Samson's Lovely Mortal Read Free Page B

She yanked her head around. For the first time she could see his face clearly, clear enough to make an identification if need be. He was Caucasian and in his forties. Violence, and the intention to unleash it on her, was clearly written on his face.
    Delilah couldn’t allow him to drag her into some dark hole. Number one in survival training was never to let the attacker move the victim to a secondary location. She had to fight him off here, where she had a chance of getting the attention of a passerby.
    Fat chance!
    With this rain, nobody would be outside. Not even a dog.
    He jerked her up, seizing her by the collar of her jacket now, having released the painful grip on her shoulder. Quickly, she stretched her arms back and slipped out of the jacket, leaving him holding onto it. Now she had a fighting chance.
    He was startled, and she had a couple of seconds’ head start. She’d been a sprinter in college, and it came in handy, even though the slippery ground didn’t help—neither did the high heels of her shoes. Vanity would kill her one of these days.
    With long strides she ran into the next street, her lean but strong legs pushing off the ground with a vehemence that was startling for her small body. He was close behind her. And faster. She had to run for all she was worth. Her breath quickened as her lungs demanded more oxygen.
    Scouting the area ahead of her, she made a split-second decision and sprinted into the street to her right. A desperate glance over her shoulder confirmed that the brute was still chasing her.
    Scanning the street, she spotted several Victorian residences on the other side. All of them were dark, except for one. It seemed oddly familiar with light shining through the windows in the front room. This was her chance, probably her only one. Not slowing down for even a second, she crossed the narrow street, ran up the few steps of the old Victorian and hammered at the door.
    “Help! Help me!”
    Frantically, she looked behind her while her fists continued pounding into the door. Her pursuer was less than half a block away and closing in, his face angry. If he reached her, he’d unleash his anger on her, and there was nowhere else to run.

TWO
     
    Who the hell was banging on his door? Samson would have to teach his friends some manners. He realized it was raining cats and dogs outside, but it didn’t give them the right to damage his door. They’d be sorry in a second. He was in a foul mood as it was, and announcing themselves like barbarians did not endear them to him.
    He yanked the door open.
    “Fuck off!”
    A small figure with dripping wet hair and soaked clothes tumbled into his arms.
    “Help me, please!” The female voice had an urgency to it he couldn’t ignore.
    Instinctively he pulled her in and slammed the door shut again.
    “Thank you.” The quiet mumble was almost inaudible, but laced with genuine relief.
    She lifted her head and looked up at him. Big green eyes, long thick lashes, luscious red lips. Her white blouse was soaked, and she could have won any wet-t-shirt contest hands down. Not that he’d ever witnessed one. Her black-lace bra featured her breasts prominently: 34C, he guessed.
    The stripper!
    Of course, she was the stripper. So the guys had gotten him a stripper who would play the damsel in distress. It was different from the usual police woman or nurse, but still, it wouldn’t work.
    The last time his friends had surprised him with a stripper, Officer Nasty had tried a strip search on him, leaving him entirely unaffected. Not even the tease of a little bondage had gotten his cock to wake from its deathlike sleep. What made Ricky think this damsel in distress could do any better?
    She looked pretty enough, almost innocent. At least he could play along for a few minutes, see if anything moved. Without getting his hopes up, of course.
    “What happened?”
    She smelled like a wet dog and something else, but he couldn’t pinpoint it.
    “Some guy attacked me.”