"Sláinte, buddy," I murmur, gritting my teeth before knocking the drink back.
The booze courses through me, burning, erasing - trying to give me some clarity.
I set the glass on the coffee table in front of me and glance over my shoulder, frowning. I yank my t-shirt up over my body, tossing it away and twisting my arm to get a look at the wound. I'll be fine. No stitches needed, which is always a plus.
I'm not shaken up from earlier, but that doesn't mean my mind isn't fucking racing. I'm thinking of the warning signs I should have seen - the meet set where it was, the fact that I walked into a meeting like that with a guy I don't actually know that well as my side man.
The cagey way Oleg was acting the second we walked in that room.
Warning signs I ignored, just because I was still lost in my own head over the drunk, hot little innocent college chick who'd just shoved her tongue down my throat.
The one that's currently tied to my fucking bed.
The one I just had squirming against me, pressing her ass back into my cock and wriggling in my grip in a way that just does things to a man.
I wasn't lying, I'm not "that" guy. I'm aware I'm stronger than her, by a mile. I'm aware that she's weak, and drunk, and tied to my bed, and I'm aware that the skirt she's wearing rode up more than a few times tonight enough for me to catch a glimpse of those panties.
Red.
I'm completely aware of what I could do right now, but that ain't me. Not a fucking chance.
But just the same, shit. There's no denying how fucking hard I am. There's no denying the lingering feeling of that tight, tiny little body of hers writhing against mine.
The sounds of her gasps.
The way her tongue felt. The way her lips tasted.
Fuck.
I reach for the glass, take another big slug of the whiskey, and give myself one more top-off before pushing the bottle away and leaning back into the couch with my drink.
The fuck is this, reverse Stockholm syndrome?
I made mistakes tonight. Big mistakes. And it damn well all started with that fucking kiss.
She snores across the room, and I grin, shaking my head. She fought pretty hard for being so drunk.
I sigh.
Tomorrow, I'm going to figure this out, but tonight?
I sigh, pushing the drink onto the table.
Tonight I'm sleeping on my own couch while my gorgeous little hostage snores across the room, tied to my bed.
Chapter Eight
Sierra
I wake up to the single worst hangover in the history of hangovers.
It's not just the whiskey. It's not just the feeling of being drained and wrung out. It's not the cottonmouth and sore eyes or feeling like I fell down a flight or five of stairs.
It's what happened to me last night.
It's being taken, and bound, and brought here.
My mind remembers the night in blurry flashbacks - coming here, my attempt at escape, him grabbing me and tying me to his bed. I remember fighting it, and screaming and thrashing until I finally lost all strength.
I slept eventually, I guess. Who would've thought.
But it's morning, and I'm still alive. He hasn't chopped me into little pieces yet.
I glance around the empty loft, blinking the haze of my hangover away as I turn to glance at the glaringly bright morning light coming through the big factory windows. I try and swallow, my mouth feeling parched and dry.
"Morning."
His rumbling, dark baritone makes me gasp, and wincing as I whirl to see him sitting in a chair next to the bed.
I shiver, realizing he's been watching me sleep. I also realize my skirt is practically riding up to my fucking underwear.
My arm jerks to pull it down, and that's when I remember him tying me up.
I scowl at him. "Do I really need to be tied?"
"I tried to be accommodating last night, and-" He nods his chin at his at the now righted side table I went crashing over last night, now sans lamp.
"Someone couldn't behave."
I say nothing, trying to swallow the thickness in my throat as he eyes me.
"Fine."
"Do not try that again, Sierra."
I freeze, the color draining from my face.
He shrugs. "I went through your purse. My name's Connor, by the way."
He stands, and I flinch as he leans towards me, but his hands go to the bind on my hands, pulling them loose and freeing my arms. His strong fingers find my wrists, rubbing me there as if to get the blood flow going, but I shrug his hands away.
He chuckles.
"So now what, Connor. I'm going to need food, you know, if you plan on keeping me here."
"Yep."
"Plan this out?"
He shoots me a look. "It's being handled."
