Convicted
Page 13
Would she always be this accommodating? How would she handle her new reality? As he nibbled at the now hard nubs, he didn’t care—it didn’t matter. What mattered was how he’d handle it. She would be as accommodating as he wanted... her penance for the sins of her forefathers.
Supporting himself above her petite frame, he lingered in the aftershocks of their merger, contemplating his acquisition. Each time his hips moved, her body responded in sync. He could stay like this for hours, but that would need to wait, for another day. Smiling, he considered all the “another days” they had in their future. Not wanting to move away, Tony peered down to see her eyes part in that not quite open, not quite shut, satisfied gaze. He offered, “Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
“I really don’t think I want you to move.”
“Oh?” he cooed, as he teased her with each gyration. “Are you sure? Maybe some more wine.”
“Now, Anthony, I think it’s pretty obvious, you don’t need to get me drunk.”
“Who said anything about drunk? I just don’t want you to dehydrate.”
Claire smiled as he slowly eased himself from the bed. Reaching for the glass, he added, “I mean—if you’re willing to stay, I’d like to make a toast.”
When he turned back around she was sitting up against the head board with the sheet wrapped tightly around her breasts. Her modesty intrigued him. Most of the women he dated were the type to flaunt their assets—not cover them. Smiling a shy smile, she reached for the glass. “By all means, I’d hate to ruin your toast.”
The drug took effect faster than Tony planned. The cooperative, pleasant woman he’d spent the night with suddenly became agitated and combative. This new behavior didn’t last long. When it ended, her entire body relaxed and her head bobbled upon her neck. For a moment, Tony feared they’d need to carry her from the hotel. Despite her appearance, Claire wasn’t unconscious, only detached. The green eyes no longer held the window to her soul; instead, they were clouded with a veil of confusion and separation, as if Claire’s body was there, but her mind was somewhere else. She followed every command. In many ways, it was like dressing a child. He told her to stand—she stood. He told her to lift her arms—she did.
Once he had her dressed, he called for Eric. As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, Claire leaned into his chest. He hoped to interested bystanders, she merely looked tired. Although she didn’t answer, he spoke softly in her ear. Tony reasoned it would appear more natural on hotel surveillance. Next, he walked her to the car, kissed her goodbye and let Eric drive away. It was all part of the plan.
A few hours later, Tony met Eric at a side door and entered the back seat of his car. Sleeping soundly on the seat, covered with a thin blanket was his acquisition. The room at the Ritz was Tony’s for a few more days. After he had Claire in Iowa, he’d return to Atlanta and attend more meetings. More of the plan, his leaving town couldn’t coincide with her departure.
Walking from the car to the plane, she stumbled with unsteady footing. Once aboard, she paced, unwilling to sit. Each time Tony got near her, she pulled away and walked toward the door. Using more physical persuasion, he steered her toward the seat. When her knees bent, she spoke for the first time since the GHB took effect, “I donnnnn’t feeel well.”
He didn’t comment as he secured her seat belt. At first, she stared at the restraint. When the plane lifted off the ground, her head fell to her chest. Tony wondered if she comprehended any of what was happening.
Suddenly, her limp head sprung upward and her slurred words filled the otherwise empty cabin, “I’mmm gonna be sicccccccccccccccc.”
Losing patience, Tony noticed Claire’s sudden pallor. He unstrapped himself and walked toward her. He saw fear within her eyes as she frantically fought her seat belt.
“Stop it,” he commanded. “You’re on an airplane. You’re not going anywhere.”
She turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks, unable to move against the latched belt. He reached for her chin and turned her toward him; before he could reprimand her on the importance of maintaining eye contact, she wrenched and vomited. It covered her dress and his slacks.
“Shit!” he barked. It was disgusting!
“I told you...I was sick!” she cried.
He looked at the mess and then at Claire as she sunk against the chair.
“Don’t get the damn chair dirty, too.”
