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  REFUGE

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, June 2004

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-938-X

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  REFUGE © 2004 VONNA HARPER

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Martha Punches.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Refuge

  Vonna Harper

  Chapter One

  Opening the door to her rental car, Megara Force cringed. Breathing deep and slow did nothing to lessen the humidity’s punch. A sane woman would return to her air-conditioned motel room and spend the rest of the evening at the motel bar. But she’d spent the day in endless meetings highlighted by the inevitable rubber chicken lunch. If she didn’t run, didn’t lose herself in rhythm and straining muscles, she’d never sleep.

  And she’d do whatever it took to silence her restless mind.

  Shut the fuck up. You know you don’t want to go there.

  Ordering herself not to think seldom worked so she checked to make sure her designer athletic shoes were tied, then faced the entrance to the night-darkened wilderness refuge.

  Although her career with Force Convention Centers International took her all over the world, she’d never been to Orlando, Florida. When she’d asked at the hotel gym about a nearby place to go for a run, the tight-bodied young woman with silicone breasts had explained how the public parts of the local refuge were reasonably well-lit.

  When she’d learned that the Fish and Wildlife-maintained sanctuary included several miles of graveled pathways that skirted the mangrove swamp forest, Megara had made up her mind. Not only did she crave nature, but the promise of solitude become a hunger.

  Hunger? If she could have anything she wanted in life, what would it be, she pondered as she finished stretching and took off down the narrow, paved road at an easy jog. The answer didn’t come immediately because she’d conditioned herself not to hope for what she couldn’t have, what she could barely name.

  Freedom. The answer floated on the hot breeze, stroked over her already sweaty throat and bare arms. Freedom from responsibility, from self-control even.

  The thought of turning her back on control lapped at her. Insane as it was, she half-believed she was now sharing her vivid imagination with the wild land. Veering onto a graveled path, she closed herself around the fantasy as the lush vegetation swallowed her—as she became part of it.

  The moon was going to be full but hadn’t yet made an appearance. If not for the muted but closely spaced ground lights, she wouldn’t have been able to stay on the path. Being on unfamiliar turf at nearly 10 p.m. wasn’t the most intelligent or responsible thing she’d ever done, but in her mind, her long, lean legs, slender arms, and substantial hips no longer belonged to her.

  Tonight, alone with chirping insects and whispering birds, she became muscle and bone. The primitive creature who’d taken over her mind existed on an elemental level. This she-animal had never touched a computer, knew nothing of profit and loss, frequent flier miles, multi-million dollar budgets, stress that gnawed at the stomach lining and gave a 32-year-old woman high blood pressure.

  She-animal breathed, ran, sweated. She-animal belonged here and knew what creatures lived in the ripe and savage land and could sustain herself off what she harvested or killed. She-animal was Tarzan’s equal. And when hot need bit at her cunt, she-animal fucked.

  Images of a naked, physical, female creature sniffing around men like a bitch in heat flamed her imagination and dampened her red nylon shorts. Someone might cage the wild animal or fasten a chain around her neck, but the bitch she’d become in her mind would growl and pace, presenting her ass to any male who came within sight. If freed, she’d attack any and all members of the opposite sex, biting, scratching, whining until some stud mounted her and drove her to the ground.

  Yeah, right!

  Why not? Shit, why not?

  Before the civilized being she hadn’t silenced after all could mount an attack, Megara sensed another presence. She stopped and rose onto her toes, looking left and right, testing the air for a new smell, but the rank odor of things rotting blocked everything else. Any other time, she would have reached for her container of mace, but she-animal still commanded her mind, her muscles. If anyone attacked, she’d attack back.

  Footsteps resembling the sounds of beating drums became more distinct, and Megara clicked through her options. Someone was coming up behind her, running fast, also wearing athletic shoes. The stranger’s footfalls were heavier than hers, a man.

  A man for a bitch in heat.

  Her throat filled; she nearly howled. At the last moment, fear of the savage she’d almost become clamped down and strangled the cry. No matter how strong the wilderness’ lure, she hadn’t turned primitive—not completely anyway.

  As a child, she’d had a healthy imagination and had entertained her cousins and the neighborhood children with exciting stories, but over the years, her parents had taught her to silence her fascination with fantasy. Eager to please her undemonstrative mother and father, she’d embraced their plans for her, bought into the fast track to success drive, and forged a role for herself in the family-owned corporation.

  It had been insane to think she could become an animal.

  Then what was she? she asked as she tried to match the speed of whoever was trying to overtake her. When the path straightened, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Male. Large. Naked except for dark shorts and shoes.

  Unnerved, she patted the mace in her front pocket. The night-dark man’s shoes slapped the gravel and made her think of heartbeats. She heard his quick breathing, even felt the sweat rolling off him. Again she glanced back.

  He-animal. A mate for a bitch.

