Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

From the distance, he beckons me without lifting a finger. That deceptively laid-back stance is commanding. He stands next to his truck in a silent instruction. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head toward the passenger side. I know what he wants. I eye the distance to the lobby. I’ll never make it. That powerful and lithe body is ready to sprint, chase, and catch.

Sticking my hand back into my bag, I drop the keys and find my canister of pepper spray. I don’t look away from his hidden gaze as I take a step forward. I don’t have a choice, but I don’t obey only because he can outrun me. A spark of curiosity drives me—a quest for answers. Why did he give me a phone and pay my rent? Why did he come back? A spark of something deeper and darker ignites in my belly, reproducing the effect of his touch. I can’t deny the warped excitement that mixes with my fear.

The reason that allows me to go forward in the end is knowing he’s not going to kill me. He would’ve done so if he wanted to. He could’ve waited in my apartment with a knife. He could’ve trained a gun on me the minute I was within shooting range.

No, killing isn’t his motive. I advance like a bird cautiously approaching a snake’s den. He stands dead still. The cap throws a shadow over his eyes, but I know he’s tracking my movement with undivided attention.

A short distance away, my step falters. Hovering on the spot, I weigh my decision. I can blast him with my pepper spray or get into his truck. I can fight for my life or listen to what he wants.

Despite the fact that I’ve stopped moving, he doesn’t jump forward and grab me. He needs nothing more than silence to make me fear the consequences of disobedience. He doesn’t need words or signals to threaten me. His subdued tenseness and faked calm are enough to make me want to turn around and run, even if it will be futile. It’s the smile that flirts with his lips that tips the scale.

The shift is small, but the act is momentous. It’s the moment I come to a decision. It’s the moment I decide to trust him with my life. It’s not my fear or twisted anticipation that coaxes me into resuming my walk but the trust that makes me close the final distance.

His voice is deep and approving, a reward for my obedience. “Cas.”

I glance around and ask under my breath, “What are you doing here?”

He turns the cap sideways. Sunlight filters over his face, illuminating his high cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. His perfection makes me suck in an involuntary breath. The light catches the muddled brown of his eyes, and as the quirk of his lips grows into a lazy smile, I almost miss the flash of vulnerability that sparks in those dark pools.

An insight hits me. He expects a rejection. Even so, he won’t settle for no.

When he still doesn’t attack me, I loosen my hold on the weapon in my bag and repeat my question. “What are you doing here?”

“I owe you a dinner,” he says.

My voice is surprisingly steady. “Do I have a choice?”

His cocky smile warms a fraction, softening his expression. “In some things.”

My question is blunt. “Are you going to kill me?” He turns everything I feel certain about upside-down with a smile, and even if I’ve taken the leap of faith, I need to hear it.

He doesn’t pretend to be surprised by my thought. “No.”

Done talking, he opens the passenger door and stands aside for me to climb in. Trust or not, I’m shaking. I hope he doesn’t notice as he wraps his fingers around mine and helps me up the step. The slam of the door sounds final, but what I’m doing only dawns fully on me when he slides in next to me and the smell of tobacco and leather fills my nostrils.

In an instant, I’m hurled back to the night he took me. A confusing cocktail of fear and excitement rushes through me. Terror and arousal assault me all at once. Taking a deep breath, I force the memory away. I can’t dispel the feelings, but it helps if I don’t think about what happened. It takes a moment to find a semblance of calmness.

He’s not going to kill me.

If he was planning on slitting my throat, he wouldn’t have paid my rent.

He watches me as he turns the key in the ignition. Throwing an arm over the seat behind me, he breaks our eye contact to look through the rear windshield as he reverses before steering the truck onto the road. At the end of the block, he turns into a side street.