are attracted to powerful people in their lives that way.

  Yeah, but not too many fantasize about Rafe the way I do.

  You might be surprised. But can you tell me, your fantasies—are they different from what you do at The Club?

  A little.

  How so?

  I don't think I'm ready to share that with you yet.

  That's okay then. How about we move on to something else . . .

  Chapter 6

  Shawnie

  “So do you have those tests done yet?” Rafe asks, coming into the office from the field house, probably after getting his workout in, his arms rippling with muscle as he smooths his shirt over his body and sits down. He always goes in for a workout right around lunch. It’s a predictable habit of his.

  I look over the pile that's in front of me. Forty-two tests to go. Twenty-five of them are from the class I teach and are four pages long, none of it multiple choice, and I wonder if he’s insane. “Not yet. I'm working through the undergrad course now.”

  Rafe nods and pulls his computer keyboard over, typing away while still multitasking and giving me all the attention I need. “Okay, well when you finish with that, I'd like to talk with you about an opportunity that dropped into my lap yesterday afternoon. Think you can get those tests done in the next two hours?”

  Two hours? It’s going to probably take twice that long. There’s just too much math to go through. He looks up, his eyebrow cocked, but I nod. This is just another Rafe Meyers challenge. “Two hours. By the way, I got my midterms back already.”

  “I know. What’s up with the 97 on the one Hardwick gave you?”

  I shrug, no longer surprised by the fact that he probably knew my scores before I did. “Transcription error. I wrote three instead of eight in my final answer. All of my calculations up to there were perfect though, so Professor Hardwick only took off three points.”

  Rafe shakes his head, sighing. “Hardwick. Brilliant man, but too soft. You know, a transcription error cost NASA about a hundred million dollars when someone did a similarly boneheaded move, and a probe crashed into Venus rather than sliding into orbit. Remember that next time you think it was just a transcription error.”

  I fume and put my head down, grading my pile of tests. Rafe types away for a while, leaving me in silence at least. I finish four tests, slamming each of them down before I start the next, when Rafe's voice cuts through my pity party. “You made a mistake, Shawnie. I'm not saying you have to be perfect. I just know that you’re better than that. I've seen it over the past two months.”

  I look up and see the burning intensity in his eyes that always gives me butterflies in my stomach, and I nod, taking a deep breath. “I understand, Rafe. But it kinda fucking sucks to be working for Mr. Perfect when he expects you to be the same way all the time. I'm anything but perfect.”

  “You don't need to be. And newsflash, I’m not perfect either.”

  Could’ve fooled me, I think. I give him a little smile and go back to work, finishing the last few I have left.

  Finally finished, I pick up the pile of papers and set them in the box for Rafe. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Rafe says, his eyes flickering around on the monitor, checking seemingly a dozen things at once. “Have a seat.”

  “What else do you do?” I ask as I sit down, curious as to what else Mr. Perfect does with his time. “I mean, the rumors have you embarrassing the NCAA athletes on your lunch workouts, but they can’t all be true, can they?”

  Rafe gives me a raised eyebrow, just enough that it makes me wonder if the rumors are true before he goes back to his monitor. “I think you know that I spend most afternoons working on non-class related stuff.”

  “Your Pentagon projects,” I reply, perking up. This is interesting. “You haven't said much about that.”

  “For good reason,” Rafe replies, pushing his keyboard away and turning his attention to me. I don't think he knows how much it turns the butterflies in my stomach to a roiling, melting ball of desire when he does that, and how much his eyes have started to intrude on my dreams at night. “You did a summer internship at the Jet Propulsion Lab, Shawnie. Don't tell me you were content running around and getting forty-ounce Pepsis for the geeks and taking out the trash.”

  “I did real work, t
hank you very much,” I reply, feeling my heat rise again. How is it he does this to me, needling me one minute and complimenting me the next? “I worked on some of the civilian projects there.”

  “You obviously went through the steps for a secret clearance to even be let in the labs,” Rafe replies. “You know what that entails—I can’t tell you everything I’m working on unless you join the team.”

  The team? “Wait, are you asking me to . . .”

  Rafe smirks and raises an eyebrow again. “Yes, I’m asking if you really want to work for me. Not this bullshit you do around here. You said you wanted to work on some cutting edge stuff. So, you wanna change jobs or not?”

  “Of course I do!” I answer before getting control of my excitement. “I mean, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “You'll have to undergo a background check, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. It’s going to mean a lot of secure lab time,” Rafe comments, his eyes still twinkling and that maddening, sexy smile on his lips. “And if you think that I'm putting the screws to you now, just wait. I've been accused of whipping my teams raw.”

  He doesn't know it, but his choice in words is turning the desire in my body into a raging inferno, and the image of me under him, naked and begging for him, flashes through my mind. I take a deep breath, which thankfully only slightly shudders, and nod my head. “I understand, sir.”

  It's out of my mouth again before I can even think about it, but I'm not as frozen by it as I was last time. Calling Rafe that makes sense, but he reacts with a slight scowl. “I told you I prefer being called Rafe.”

  “I . . . I'm sorry,” I answer, taking a deep breath again. “I got a little excited. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”