  Unnerved and excited, she veered to the right and nearly stepped off the path. Her stride faltered. By the time she’d regained her balance, he’d overtaken her. She moved to the side, but instead of passing her, he slowed so they ran side by side. His pace seemed languid, smooth, effortless, a cheetah born and bred for movement. He didn’t acknowledge her presence.

  Doing the same, she nevertheless took in everything she needed to know. Although the ground lighting barely reached beyond his legs, she had no doubt his taut calf and thigh muscles would be echoed in his upper body. This man—this running animal-man—was all bone and muscle. There wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him; whatever he did for a living demanded a body in prime condition. He was tall, well over six feet, maybe 30 but not beyond. His hair was full and dark, a little long, caught to his skull by sweat. She couldn’t see his features.

  Running with him felt like life. Like rhythm. Right. Smooth as fine wine. Ancient and new, timeless. She stopped thinking about her pumping legs, her feet, the path, lush vegetation so thick it could swallow both of them. Instead, she became part of his strength and gave him her blood and breath.

  Their arms pumped in unison, and they sweated. They didn’t touch, but she felt his heat on her skin. The heat traveled through her veins, met with her arteries, flowed into her skull, fingertips, belly, between her legs. Her clit tightened. Awake and hungry, it demanded satisfaction.

  Fuck me. Lay me down, pin me to the ground and fuck me. Destroy civilized-woman and let she-animal roar.

  Chapter Two

  Traded.

  Sold.
/>   Lon Storms shook off the hated words. For maybe two seconds they remained silent, giving him time to take in his surroundings, or rather the slender, short-haired woman running alongside him. A jungle night lapped at them, promising—what?

  Giving into something born of the preserve, he imagined closing his body around hers and drowning in her pussy. He’d take her hard and wild, and she’d give as good as she got, meeting him muscle-for-muscle and nerve-for-nerve, screaming out her climax so the night creatures fell silent. He’d had enough sex partners—hell, women fought over him—to have seen the full range of female response. In his mind and body, his running partner became an earth creature. Unburdened by civilized constraints, they’d mate—pure and simple.

  Then the words he’d been fighting roared back to life. Countering them in the only way he could, he went deep inside himself to where his heart pounded and his cock swelled.

  Traded. Sold.

  He wasn’t a slave in the traditional sense, and he’d received an obscene amount of money from the professional football franchise that had just bought his services and considerable skills, but that didn’t lessen the impact.

  Damn it, he controlled his life. His entire career, hell, everything he’d done since the age of eight when he realized he could throw a football further and with more accuracy than kids years older than himself, had been about control. He was the man, the field general, the quarterback.

  But men with more power and money had done what they wanted with him, and here he was in a strange city, running through wilderness and swampland at night because this was the only way he could escape the media.

  Running with a woman who maybe didn’t know who the hell he was.

  And maybe did.

  Alarms went off, slowing his racing pulse and cooling his hot cock. Suddenly suspicious—as he was of everyone and everything these days—he looked down at her. Her stride was smooth and fluid in the way of someone who’d well trained her leg muscles to do this physical thing, but she could still be a reporter.

  He sprinted ahead, stopped and whirled. She ran into him, then back-stepped but not before their sweat bled together.

  “What?” she demanded, a flick of fear in her voice. “What the hell—”

  She tried to go around him, but he dodged with her. One thing about years of avoiding defenses, he knew how to match another’s rhythm. “Did you follow me here?” he demanded.

  “Follow? I was ahead of you, remember?”

  She stared up at him, her weight uneasy on her toes. She put him in mind of an antelope that has sensed danger. But an antelope would have already fled. Instead, even though her hands had become fists, he sensed her body straining toward his. His did the same, the response primitive and real.

  The refuge put him in mind of the Everglades. It was a tangled riot of anything and everything that could withstand torrential rains and brutal heat. The vegetation spawned countless animals, birds, insects, and reptiles, and few, if any, humans, but although he should be on the lookout for alligators, he felt no fear.

  Instead, the preserve made him think of the fleshy woman who’d taken his virginity at sixteen. She’d been a friend of his mother, a ripe creature with heavy breasts and thighs that had nearly swallowed him. Although he’d been repulsed by her soft white flesh, he’d longed to be between her legs—at least his cock had.

  She’d housed him, caught and held him, taught him what it was to be a man. This living, breathing jungle was like her—primitive. Insatiable. Quicksand eager to swallow anyone who ventured close. And he and the woman, maybe, stood at the edge of the quicksand.

  “I’m not going to rape you,” he heard himself say. He didn’t recognize his voice or know what to do with the escaping words. “But if you don’t want to fuck, get the hell away from me.”

  His running partner’s mouth opened; he swore she was breathing in his words. Then she brought a hand to her throat and began stroking the flesh there.

