“That so?”
“Yes. Get me out of here, and I’ll see that you’re rewarded.”
His mind took a dive into the gutter, imagining a reward he was positive she hadn’t intended when she made the offer. No, she was probably thinking money or a pass from prosecution. She didn’t know that he was serving a life sentence. There was no pass from that.
“Get some sleep,” he said gruffly.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted him to guarantee her freedom. He felt her rattled sigh as much as he heard it. He’d disappointed her, and that made something twist inside him. He hated that she was here. He hated that she was afraid and that he couldn’t help her.
But that was just the way it had to be.
He settled his weight into the bed and closed his eyes. He would think better after a night’s sleep. Maybe then he could wade through the complicated web of saving her while simultaneously bringing down Sullivan. Moments ticked by. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. For eleven years he had slept alone, and now there was a woman next to him in a bed. A warm-bodied woman with curves and breasts that would overflow in his hands. A groan built up in his chest. This was going to be a very long night.
Suddenly, the door burst open and light flooded the room. Christ. He jackhammered upright, yanking her partially beneath him and glaring at the unwanted arrivals. He was half expecting it. It was the reason, after all, that he’d told her to strip off her clothes. But it didn’t curtail the rage flooding his veins.
His brother entered, bearing a plate of steaming food. Rowdy propped a shoulder on the doorjamb, munching on an ice cream sandwich, his feral gaze landing on them in the bed. She trembled underneath Reid. Convenient, he supposed. Not that he enjoyed her trembling in fear, but she needed to look traumatized.
“Get the fuck out,” Reid growled, his arms braced around Grace, shielding her while also trying to make it look like Zane and Rowdy had interrupted them. Again he was glad that he’d made her get undressed and into bed with him. If Zane didn’t think he was fucking her, he’d give her to Rowdy, no question about it.
Zane lifted the plate a bit. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Out,” he repeated.
“Told you he wouldn’t be interested in food right now,” Rowdy chimed in, stepping closer and peering at Grace. “How was she?” he asked mildly. “Looks like she’s got a decent rack.”
Grace whimpered and burrowed deeper into the bed, still shaking. What’s worse, Rowdy’s words only made Reid all too aware of her naked breasts mashed into his chest. The twin points of her nipples burned into him. Heat clawed through him.
Zane shrugged. “Figured you might be done and ready to eat something.”
Rowdy chuckled. “After all that time in the joint, he might be more than a two-pump-chump like you, man.”
Grace shuddered violently beneath him, and he glanced down at her, hoping to reassure her somehow with a look. Then the sight of her hit him like a Mack Truck. He was seeing her close up now, with the lights on. Her dark hair fanned out all around her. Even his propped arms were resting in the silken nest.
The olive skin. Liquid brown eyes and curling lashes. The tiny mole at the corner of her left eye. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something about her. Something as fresh and untouched and delicate as a rose after a storm. It was something that made his stomach twist into knots. She was innocent. She clearly didn’t belong in this place, with these men, with him.
He shook his head and blinked, killing the weak thoughts and letting in far more destructive ideas. “I’m not done,” he muttered to the intruders, and then all he could think about was how a girl like this would require a lot of time and attention. He’d devote long hours to her, starting with that lush mouth. The things he would do to that mouth . . .
Her eyes flared wide at his voice, his words. Apparently, he sounded convincing.
“’Course not.” Rowdy laughed roughly. “After all those years in prison, we probably won’t see you for a week. C’mon, Zane.”
He couldn’t tear his gaze off her. She stiffened under him, and he couldn’t help himself. He conducted a slow perusal, looking down her throat and shoulders. She had a smooth, unblemished complexion. His gaze feasted on all of it, watching as red splotches broke out across her olive skin. He wanted to see more.
He continued looking, taking in the top swells of her breasts pressing into his bare chest. His breath quickened, lifting his chest away for half a second before coming back down against her breasts. Again and again. He reveled in it—in the sensation of nipples he couldn’t see pebbling hard against his skin.
“Here you go, bro.” Something hit the end of the bed with a small thud, reminding him that they weren’t alone. “Don’t go making any babies. Suit up.”
The pulse in his ears rushed to a roar at the thought of that. Not about making babies . . . but sinking into the warm body under him.
Christ.
This wasn’t some willing female. He needed to get that sick thought out of his head. This wasn’t what he was. He hadn’t escaped prison to scratch an eleven-year itch with a willing woman, much less an unwilling one.
His pulse beat a tempo inside his ears. He heard the door shut as though from someplace far away. Still, he could not move. He was strung so tight, a wire on the verge of snapping, everything twisting. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he battled for control.
“They’re gone,” she whispered. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He tracked the movement of that tongue, something molten-hot curling through him at the sight of it. The last time he’d held a female in his arms, he hadn’t known anything. He was just a kid, barely out of high school. He took fucking for granted. At twenty, he certainly hadn’t thought to absorb the fact that Monica and Gaby, the sisters who lived in his trailer park—or the occasional party hookups—would be his last taste of intimacy.
“They didn’t turn the lights off,” she added into the stretch of hovering silence.
