Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

“Fuck,” he mutters against my skin.

Lifting his face, he looks down at me. His expression is a spectrum of emotions, all open and on display. He doesn’t hide the satisfaction or admiration. He lets me see everything, allowing me to feed my ego on his vulnerability.

It’s a gift, an enormous one, that only a man with bucketfuls of strong self-esteem can offer. A lesser man could never make himself such an open target, because letting me see this truth requires a transfer of power in which he gives me everything. He shows me how weak I make him and how much he liked what we did.

There’s no remorse in his eyes as he searches my face. “You doing okay?”

“Mm.” I’m lethargic and high on endorphins.

His eyes warm with satisfaction. The crooked curve of his lips makes him look impossibly handsome. “Need a bath? There’s no running water, but I can make a fire and heat some.”

Without thinking, I drag my hands through his hair. The shaved side is coarse under my fingertips while the long strands tangle in my fingers.

He hisses when I pull. He narrows his eyes a fraction, heat sparking in the depth of that wise, rich brown. He grows thick inside me again, but as I tighten my muscles to pull him deeper, he pulls out.

“Not so soon,” he says in a strained voice. “You’ll be sore in the morning.”

I want to say it’s already morning, but I don’t want to drag attention to the time. If he has deadlier plans for me, I don’t want to remind him time is running out. Shit. I don’t want to think about the fact that I just let my kidnapper fuck me. I can’t rationalize it.

When he straightens, my gaze slips to his still erect cock.

“What’s the verdict on that bath?” he asks, getting rid of the condom and discarding it in a trash bag on the floor.

Without the heat of his body and his lips with their twisted promise on my skin, the haze of my lust evaporates and reality seeps in. Cold and sinister. He’s had his way with me. He can do anything to me now.

I sit up, not bothering to close my legs. Despite the fact that death is a very possible outcome in my cards, I’m a pervert like that.

He watches. He can’t help it.

I soak it up. I can’t help it either.

“Baby doll.” He tears his gaze from my sex to my face. His voice sounds pained. “You’re not making this easy for me.” Coming to some kind of decision, his expression hardens. “Bath. Yes or no? You have one second to make up your mind.”

“What’s the alternative?”

The question is loaded. To live or to die. He holds the power. My life is in his hands.

“Leaving,” he says, almost gritting out the word.

My stomach flips over. Hope makes me breathe harder. I close my legs. Can I trust him?

He adjusts his jeans and zips up. Then he waits.

“I’m fine,” I say, holding my breath as I test if he’s as good as his word.

He doesn’t argue, but there’s tension in his shoulders when he picks up my jeans from the floor and hands them to me.

I shimmy into them as I keep him in my vision. Guys don’t get emotional about sex. He can still slit my throat and dump my body in the bushes. Just because I let him inside me doesn’t mean he’ll have mercy.

“If you’re hungry for something more appetizing,” he says, “I can concoct some chili.”

I shake my head.

A second ticks past. Something balances on that second, something I can’t read. The tension mounts as he makes up his mind and the scale tips.

“Come,” he says, leading the way to the lounge.

I follow because I don’t have a choice.

My jacket and my bag lie on the sofa. He takes the jacket and holds it open. I slip into it and let him help me fit the sleeves.

Gripping my shoulders, he turns me back to face him. Our eyes lock when he zips up the jacket. He holds onto the puller as he runs out of zipper. A reluctant moment passes before he lets me go.

“Sit,” he says.

Swallowing, I obey. He goes back to the kitchen. I listen with my heart thumping in my chest to his footsteps sounding down the hallway. I eye my bag. The steps come to a stop. Silence. I have precious seconds.

Grabbing the bag, I zip it open and dig through it. It’s an idle hope, but maybe he’s put back my phone. Maybe he only deactivated the geotracking.

The footsteps pick up again. My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as I brush makeup and tissue packets aside. Shit. The beat of his boots on the concrete is getting closer. Too late. I drop the bag next to me, cross my arms, and try to school my features.