Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

Overwhelmed with his presence, I try not to stare at his handsome face or his big hand gripping the wheel. I try not to feel the thumb he strokes down the column of my neck.

When I can’t resist any longer, I steal a glance at him. “Where are we going?”

“Not far,” he says in a raspy voice, shooting me another smile.

The gesture is soft and disarming, taking away the edge of the tension that keeps my insides tightly coiled. I relax marginally, although it’s hard to do with the way the calloused pad of his thumb scrapes lazily over my skin. The goosebumps he elicits go bone deep.

Jacaranda trees whiz past as he crosses the southern train tracks and heads toward the mountains. We don’t speak. I’m on the edge of my seat, shifting around until he removes his arm from behind me to take a cigar from the console and pop it into his mouth.

“You smoke?” I’m not interested, just curious.

“I don’t light up any longer,” he says around the cigar. “Stopped a long time ago.”

That explains the whiff of tobacco that clings to his clothes.

Chewing on the end of the cigar, he drives as if he has no care in the world, as if there couldn’t be a roadblock somewhere on our way. He drives like only a man with a gun under his seat can—with confidence. In comparison, I’m ill-equipped with my pepper spray. Yet I got into his truck. I didn’t fight him, just like I didn’t fight him when he spread my legs and let me feel his hard-on.

It’s hot inside, but I don’t take off my jacket. I’m too scared I’ll accidently brush up against the arm he lays on the armrest between us. Instead, I wind down the window and inhale the warm air while my heart beats like a beast in my chest.

He switches on the AC. When the air runs cold, he pushes the button on his door to close my window.

After we clear town, he takes the road that goes to the Kloof, a holiday resort with swimming pools and cabins situated around a gorge.

At the gate, the guard hands him a clipboard and pen. I glance at the name he scribbles on the form—Danie something. His handwriting is indecipherable. He’s taking a huge risk, increasing his chances of being caught tenfold. We’re not hanging around town, but who’s to say the cops aren’t looking all the way out here? Or maybe they assume what I’ve mistakenly thought, that Ian had long since crossed the border.

The guard takes the clipboard when Ian has signed and lifts the boom. Ian follows the road past the main parking and camping site to the cabins at the foot of the cliff. He parks in front of one situated a little distance from the others. A cluster of Acacia trees provides privacy. The lawn is green and neatly trimmed around the paths. The place is just as I remember it. During high school, I spent a few weekends here with my schoolmates. The pools are popular during summer and the cabins ideal for sleeping over after parties involving too much alcohol.

My nerves almost fail me when he gets out and opens my door, but it’s too late to run or try and hide. He offers me a hand. When I’m standing on the high step of the door, he locks his fingers around my waist and lifts me to the ground.

He holds on for a second too long, staring into my eyes. “Steady?”

Not trusting my voice to speak, I nod.

Intertwining our fingers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leads me to the cabin. His skin is warm and his grip firm without squeezing too hard. In different circumstances, I would’ve found the touch reassuring. He takes the key from his pocket and unlocks the door, only letting go of my hand when he stands aside for me to enter.

Inside, the thatch roof smells like grasslands and safari holidays. The cheaper accommodation has corrugated iron roofs, but the thatch is much cooler in the heat. A ceiling fan swooshes above the open-plan living space.

I hover in the middle of the floor, taking in the clean surfaces of the kitchen counters and the spotless tile floor. Birdsong reaches me through the closed windows. The glass isn’t double-paned. At least if I scream, someone should hear me. If there is someone around. It’s the middle of the week and outside of holiday season.

The knowledge is little consolation when he locks the door. The turn of the key sends a shiver down my spine. He leaves the cigar in the ashtray on the coffee table and pulls off his jacket, battling a bit with the sleeve on his wounded side. Just as well he doesn’t ask for the jacket he lent me. The one he’s wearing now is brown instead of black, and by the cracked look of the leather, it’s not new. If it’s this worn, it must be one of his favorites.