I shiver thinking of that look in his eyes when he strode toward me in that back room of that bar and grabbed me. I remember how he yanked me against him, his hands tight on my skin - somehow both terrifying and electrifying.
My pulse beats beneath my skin as I remember the way he tossed me over his shoulder - the way he just manhandled me to where he needed me. The way he just took me, like I was his to take. Like some sort of Viking stealing a village girl away as a conquest.
And goddamnit if my body doesn't respond to that thought.
Damnit if I don't feel the illicit tingle of want creeping through my body. There's an ache aside of me, one that comes teasing out through places it shouldn't. I bite my lip under the spray of the water, squeezing my legs together as the forbidden temptation and desire I shouldn't have come flooding through me.
The roughness of his touch.
The hard look in his eyes.
The way his lips felt against mine, the room spinning and my feet leaving the ground as I melted into that moment.
I think of the way he tossed me onto his bed - the way my pulse had skipped as he'd loomed above me. The way the fear and the adrenaline had pulsed through me at the thought of him just doing whatever he wanted to me.
The way the arousal tingles through my pussy, thinking of him doing exactly what he wants to me.
My breath comes heavy, and my soapy hand lingers on my belly. I pant as it slides up to the slope of my breasts, letting a finger trace over my nipple.
I squeeze my eyes shut as if trying to shove away the feeling that thinking of him like that brings up inside. I'm trying to tell myself how wrong it is to think these sort of thoughts about the man who stole me away - the man who put a gun to my head and tied me up.
But my hands ignore my head. Fingers trace over my skin, moving lower and lower, against everything I'm telling it to do. Because I'm thinking of the way his shoulder felt pressing into my belly as he slung me over his shoulder. I'm thinking of the way his hands gripped me so tightly - so possessively.
I'm thinking of the animalistic look in his eyes as he tossed me across his bed.
I moan quietly in the shower - his shower - as my fingers find my pussy slick and aching. I gasp shamefully into the shower spray as I rub a finger over my clit, teasing the little nub there and feeling the aching want shudder through my body.
My wet hair drapes down over my face and the water cascades in steamy waves over my skin as I slip a finger inside. I gasp, teeth raking over my lip as I grind my clit against the palm of my hand, the dirty feelings rippling through me.
I'm getting wetter and my pulse is beating faster, and my body wants more, before suddenly, it's like reality hits me like a tidal wave.
Suddenly, I'm shattered from the moment.
My hand jerks away, and I suck in air as I quickly shake my head and hug myself under the spray.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I shiver despite the heat of the water, hugging myself and leaning against the warmed tile wall.
I mean honestly, what's the matter with me? This is Stockholm syndrome is what this is. Or, something. This is the adrenaline and other brain chemicals from my traumatic experience still running havoc though my head, obviously.
I can actually be attracted to the man who kidnapped me. I can't really be touching myself thinking of the man who tied me up, who made me pee in front of him.
And I hate that I'm still wet, thinking of him.
I shake my head angrily as I quickly whirl to turn off the water when suddenly my foot skids out from under me across some soap or something. I gasp as gravity goes topsy-turvy, and I scream as I go slamming into the shower wall, tumbling to the ground and taking the shampoo bottles and soap with me.
The bathroom door slams open, and I scream again.
"What the fuck are you doing!" I scream, covering myself and trying to shy away from Connor as he stands there looming in the doorway.
He looks away, his brow furrowing. "I heard you-" he glances back, and he grins.
"Look away!"
Connor chuckles. "You drop the soap or something?"
I'm this pathetic little ball on the floor of the shower stall, clutching an arm over my breasts and trying to hide myself with one leg.
"Do you mind?"
He looks right at me. "Not at all."
I scowl at him. "Can I have a towel?"
"And the magic word is … "
"Fuck you?"
He grins. "Close enough. Here."
"Can you look away?"
"Demanding little girl aren't you."
I roll my eyes as I snatch the towel from his outstretched hand. Little girl? I'm twenty-three, and there's no way he's past thirty. Still, I know there's a world of difference between us. Something tells me just by looking at him that he's older inside.