He found his voice, shoving thoughts of how, if he had the chance, he would take his time and savor every moment of having a woman in his arms. A woman like her. “I know.”
Her eyes were russet, a brown several shades lighter than the long blue-black hair twisting all around her.
The lights were still on, and that was the problem. He could see her. Feel her. He exhaled thinly through his nose, commanding himself to roll off her. Disengage.
“Reid?”
The sound of his name jolted him. Maybe it was the gentle sound of her voice, so cultured and well-enunciated.
Or maybe it was just her saying his name.
He couldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be doing this . . . shouldn’t enjoy the feel of her so much that hot need started to gather and pull at the base of his spine. He just came from a place that demanded he feed those needs. Take. Claim. That was the order of things in prison. He couldn’t do that, though. Not with her. Not like this.
He launched himself off her, sending the box of condoms his brother left him tumbling to the floor. With a curse, he crossed the room.
Her gasp told him she was watching him walk away and not missing the fact that he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
He flipped off the light, instantly drowning them in darkness again. For a moment he stood motionless, bowing his head, his fingers still on the switch. His cock jutted out hard and aching, hungry for action and not in agreement with his thoughts. He resisted the urge to take hold of his dick in the dark and give it a deep stroke. That wouldn’t help. It would only increase his torment, because there would be no release.
Lifting his head, he inhaled and forced nonsexy thoughts into his head, He imagined roadkill and what flesh-eating bacteria could do to a body.
“They won’t bother us again tonight,” he murmured, his voice thick.
He said the words to reassure her, but they rang almost ominously on the air. When he made his way to the bed and settled on the matt
ress, it was to find that she had scooted to the edge, as far away from him as possible. Smart girl. With her scent tangled around him and the memory of her skin against his, his erection showed no signs of waning.
It was going to be a long night.
Six
Grace woke to darkness.
Everything felt wrong. The feel of the bed; the quiet sounds and smells. The air felt different on her skin, heavy and vaporous as fog. She felt disconnected. Almost like she was inside someone else’s body. As though it wasn’t her lying there, but another person.
There was a prolonged moment of confusion as her mind floundered, trying to grasp where she was.
She was chest down, her cheek pressed flat into a mattress, her breath a persistent scratch against a wall of cotton. She flexed her fingers, feathering the tips, verifying the bed under her. She shifted, stretching her torso, a little startled at the sensation of sheets against her bare skin, rasping her breasts and pebbling her nipples awake.
A warm weight covered her hip. She shifted again, testing its pressure, too uncertain to reach out and touch it for herself.
Then it moved. Fingers. A hand. She wasn’t alone in the bed.
Everything flooded back in a blazing rush. Her stomach bottomed out.
She’d been abducted and was in bed with one of her kidnappers. Reid. The good-looking one who claimed he would keep her safe. Good-looking. Ha. That was a tame description for him. He looked like he’d stepped right out of Sons of Anarchy. She watched the television series in hotel rooms and on the plane, escaping the grinding routine of events and functions Holly dragged her to one after another.
It was dangerous thinking. Comparing him to a hot actor on a television show. He was real. And dangerous. She didn’t need to confuse him with some fictional character. He might be sexy, but he didn’t possess some hidden code of honor. If he were truly good, he would get her out of this awful place—or at least promise that he would help her escape. None of those reassurances were forthcoming. He’d rather vaguely said he would keep her safe, but she was still here. How safe could she be?
His voice rolled across the space between them and hit the back of her neck like tendrils of hot smoke. “How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?”
She exhaled and rolled flat on her back, accepting that she couldn’t feign unconsciousness. He could probably hear the pounding drum of her heart.
He didn’t move his hand. It stayed on her hip.
“What time is it?” she whispered.
“Close to dawn.” His hand felt like a searing brand even without exerting any pressure.
“What’s going to happen now?” Her voice was a scratchy whisper in the darkness. It sounded like another woman speaking . . . someone afraid and broken. That wasn’t her. She wasn’t beaten.
“I’ll come up with something.”
“That doesn’t sound very . . . heartening.” It would be daylight soon and then she would have to face those other men again. Nothing good could come of that. The promise of pain twisted their lips and lighted their eyes. She needed to get out of here.
“Heartening,” he echoed.
“Yes, it means—”
“I know what it means,” he replied flatly. “I love the way you talk, college girl.” Only he didn’t sound like he loved it.
She shivered slightly. His hand started to pull away and before she knew what she was doing she leaned in, closer, as though chasing that touch. A moth hunting flame. She stopped, catching herself. Her mind worked, trying to rationalize her actions. It had to be natural. This seeking of comfort when she was in such an unsafe, tenuous situation.
He paused. She realized then that it might appear that she wanted his touch.
And then it occurred to her that maybe she did. Or maybe she should.
If she was trying to win him over and make certain she lived through this, maybe being nice and allowing him certain liberties in order to survive wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world? Bottom line, this was about survival. Sometimes dire actions needed to happen in order to guarantee that. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for survival.
