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block triangulation.
    Feeling good, he jerked off until he spouted like a fountain against the wall, then watched the viscous liquid trickling down like diluted custard. His mind dredged up a phrase: how sweet it is… He slammed the table with his fist.
    It didn’t matter how long the storm lasted. She couldn’t hide from him as long as she had the stolen cell phone. He could find her easily. Even call her if he wanted to.
    He smacked his lips loudly. Hi sweet cheeks, it’s hubby. How you been ? He began laughing wildly.
    No, no, that wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t call. That would just warn her, and then she might think to ditch the phone. He would bide his time. Find her and take her fast, before she had a chance to escape. Yep, the rich Ivy League bitch thought she was clever, thought she could outsmart him; but she was not as clever as she thought—no, not as clever as he was. He would find his woman, find her and teach her manners, her proper place. Then poke it in so hard she’d love it.
    No, there was no hurry, no hurry at all. He ate some cold leftover chicken straight from the bone, chewing even the skin, then washed it down with lukewarm Heineken. Yes, when he found her, he would give that piece of ass a good, sound beating; then he would fuck the hell out of her.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    The curtain arrangement was Carol’s idea, an image resurrected from a classic movie. Josh had jury-rigged a makeshift telescoping metal rod between two walls of the cabin. Over the rod, he hung a curtain of heavy opaque green vinyl to divide the room. She had asked him to do this and now she’d have the privacy she badly needed when she slept, disrobed, or attended to personal grooming. He agreed that she was right. The small bathroom with its clasp lock afforded some privacy, but a woman alone in a small cabin with a strange man needed safe personal space.
    He had also spread out a sleeping bag he said was often used outdoors in snow. He placed the bag in the far corner of his side of the curtain, as far away from the bed as possible in the cramped quarters, and he told her that was where he planned to sleep while she was there. She pondered this, at first doubting his motives, even though he seemed sincere.
    Yes, she guessed she’d be OK with him sleeping there, at least for a while. That is, unless… She blinked; and the rash, lascivious thought faded. Had her brain been poisoned by the sex with Dugan? Was his sexual promiscuity contagious? Or was she lonelier than she imagined…
    She was troubled by the predicament of being alone with a virile man full-time in the close quarters of the small cabin for several days, maybe longer. They needed to forestall temptation. When he agreed to put up the curtain as a barrier, she was relieved.
    While maybe not the most sensitive man, he was much more aware than Dugan, and he seemed to care about her feelings and was eager to set her mind at ease. Yet she sensed from the faint flush in his cheek, the dilation of his pupils, that she aroused him.
    Again, that whimsical, perverted idea hit her—he was attractive; his physique was stimulating, even diverting. Surprised at herself, she shook her head. The freezing cold and the awful isolation had obviously turned up her oven’s heat and aggravated her libido.
    She had just run away from an obsessive, almost feral husband. She would be insane to spread her thighs for another stranger’s pulsing insertion. Experience had taught her better, or so she hoped. Still, her lips were dry, and her throat was tight. She took a breath and sighed.
    “Is everything OK?” he asked, raising his voice so that she could hear him through the thick curtain of material that hung between them.
    “Yes, yes, thank you,” she said.
    She ran her fingers through her tangle of hair. She knew this wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement for him. Not that he seemed to mind the sleeping bag. He told her that he was used to roughing it and didn’t mind