  “Fuck,” she said, not looking close to terrified. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” Naked and sweating beneath him, her sex open to him, welcoming his cock, his cum. “Go on, get the hell out of here.”

  She indicated their surroundings. “Easier said than done. Besides, you don’t own this place. I don’t think anyone ever could.” She glanced around. “What are you doing here?”

  “Loaded question. Way loaded.”

  “Something you don’t want to talk about.”

  “You’ve got that right.” No, not a reporter. He’d be willing to bet on that. Wondering if she’d cry rape or at least threaten to charge him with assault, he closed his hands over her naked arms. He expected her to jerk free, but she remained in his grasp—wanting this? “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  He swore he heard the wheels inside her head turning. “I thought I needed to be alone tonight,” she said at last. He felt her essence on his chest and down his legs but mostly between them. “When I came in here, I believed I’d had all I could take of people and responsibility for one day.”

  “Then stud-studly came along and primed your pump?”

  She laughed, the sound soft and short. “You consider yourself a stud?”

  Walk away, lady. Don’t you know what the hell you’re doing standing so damn close? “Not me, the media.”

  “You’re in the public eye?”

  “You really don’t know who I am?” He increased the pressure on her arms. She glanced at what he was doing, and he felt her shrink into herself. She still didn’t try to free herself, and something was going on in her skull and body.

  “I have no idea,” she told him. “If you’re a local celebrity, I’ll take the out by explaining I’m not from around here.”

  “Neither am I. But like it or not, I have to stay. Perform.”

  She kept her arms by her sides, the position submissive. He had to be wrong of course, but he swore she was giving up ownership of herself to him, putting herself under his control.

  It had to be the night, the handful of stars now visible above the trees, the cadence of insect voices, the all-encompassing and living wilderness. It occurred to him that she hadn’t asked for an explanation of why he had to stay in this city. Not interested in giving her the who, what, why, when, and how, he pulled her close.

  She didn’t struggle, didn’t so much as hold her breath. Instead, hell, instead she seemed to flow toward him. Her arms under his grip went soft and boneless. Feeling as if he had hold of molten and willing flesh, he brought her even nearer until her belly kissed his hard as a rock cock.

  Slowly, telegraphing her every movement, she looked down at the non-space between them.

  “You want it?” he asked.

  She shuddered. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  “In my world being able to make and execute split-second decisions is what it’s all about. Except when the decision-making is taken out of my hands,” he added.

  Not breaking the cock-to-belly connection, she sighed. For a moment he swore he could see into her heart, touch her soul. “I’ve taken charge for so long, I’ve forgotten—almost—that it can be any other way. Never acknowledged I might want something different.”

  He wanted to fuck her brainless, wham-bam until neither of them knew what the hell their names were—and then walk away. But he couldn’t shake off her words. “You don’t like making decisions?”

  “I thought I did.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and in danger of being swallowed by the night creatures’ song. “It’s what I’ve always been conditioned and primed for. Then I came here and suddenly—suddenly I knew I wanted anything but that. I-I don’t know how it happened.”

  Something deep within the preserve stirred. It had no substance and maybe existed only in his imagination, but just like that, he understood there was more to the night than an accidental meeting between man and woman.

  “What do you want?” He punctuated the question by positioning her hands behind her and pres
sing her small fists against the small of her back.

  Her voice shook as she said, “To just once give up ownership of myself.”

  Chapter Three

  Give up ownership of myself.

  Instead of telling herself she couldn’t have said that, Megara let the words swirl around her. The stronger they grew, the more convinced she became that the refuge had breathed them to life and made them her truth. She couldn’t tell where the close humidity left off and her own heat began. She, who’d always been able to define her own space, no longer existed separate from her surroundings or the man who’d come to share it with her.

  Night-man continued to pin her hands behind her. He leaned over her so she was forced to arch her back. Fear beat at her, but instead of threatening terror, she found the sensation wildly erotic. She spread her legs to help her balance; her vulnerability took her back to countless nights spent in obscenely expensive motel rooms with her collection of vibrators. The toys hadn’t taken the place of a lover, but she’d loved exploring the whys and wherefores of a self-inflicted climax. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear night-man had found her collection and was using them in rapid succession on her.

  “You don’t want to be in control tonight?” His breath fingered along the side of her neck. “Into bondage?”

  Dangerous! Dangerous, as in you could be dead if you don’t get the hell out of here. “I don’t know.”

  He positioned his legs so they were outside hers, then pressed hers together. Unable to straighten, she had no choice but to let him support her weight. She needed to turn her head to the side so at least his mouth couldn’t find hers, but didn’t.

  “I’ve never gone down that road myself,” he told her. “Haven’t dared.”

  “Dared?” Being under this powerful stranger’s control was unbelievably erotic. No matter what she did, no matter how much she begged, he could take her any way and any time he wanted. “I-I don’t understand.” Anything.