After a moment’s hesitation, he inched back in again, splaying his hand over her hip, his blunt-tipped fingers spreading wide, pressing into a stomach she had long bemoaned as not nearly flat enough. She forgot about that, though. His touch sparked her skin. All self-consciousness fled as a warm fire licked though her.
Her breath hitched. This was okay. If she experienced a little pleasure in submitting to him, that was better than flinching in revulsion or terror. At least that’s what she told herself. Those were the desperate words that wove like a serpent through her mind as her stomach heaved with nausea at his closeness, at his breath against her neck, his touch on her bare skin . . .
The mattress creaked slightly as he propped up on an elbow over her. Her chest squeezed. Even in the darkness she felt the size of him, the muscled breadth hovering over her like a great shadow.
His fingers flexed against her skin, the pads of his fingers rough, palms callused. They felt nothing like Charles’s smooth hands, which she had held innumerable times for the well-calculated photo op.
“This okay?” His deep voice rumbled on the air, as dark as the ink of night all around them. Those two simple words were a gravelly utterance. Only two words and yet she could hardly make sense of them in her spinning head.
Now was the time. If she didn’t want to go through with this, she needed to speak up. She needed to find her voice and say: No, stop, don’t.
A whisper scudded across her mind. It’s the only way. He’s the only way.
She needed to play nice. “Yes,” she breathed.
His hand shifted, fingers sliding over her panties, arrowing down the V of her crotch with honed precision.
Her breath quickened. She flung her hands up by her ears and grabbed fistfuls of sheet. They weren’t even skin-to-skin, but his hand brushing against her panties burned her up.
He cupped her then, his hand molded to her sex, fingers pressing into her seam.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmured, his voice like smoke near her ear. “Your pulse. It’s racing.”
Oh God. Her legs parted slightly, the muscles too lax to support their weight. His hand dipped deeper between her legs, never slipping under the cotton fabric but exerting enough pressure to make her traitor sex clench and throb.
He started rubbing, creating friction that heated her core and spread outward, singeing every nerve. Her face burned at the sudden moisture rushing between her legs, dampening the crotch of her panties. He must feel that. He must know. Hot humiliation lashed her face. OhGodOhGodOhGod.
She shouldn’t enjoy this so much. She was awful. Wanton and depraved.
She whimpered, her hips moving of their own accord, pumping in rhythm to his stroking. She bit her lip and arched, forgetting everything except how good he was making her feel between her legs.
He brought his face close to hers, his jaw scratching her cheek as his lips moved against her ear. “Is that for me, princess?”
She stilled. His voice . . . those words, washed through her in a bitter trail. No. This was wrong. She was not actually turned on. She was just faking it, pretending to go along for her survival. She wouldn’t enjoy this. She. Would. Not.
His hand stilled and she blinked up at those eyes glowing down at her. “You want this, Grace?” There was something in his voice, a strange heavy quality to the question, but she was too far gone to make sense of it.
“Y-Yes,” she answered, still telling herself she wanted this because it was the smart thing. Not because she wanted wanted it. She wasn’t that depraved. In all her fantasies (yes, she had her share), getting kidnapped and seduced by her abductor was not one of them.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just continued to stare down at her with his hand covering her throbbing sex. She felt him like a brand there, hot and possessive, and she resisted the urge to writhe against him.
He gently squeezed her sex, brushing a finger along her seam, so close but not quite hitting that spot. “You offering me this?” Again there was a strange gruffness to his voice.
She tried to speak but choked out a strangled sound. She nodded as much as she could manage.
“You think you need to use this as a bargaining chip, Grace?” The question was biting. He didn’t wait for her answer. “Well, you can keep it.” He pulled his hand away and clambered off her. “I told you I’d keep you safe. You don’t need to bribe me with a fuck.”
She flinched. He shrugged into his clothes, leaving her gasping on the bed, her body humming and aching, unfulfilled. Shame washed over her. She’d watched plenty of Lifetime movies in a lonely hotel room. It was too soon for Stockholm syndrome to kick in, so there was no excuse for her reaction. There should only be terror. She shouldn’t feel this aroused.
She sat up on the bed and buried her face in her hands, pretty certain this was what rock bottom looked like.
She was hotter than fire.
He never would have thought such a thing possible. He never thought anything about her exceptional the few times he’d seen her on the TV. She’d just been . . . wallpaper.
But he’d seen the fire tonight. He felt it.
And he wanted to dive straight into those flames and finish where he left off. He blamed it on his years in prison. Eleven years in a cage. Eleven years without a woman. That would cloud any man’s judgment.
He snatched up his clothes. With a muttered curse, he struggled into them, less than graceful. He turned for the door, but halfway there her soft voice stopped him.
“Reid?”
She said his name as though testing it . . . testing herself maybe.
With a sigh, he peered through the gloom of the room. He could see she was sitting up in bed now. He inhaled a ragged breath. He had no doubt he could do every filthy thing his long-denied body craved. She’d let him. As though she had no choice. A sick little feeling wormed through him.
Maybe she would even enjoy it, but she would still count it as a necessary sacrifice. She’d still hate that it happened . . . and later hate him for it.