Chapter 2: Interrupted Fantasies
The silence in the hideout was a living thing, thick with the smell of damp concrete and the distant, grumbling promise of rain. Luke lay on his back on the spare bedroll Rabi had unfurled for him, the coarse fabric scratching his shoulders. The pain from his wounds was a dull, hot throb, a persistent reminder of his stupidity. But it wasn’t the pain that kept him awake.
It was the memory of her hands.
The clinical efficiency of her touch as she’d bandaged him had vanished, replaced in his mind by something else entirely. In the dark, his brain replayed the feeling of her fingers circling his ribs, the heat of her palm steadying his shivering arm. It transmuted into fantasy—those same hands, but not healing. Exploring. Claiming.
He was painfully hard, his cock straining against the rough fabric of his trousers. A deep, shameful heat spread through him. She was sleeping just a few feet away, a soft, regular breath in the dark. To do this here, now… it felt like a violation. But the image was too vivid: Rabi, kneeling over him in the subway, but not with a knife. With that same smirk, her strong hands pinning his wrists, her hips settling over his.
He bit his lip, trying to stifle the sound of his own ragged breathing. Carefully, painfully, he rolled onto his side, facing the wall. He slid his hand down, fumbling with the fastening of his pants. The release of pressure as he freed himself was a gasp-worthy relief. He palmed his length, his touch tentative at first, then firmer.
His mind supplied the details. It wasn’t the gentle fantasy of connection he sometimes indulged in. This was raw, spurred by the adrenaline crash, by her dominance, by the sheer, terrifying fact of her. He pictured her not as a kindly savior, but as she was in the wastes: fierce, capable, taking what she wanted.
His fist tightened, pumping slowly. He imagined her standing over him, not in the medical sense. Naked. Water from the broken pipes above the hideout sometimes dripped into a collection barrel; he’d heard it earlier. Now, in his head, it was raining inside, and she was drenched. He saw her pushing him down onto the bedroll, her hair plastered to her skin, her tits swaying as she crouched over him. “You’re mine, rabbit,” she’d growl, and the vulgarity of the thought, the sheer possession in it, made his hips jerk.
He stroked faster, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs against the crook of his arm. He was lost in it, the rhythm punishing, a frantic race toward release that felt like the only way to purge the tension coiled in his gut. The sounds were too loud—the slick slide of his hand, the rustle of fabric. He didn’t care. He was picturing her thick thighs parting, the dark wetness between them, and him—
The door creaked.
He froze, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. A sliver of faint, gray light from the high window cut across the floor.
A shadow filled it.
Rabi stood in the doorway to the small annexed washroom, backlit by a single flickering chemical light. She was naked, dripping wet, a rough towel in her hand paused mid-motion on her shoulder. Water gleamed on her collarbone, traced the curve of her breast, beaded in the neat, dark patch of hair between her legs. She wasn’t smiling.
Her eyes, dark and unreadable in the low light, scanned him. Took in his prone form, the awkward angle of his arm, the obvious, guilty tension in his shoulders. They lingered for a paralyzing second on his hand, still hidden beneath the blanket but clearly positioned.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. It wasn’t her usual playful grin. This was something darker, more intimate. Her voice, when it came, was a husky murmur that vibrated in the charged air.
“Need a hand, rabbit?”
Luke yanked his hand back as if burned, scrambling to sit up, to cover himself, a mortified sound dying in his throat. The blanket tangled around his waist. “I—I wasn’t—I’m sorry, I just—”
“You just were,” she finished, her tone dry. She didn’t move from the doorway. She watched him flounder, the towel now hanging loosely from her fingers. “Wound hurting? Making you restless?”
He could only nod, a desperate, pathetic lie.
She took a step into the room, then another. The water on her skin caught the light. She moved with a predator’s quiet grace, no longer the playful adventurer or the efficient medic. This was a new Rabi, one that made the air thin and electric. She stopped beside his bedroll, looking down at him. He was trapped, hunched in on himself, his face burning.
“You know,” she said, her voice still low, “in most places, a man touching himself is a public event. A resource to be… utilized.” She crouched down, bringing them to eye level. The scent of her—clean skin, sharp soap, and something fundamentally her—washed over him. “But this is my place. Here, things are private. Or they can be.”
Her meaning hung between them, immense and terrifying.