"Oh, so you do this a lot?" I force the strength into my voice, swallowing back my fear.
"Do what a lot."
"Take a lot of girls here and tie them to your bed?"
He smirks, looking right at me. "Seems a little personal."
My face goes red. "I didn't mean- I mean-"
He raises a brow at me, smiling like he's amused by my stammering. "Yes?"
My mouth snaps shut, and he grins. He's teasing me. He's enjoying watching me squirm on the hook like this.
"My family is going to worry about me, you know. There are people who will look for me."
He nods.
"People who care about me. Friends, and family, and teachers, and classmates, and people I work with, and-"
"Hey, princess?"
I scowl.
"I get it, people like you."
"Yeah," I sneer. "They do."
"Of course they do."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You are very likable."
"That'd feel more like a compliment if I wasn't tied up."
He grins a small, tight smile. "Where are you from?"
"Oh, are we getting to know each other now?"
"We could sit here in silence if you want," he says evenly. "I could also gag you again."
I glare at him.
He grins that infuriatingly cocky grin again as he taps his chin. "Let me guess. You're a … college kid? What are you studying, fucking, liberal save-the-planet-nomics with a minor in feminist literature?"
"Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole?"
"All the time, sweetheart."
He sips the coffee in his hand, and I eye it, wanting a sip of it so badly it hurts almost as bad as my hangover and adrenaline crash.
"Want a cup?"
"No," I spit.
He grins, his eyes saying he knows full well I'm just saying it to be spiteful. "Suit yourself. So, college kid, am I right?"
I say nothing.
He grins. "A college kid, parents' money-"
"I pay my own way, thanks."
"So you are a college student."
I scowl.
"You don't come from a poor family though."
"Says who."
He smiles thinly. "Trust me, I know you don't."
I glance up at him, my eyes quickly taking him in in the light of day. The scruff on his chiseled, defined jaw. His strong, commanding dark eyes. The softness of his lips. The ink of the tattoos peeking out of the sleeves and neck of the t-shirt that's stretched tight in all the right places.
I frown, looking away.
"I'm guessing you're from, what, small town Idaho?"
I smirk. "Nope."
He taps his chin again. "Hmmm … some nice little spot somewhere, I can tell. I bet no one locks their doors, or their cars, and they all wave to fuckin' strangers on the street, right?"
I look down, my mind instantly going to my hometown of Shelter Harbor, north of Boston. The small town with the small-town flow, where - of course - no one locks their doors, and we wave to everyone.
I glance up, and he's grinning broadly.
I frown. "Yes?"
"Nothing, I'm just enjoying this game. "
I say nothing for a minute before I swallow and bring my eyes to his.
"Why am I here?" I say quietly.
"I'm pretty sure you'd prefer this to the alternative."
I swallow thickly, and something crosses his face.
"I'm not going to kill you," he says gruffly.
"Gee, thanks."
"You were thinking it."
"You don't know what I was thinking."
He smiles at me patronizingly. "Right."
"You don't know a thing about me, actually," I suddenly spit out, glaring at him. "I know you think you've got me all figured out, but you are so wrong about all of it."
"Are you or are you not a college student."
I scowl. "Not."
He raises a brow at me like he doesn't believe me, and I look away.
"I'm in grad school, thank you very much."
He laughs.
"And where are you from."
"Why on earth would I tell you that?"
"You worried I might come find you and carry you back to my loft and tie you up?"
My eyes dart to his face to see him grinning a cocky, smug grin.
"Oh, right, I've already done that."
"Why are you such an ass?"
"Why won't you just answer the question? Prove me wrong, princess. Tell me you're from fuckin' Detroit or something, and take away all my little preconceived notions of you being this perfect little-"
"Fine, I'm from Shelter Harbor."
He starts to laugh.
"Oh fuck you."
Of course, I'm from the most quaint, adorable seaside town on the Massachusetts coast you could possibly imagine. A haven for city tourists in the summer, a destination spot for retirees going leaf-peeping in the fall, a "New England wintery wonderland" in the cold months, according to the Travel and Leisure article that came out a few years back.