His words only increased her tears. As he reached for the seat belt and unbuckled, revulsion at the mess was somehow interspersed with sympathy.
Supporting himself above her petite frame, he lingered in the aftershocks of their merger, contemplating his acquisition. Each time his hips moved, her body responded in sync. He could stay like this for hours, but that would need to wait, for another day. Smiling, he considered all the “another days” they had in their future. Not wanting to move away, Tony peered down to see her eyes part in that not quite open, not quite shut, satisfied gaze. He offered, “Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
“I really don’t think I want you to move.”
“Oh?” he cooed, as he teased her with each gyration. “Are you sure? Maybe some more wine.”
“Now, Anthony, I think it’s pretty obvious, you don’t need to get me drunk.”
“Who said anything about drunk? I just don’t want you to dehydrate.”
Claire smiled as he slowly eased himself from the bed. Reaching for the glass, he added, “I mean—if you’re willing to stay, I’d like to make a toast.”
When he turned back around she was sitting up against the head board with the sheet wrapped tightly around her breasts. Her modesty intrigued him. Most of the women he dated were the type to flaunt their assets—not cover them. Smiling a shy smile, she reached for the glass. “By all means, I’d hate to ruin your toast.”
The drug took effect faster than Tony planned. The cooperative, pleasant woman he’d spent the night with suddenly became agitated and combative. This new behavior didn’t last long. When it ended, her entire body relaxed and her head bobbled upon her neck. For a moment, Tony feared they’d need to carry her from the hotel. Despite her appearance, Claire wasn’t unconscious, only detached. The green eyes no longer held the window to her soul; instead, they were clouded with a veil of confusion and separation, as if Claire’s body was there, but her mind was somewhere else. She followed every command. In many ways, it was like dressing a child. He told her to stand—she stood. He told her to lift her arms—she did.
Once he had her dressed, he called for Eric. As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, Claire leaned into his chest. He hoped to interested bystanders, she merely looked tired. Although she didn’t answer, he spoke softly in her ear. Tony reasoned it would appear more natural on hotel surveillance. Next, he walked her to the car, kissed her goodbye and let Eric drive away. It was all part of the plan.
A few hours later, Tony met Eric at a side door and entered the back seat of his car. Sleeping soundly on the seat, covered with a thin blanket was his acquisition. The room at the Ritz was Tony’s for a few more days. After he had Claire in Iowa, he’d return to Atlanta and attend more meetings. More of the plan, his leaving town couldn’t coincide with her departure.
Walking from the car to the plane, she stumbled with unsteady footing. Once aboard, she paced, unwilling to sit. Each time Tony got near her, she pulled away and walked toward the door. Using more physical persuasion, he steered her toward the seat. When her knees bent, she spoke for the first time since the GHB took effect, “I donnnnn’t feeel well.”
He didn’t comment as he secured her seat belt. At first, she stared at the restraint. When the plane lifted off the ground, her head fell to her chest. Tony wondered if she comprehended any of what was happening.
Suddenly, her limp head sprung upward and her slurred words filled the otherwise empty cabin, “I’mmm gonna be sicccccccccccccccc.”
Losing patience, Tony noticed Claire’s sudden pallor. He unstrapped himself and walked toward her. He saw fear within her eyes as she frantically fought her seat belt.
“Stop it,” he commanded. “You’re on an airplane. You’re not going anywhere.”
She turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks, unable to move against the latched belt. He reached for her chin and turned her toward him; before he could reprimand her on the importance of maintaining eye contact, she wrenched and vomited. It covered her dress and his slacks.
“Shit!” he barked. It was disgusting!
“I told you...I was sick!” she cried.
He looked at the mess and then at Claire as she sunk against the chair.
“Don’t get the damn chair dirty, too.”
His words only increased her tears. As he reached for the seat belt and unbuckled, revulsion at the mess was somehow interspersed with sympathy.