“I…” Luke’s mouth was desert-dry. His mind screamed at him to look away, to apologize, to hide. His body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming toward her. “I don’t know what…”
“Yes, you do,” she whispered. She reached out, not for his hidden cock, but to touch his cheek. Her fingers were cool from the water, but they sent a searing heat straight through him. “You’ve been thinking about it since I cut you down. Maybe before.”
Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. It was the gentlest of touches, and it shattered the last of his composure. A tremor ran through him.
“Tell me what you were thinking about,” she breathed, her lips inches from his ear. “When you had your hand on your cock. Was it me?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation and desire warring in a dizzying storm. He gave the smallest, barest nod.
“Say it.”
“It was you,” he choked out.
“What was I doing?”
He shuddered. “You were… you were on top of me.”
A low hum of approval vibrated in her throat. “Good. Honest.” Her hand left his face, trailed down his neck, over the blanket covering his chest. “Do you want that? You want me on top of you?”
“Yes.” The word was ripped from him, raw and honest.
“Then stop hiding from me.”
Her hand slid down, fingers hooking into the top of the rough blanket. She pulled it down, exposing him. His cock, still half-hard from his interrupted fantasy, twitched against his stomach in the cool air. He felt utterly exposed, more vulnerable than he had hanging in that cable trap.
Rabi’s eyes dropped to his exposed flesh, and her smirk softened into something curiously genuine. She didn’t grab him. She just looked, her head tilting as she studied the flush of skin, the slight curve, the way it lay against his thigh.
“Oh, wow,” she said, her voice losing its predatory edge and filling with a warm, startled amusement. “Luke. It’s so cute.”
The word hit him like a physical blow. Cute. Not impressive, not intimidating, not a prize. Cute. A hot, shameful wave washed from his scalp to his toes, his cock twitching pathetically under her gaze as if agreeing with her. He made a small, choked sound and tried to look away, but her finger was under his chin, applying gentle, irresistible pressure.
“Look at me,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. He forced his eyes up, past her damp collarbone, past her smiling lips, to meet her dark, sparkling eyes. The eye contact was a searing brand. He felt flayed open, more than naked.
“There you are,” she murmured, and before he could process it, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his in a fleeting, soft kiss. It was over before it began, but the shock of it, the dry warmth of her mouth, traveled straight down his spine and clenched in his gut. His hips jerked, a full-body convulsion that made his cock slap against his stomach.
“See?” she whispered, her breath mixing with his. She wrapped her fingers around him, her grip firm and knowing. Her skin was still cool from the washroom, a shocking contrast to his feverish heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. It’s adorable.”
She began to stroke him, a slow, deliberate pump that made his vision blur. “Can’t even look at a girl without shaking,” she continued, her thumb smearing the bead of wetness already gathering at his tip. He squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the dual assault of her touch and her words. “Eyes on me, rabbit. I want to see it.”
He forced his eyes open again, the effort monumental. Her face was right there, pretty and confident and seeing him, seeing every tremble. She pecked his lips again, another quick, devastating reward. “Good boy.”
The praise liquefied him. Her hand moved faster, her wrist twisting on the upstroke in a way that made his toes curl. He was panting, a high, desperate sound in the quiet room. “You’re just… fuck, you’re so cute,” she breathed, watching his expressions fracture. “Bet you’ve never even had a girl touch you, have you? All alone in your hidey-holes.”
He couldn’t answer. His body was taut, every muscle pulled wire-tight, pleading for release. Her observation was a statement of fact, and the humiliation of it, mixed with the relentless pleasure of her hand, was a fuel he couldn’t control. He was a powder keg, and she was the spark, grinning as she held the match.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she cooed, her pace becoming ruthless. “Virgin.”
The word was his undoing. A broken sob tore from his throat as his orgasm ripped through him, violent and unrestrained. He spilled over her fist and his own stomach in hot, helpless pulses, his body bowing off the bedroll as she milked him through it, her eyes drinking in every second of his surrender.
He collapsed, spent and shuddering, drowning in shame and the lingering echoes of pleasure. Rabi held her glistening hand up between them, examining his release with a clinical curiosity that was somehow more intimate than anything else.
“Yeah, definitely a virgin,” she said, her voice laced with a fond tease. Then her expression shifted. The playful light dimmed, replaced by a steady, serious intensity. She held his hazy gaze.
“Listen up, rabbit. New rule. While we’re traveling together, this,” she wiggled her wet fingers, “is mine. Your hands don’t touch yourself. Not ever.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “If I catch you jerking that cute little cock again, there will be a punishment. You won’t like it.”
