Brazilian Escape. Sandra Marton
pulled back and she watched as he took in the news. Quietly she told him the little she knew. His face was grey and his eyes shone black. He swallowed as if tasting bile and she heard his rapid angry breathing. His whisper was harsh when it came.
‘No.’
It had to be a lie, because if his own lawyer was working against him he was here for life.
She had to be lying.
‘How?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know anything more than that,’ Meg said. ‘It’s all I’ve been told.’
‘When?’ he insisted, his voice an angry whisper. ‘When were you told?’
And she told him about the visit—how on Monday morning Rosa and her colleagues had arrived at her place of work. He thought of her momentarily in Sydney, getting on with her life without him, and now here she was in Brazil.
‘They should never have sent you …’ He was livid. ‘It’s too dangerous …’
‘It’s fine …’
It was so not fine.
‘Niklas …’ She told him all they had told her—that they had to have sex, about the bed and the bin, and that the guards could not know she was here for any other reason.
He saw her face burn in shame, and she saw his disgust at what he had put her through.
‘It’s fine, Niklas,’ she whispered. ‘I know what I’m doing …’ She could feel his fury; it was there in the room with them.
‘You should not be here.’
‘It’s my decision.’
‘Then it’s the wrong one.’
‘I’m very good at making those around you, it would seem. Anyway,’ she whispered harshly, ‘you don’t have to worry—you’re paying me well …’
‘How much?’
She told him.
And he knew then the gravity of his situation, understood just how serious this was—because he had no money any more. Everything had been frozen. He thought of his legal team paying her with money of their own and it tempered the bitterness that sometimes consumed him a little. Then he looked at the woman he might even have loved and tasted bitterness one again, for he hated what the world had done to him.
‘So you’re not here out of the goodness of your heart?’
‘You’ve already had that part,’ Meg said. ‘So can we just get it over with?’
She looked over to the bed and he saw the swallowing in her throat, knew that she was drenched in fear. He looked to the door again, knowing there was a guard outside, one he did not trust, who must never get so much as a hint as to the real reason she was here.
Paid to be here, Niklas reminded himself.
He trusted no one again.
He stood and ripped the sheet from the bed, and she sat there as he twisted it in his hands before throwing it back. She heard his anger as he took the bedhead in angry hands and rocked the bed against the wall. He felt his anger building as he slammed the bed faster and faster. He had never paid for sex in his life. Yes, he’d have been grateful for a hooker, but he’d never taken Meg as one and his head was pounding as the bed hit the wall again and again. He did not know who to believe any more, and as the bed slammed faster he shouted out.
Meg sobbed as he shouted, but it did nothing to dissipate the fury still building, and then he picked up the condoms by the bedside and went to the small wash area and got to work to make sure evidence of their coupling was in place. Meg sat there, listening and crying. She understood his anger but she did not understand her own self, for even here, amidst this filth and shame, she wanted him. So badly she wanted to be with the man she had so sorely missed. Not just the sex, but the comfort he somehow gave.
‘Niklas …’ She walked into the washroom and ignored him when he told her, less than politely, to go away. His back was to her. She moved to his side and saw his fury, saw his hand working fast. He repeated his demand for her to leave him, and when it was clear that she didn’t understand just how much he meant the words he told her in French and then Spanish.
‘How many ways do you need to hear it …?’
How deep was his shame to be seen like this, to be reduced to this? His back had been to Meg, for he could not face her, yet she’d slipped into the space between him and the wall and her mouth was on his. One of her hands joined his now.
‘Leave me.’
‘No.’ She stroked him too.
‘Leave me,’ he said as her other hand slipped off her panties.
‘No.’
And she put her hands around his neck and pressed herself against him, tried to kiss him. He spat her out.
‘You don’t know the fire you are playing with.’
‘I want to, though.’
She wanted every piece of him—wanted a little more of what she could never fully have. Because a man like Niklas could only ever be on loan to her. She had flown to him not because she had to, not for the money, and not for the morality of doing the right thing by her husband. Purely because of him, and not once did his anger scare her.
Not once, as rough hands pulled her dress up, did she fear him.
He lifted her up and onto him and positioned her, pulling her roughly down to him. The most basic sex was their only release and she wrapped her legs tight around him, locked her arms around his neck. His kiss was violent now, and she felt the clash of their teeth and tongues and the rapid angry stabs of him. The rough feel of denim on her thighs was nothing compared to the roughness deep inside, and her back was hard against the wall. Meg could feel his anger, it blasted deep inside her, and it let Meg be angry too—angry at so many things: that she was here, that she still wanted him, even that this man still moved her so.
Her moans and shouts that he blocked with his mouth shocked Meg even more—scared her, almost—but she was not scared of him as he pulled her down on him, as she felt the bruise of his fingers in her hips. She could feel her orgasm building rapidly, as if she had waited eleven months just to come to him, as if her body had been waiting for him to set it free.
There was a flash of confusion for Niklas too, for her cries and the grip of intimate muscles, the arch of her back and the spasm of her thighs, could never be faked. He had thought this was charity, a paid act at best, a sympathy screw at worst, but she was craving him again, the way she once had, and as he shot into her he remembered all the good again—the way they had been. He never cried, but he was as close to it now as he had ever been. They were both drenched in brief release and escape and his kisses turned softer now, to bring her back to him. Then he heard the drizzle of the tap and his eyes opened to his surroundings, to the reality they faced. There were no more kisses to be had and he lifted her off.
Stood her down.
But she would not lose him to his pride and she carried on kissing him, opened his shirt and put her palms to his chest. He felt as if her hands seared him, for there had been no contact, no touch of another on his skin for many months, and he loathed the exposure, the prying of her hands. It was just sex he wanted, not her, but her hands were still moving, exploring the defined muscles. Her fingers were a pleasure and he did not want her to be here—yet he wanted her for every second that they had.
There would be hours later for thinking, for working out what to do about Miguel. For now he wanted every minute he had left with her.
He took her to the bed and undressed her, took his clothes off too, and she looked at all the changes to his body. He was thinner, but more muscled, and his face wasn’t the one she had turned to on the plane—it was closed and angry, and yet she had felt his pain back