"Look away, please?"
He sighs, turning away in the open doorway as I stand. I turn my back to him, dropping my head down and squeezing my hair out, patting it dry as quickly as I can.
"Are you looking?"
"No."
I glance over my shoulder, and immediately yelp as I yank the towel around myself. My face burns hot, and my eyes narrow at the man staring right at me - those eyes hungrily drinking me in.
"You're an asshole."
"I'm an opportunist."
I yank the towel tighter around myself and wince at the bruise on my shoulder from my first escape attempt the previous night.
"C'mon, we'll get some ice on that for you. Get dressed."
He leaves the door open this time, disappearing into the kitchen. I quickly pull on his undershirt and boxers, looking at myself in the mirror.
I hate that I pull my hair back with my fingers, and I hate that I wish I had a brush. I hate that I peer closely into the mirror, pushing my hair behind one ear, and straightening my shoulders.
I hate that I care what I look like right now.
And I hate that I'm still soaking wet between my legs at the thought of his rough hands on me.
Chapter Sixteen
Connor
Sierra perches on one of my kitchen stools, holding a bag of frozen peas to her bruised shoulder.
This time, she only gives me a sour look instead of a kick when I zip-tied her ankle to the leg of the stool. Call it insurance, or whatever. We might have somehow turned a corner since I yanked her out of her ex's place, but then, this girl did smash me over the head and taser me.
Twice.
I'm holding a bag of matching frozen carrots to the back of my own head as I put water on to boil to make some pasta for a late, late night dinner. We could both use the sustenance after the last forty-eight hours or so.
We eat in silence, but the whole damn time, that voice is screaming inside my ear, like a roaring of a beast.
And why?
Because of one sound. Because I heard one sound I heard when I was standing outside that bathroom door after the water started on her shower. And I know a moan like that when I hear one.
So this is me taming the beast down. This is me gripping my fork harder than I should, my jaw tight as I chew, doing everything I can to keep that animal chained inside - the animal that wants to yank her against me, and take those lips again.
The beast that wants to reach between her legs and feel how wet she is.
I want to take that small, innocent body and make it mine.
That's what I'm fighting against in my head, and here I am cooped up with her.
"So are you like, a solo act?"
I look up from my pasta, eyeing her across the kitchen island. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, do you work alone?"
"No."
She rolls her eyes. "What, are you in a gang or something?"
"Yes."
She swallows, and even though I know she meant it as a joke, I don't care.
I'm not joking.
"Is that why you- I mean back at the bar, is that-"
"Why I shot that guy?"
"There were-" she snaps her mouth shut.
"Speak."
"There were two guys," she says quietly.
I shake my head. "I only shot the one, but they shot the guy I was with first."
Sierra frowns. "I'm sorry."
"I didn't know him, it's fine."
She looks at me but quickly glances down at her plate.
I know that look, especially from girls once they realize what I am. Once they realize that this isn't an act - that I'm not playing the tough guy role. This is actually just who I am, and it's why I'm good at what I do.
It's why I can walk into the scene of a hatchet murder and not blink an eye as I wipe any evidence and torch the place. It's why I can tie a body behind the wheel of a stolen car and push it off a bridge into the Boston harbor, and then go get a pint down at The Burren.
It's why I can kill, and sleep like a baby every night.
I shut that part of me down that cares a long time ago, and that's why I'm good at what I do.
She glances up at me, chewing her food.
"Fuck it."
Her brows arch at my words, but then she gasps as I stand and slip my switchblade out of my back pocket. She chokes when I flick it open, trying to scramble away even though her ankle is still bound to the chair.
I stalk around the counter towards her and she screams, almost toppling over.
"No! Don't-"
She goes quiet as I crouch down and slip the blade over the plastic zip-tie, cutting her loose. I stand, and she's blinking at me, her brow furrowed curiously.
"You're welcome."
I pocket the knife and go to grab a beer from the fridge.
"Before you decide to make a run for it, again."
I've already heard her chair scoot back behind me, and I hear her stop.
"I'm going to put the cards on the table." I turn back with two beers and slide one across the table towards her.