South of SomeWhere (-Editing-)

|My Actions Should Be Stop, But Everything Else Says Go|

"Don't," he commands and I'm puzzled.

"What did I do wrong?" I'm confused. Earlier he all but attacked me, now he's saying no. He gets up from the bed and paces, running his hands through his hair.

"I can't... It's just...not anymore." He starts but never finishes.

"Then, don't touch me!" I bristle, standing and glaring at him with all the vehemence I can muster. His eyes lock into mine, and I instantaneously see the look of defeat.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he chokes out as he grabs my wrist, jerks me towards him, and his lips crash onto mine. Warm and soft, rough and demanding they burn into mine swallowing my gasp of surprise. My hands thread through his overlong black hair tugging him closer.

'Keep on object girl.' I remind myself. I've played him good.

Hands wrap like vines around my waist tugging his shirt higher so it rides up my hips. Pushing him backwards, he falls into the only chair available -- a weathered rocking chair with a plush cushion stitched in plaid. Teeth nip at my lips and his tongue darts forward. I can't let that happen. I already feel the lax in my limbs. I'll give in if we go that far. My left hand tunnels into his hair pulling sideways and his head follows.

'Yes...'

My right arm snakes down the side of the chair to his messenger bag. I open the top, all the while kissing his neck. Moving my right hand frantically, I search.

'There has to be rope!'

My fingers touch the rough cotton threads woven together so exactly, so precisely, as to hold its occupant tight and secure. Quick as a viper's strike, I pounced lashing his head to the side with a harsh jerk of his hair and winding him with a precise jab in the ribs from my elbow. Before he can react, I grab the rope in both hands and knot his right wrist to the chair arm. Good thing I read about about sailor knots. Then, his left. Gasping air like a drowning fish, he looks up, eyes wide in alarm.

"Hell," he croaks.

"I'm going home," I bleat like baby lamb whose lost its mother. In truth, I sound mighty pathetic. I leap backwards off his lap and fumble for my belongings.

"Like hell you are." He jerks his arms upwards, thrashing at the bonds restraining him. "Waverley Ann Stanton," he snarls pulling at the rope. "Let me go now Ayvee Lee. You have no clue what you're messing with out there. As soon as you walk out that door, there will be people after you, ready to do you harm. I'm protecting you."

As quickly as I can, I shove the rest of my scattered belongings in my satchel and pull my breeches up my legs. Awkwardly, his shirt flows around my knees like a tunic, and so I won't trip on the material, I tuck the front into my belted waistband. "Looks like all you're doing is keeping me for your own uses," I spit back at him, as he tugs at his restraints.

"Love," he growls the sound triggering my bodies unconscious shiver mechanism all the way down to my toes. His voice is almost pleading.

Ignoring him, I walk out of the room and slam the door. Making my way downstairs, I start to count.

'One, two, three...'

My body shakes with the adrenaline, and I take several deep breathes to steady myself. First, I need a horse. I walk into the pub/ lobby of the inn and take a seat as nonchalant as my jittering nerves will allow. The bartender comes over to my seat.

"What can I get yah?" he asks flashing me a toothy grin.

"Where can I find a horse for sale?" I ask answering his question with a question.