Smoke’s jealous.
I scoff. He has no right to be. Not after the redhead. Not after he kidnapped me. I’m furious and hurt and feeling more alone than I ever did at home.
I’m also frustrated, annoyed, and yet again trapped —cuffed to the fucking bed.
But there’s something empowering about having that effect on Smoke. Something satisfying about making him feel even a small dose of how he made me feel when he brought that girl here.
I scream out my frustrations into an empty house, kicking my feet against the mattress. I pull at the cuffs as if they will somehow magically release me.
They don’t.
I’m wound up so tight I could burst. Maybe, I should show Smoke the drive when he comes back. Maybe, it will mean something to him, enough to set me free.
I remember the deep V in Smoke’s forehead.
Or maybe, it will be my final undoing.
I try to calm my erratic heart and racing mind, but as I lay in the quiet room I find myself something beyond restless.
I stare at the ceiling, unmoving, heart beating wildly.
The empowerment over being able to make Smoke jealous turns into another kind of feeling that starts as a tingle between my thighs, growing and morphing into something more powerful until I’m pressing my thighs together to calm the growing ache.
I tell myself it’s the romance novels that’s ignited this need within me to feel more.