Before he could even form a thought, she brought her soiled hand to her mouth. Her eyes locked on his, unblinking, as her tongue swept out in a long, slow, deliberate stripe across her palm, cleaning his spend from her skin.
Luke’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, thunderous beat that echoed in his ears. He was empty, exposed, and utterly, completely owned.
He was empty, exposed, and utterly, completely owned.
She wiped her remaining hand on the blanket beside him, the gesture domestic and obscene. Without another word, she turned and padded back to the washroom. Luke lay there, sticky and trembling, listening to the quiet splash of water as she rinsed. The chemical light went out, plunging the room back into near darkness. He heard her footsteps return, soft on the concrete.
She didn’t go to her own bedroll. He felt her warmth first, then the dip of the padding as she lay down right beside him. The rough fabric of her own bedroll was a whisper against his skin. She was still gloriously, devastatingly naked. Her hip brushed against his, a point of searing contact. The scent of her, clean and female, filled the space between them.
He held his breath, his body rigid. Every nerve was screaming. The come on his stomach was cooling, a gross, clinging reminder.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear it,” Rabi murmured into the darkness. She shifted, rolling onto her side to face him. Her knee nudged against his thigh. “Your brain is just buzzing away in there. All panicked and sweet.”
“I’m not,” he whispered, the lie pathetic.
“Yeah you are.” She reached out in the dark, her fingers finding his cheek again, tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re thinking about my rule. You’re thinking about my kisses and my hand. You’re thinking, ‘What happens now?’”
Her finger trailed down his neck, over his pounding pulse, across his clammy chest. It stopped just above his spent cock. He flinched.
“Relax, rabbit. I’m not gonna grab it. It’s had enough excitement for one night.” Her chuckle was a low, warm sound. “It’s a cute little thing, though. Gets the job done, I saw.”
The word ‘cute’ lanced through him again, a peculiar mix of shame and a desperate need to please. He said nothing, staring up at the black ceiling.
“Makes me wonder, though,” she continued, her voice a conversational purr. Her fingertip drew idle, meaningless circles on his lower belly. “What would even happen if we fucked? Seriously. That cute cock of yours… it wouldn’t stand a chance, would it?”
Luke’s breath hitched. His mind, traitorous and vivid, supplied the image immediately: being beneath her, her weight pinning him, her tight heat swallowing him whole.
“I mean, look at you,” she whispered, scooting closer. Her breasts pressed against his arm, soft and heavy. Her breath fanned his ear. “You came from a hand and a few dirty words. What’s going to happen when you feel my pussy, huh? When I actually sink down on you?”
A low, helpless sound escaped him. He could feel it happening, a slow, insistent thickening against his leg entirely against his will. The mortifying rally of his own body.
“There it is,” she giggled, the sound genuinely delighted. Her hand slid down, not to touch him, but to splay possessively over his lower abdomen, right above where his flesh was twitching back to life. “God, you are so easy. It’s honestly amazing. I say ‘pussy’ and it just… jumps. Like a little pet.”
He was fully hard again, achingly so, the earlier release now just a phantom memory. The shame was molten, but the need was sharper. He was rigid, trapped between her words and her proximity.
“So?” she prompted, her lips brushing his earlobe. “What happens? Do you think you’d last three pumps? Or would you just lose it the second your tip got inside me?”
“Rabi, please,” he groaned, the plea meaning everything and nothing.
“Please what? Please stop? Or please find out?” She gave a soft, sighing laugh. “You’re all worked up again. My rule’s been in effect for five minutes and you’re already breaking it with your mind. Bad rabbit.”
The heat was unbearable. The anticipation, the explicit imagery she painted, the feel of her skin everywhere—it was a sensory overload. He was going to spontaneously combust. With a ragged, embarrassed gasp, he suddenly twisted away from her, breaking the contact.
He scrambled to his feet, his aching body protesting, and stumbled two paces to the wall. He turned his back to her, to the bedroll, to the unbearable temptation of her naked form in the dark. He slid down the cool concrete, pulling his knees to his chest, putting physical distance between them like a chastised child.
“Goodnight, Rabi,” he said, his voice tight and formal, echoing in the hollow room.
Silence hung behind him. Then, the rustle of fabric as she presumably pulled a blanket over herself. Her response, when it came, was a smile he could hear.
“Goodnight, rabbit.”