Stolen Lust Page 11

  When she’s finally done eating, I carry our empty plates to the kitchen and load the dishwasher. I picked up panna cotta for dessert.

  “More wine?” I ask as I serve her the custard and add a swirl of berry sauce.

  She toys with her spoon. “No, thanks.”

  We finish in silence. I don’t offer her coffee. She’ll only accept to postpone the inevitable. Instead, I pour her a glass of water and get her bag from the sofa. She doesn’t protest when I go through it and extract her pills, but she does slice me up with a cutting look that only makes me hard.

  Shaking out two pills, I offer them on my palm. “How long since you’ve had dilated cardiomyopathy?”

  Her eyes flare. “How do you know?”

  “I did some reading.”

  Her perfectly shaped, small, red-painted nails scrape over my palm as she takes the pills. “Why?”

  The shiver she ignites goes all the way to my balls. “I like to read.”

  She swallows the pills with the water and gives me a narrow-eyed glare. “About my medical condition?”

  I needed to know if the shock I’d put her through was going to leave permanent damage and how to deal with any emergencies. I meant it when I said I’m not going to fuck around with her safety.

  “About lots of things,” I say.

  “Why?”

  Obstinate. I grin. I like it. A little too much. “I didn’t finish high school. Whatever I want to know, I need to learn from books.”

  The stiffness of her shoulders gives a bit, and some of the fear in her eyes melts to make way for understanding. “I barely finished school myself.”

  I’m not letting her off the hook. “When were you diagnosed?”

  “It’s genetic. I got it from my mom.”

  I nod. “Is it painful?”

  “No. I just get out of breath and tired sometimes.”

  From what I’ve read, with chronic medication she can live a full and long life. “How about sport?”

  “I can’t do anything too strenuous, but I enjoy dancing.”

  “What kind of dancing?”

  “Modern. I’ve been dancing since I was five, but I gave it up when I turned sixteen.”

  This woman intrigues me. I want to know everything. “Why?”

  “There were a lot of chores on the farm.”

  “What kind of farm?”

  “Cattle and mostly maize. We planted some vegetables, depending on the crop rotation.”

  “A farm girl.” I smile. “My kind of girl.”

  The compliment makes her back snap tight again. She doesn’t like the implied meaning that we make a good fit. Anyway, it’s time to bring up the subject that’ll make her tense anew and get the stress out of the way. “Stay the night.”

  I’m saying it like she has a choice, but I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no. I won’t touch her without her consent, but I’ll definitely not drive her home. I want her badly enough to sacrifice my left nut, but I’ll settle for just talking. I’ll even settle for watching her sleep.

  She chews her lip as she considers my invitation. Wisely, she makes the correct deduction. “Do I have a choice?”

  I give her the same words as before. “In some things.”

  Gripping the edge of the table, she gets to her feet. “What do you want from me?”

  Everything. “One night.”

  She’s delicate and small-boned, but she faces the man who kidnapped her—not once but twice—head-on. “What if I say no?”

  “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want it.” It may kill me, but I’ve never forced or seduced any woman, and I’m not going to start now. It’s her choice or nothing. I won’t settle for anything less than her free will.

  “But you won’t take me home, right?”

  My silence gives her the answer.

  “I need a shower,” she says, all but escaping to the far end of the room.

  She looks at the lock on the front door. The key is missing. I’ve pocketed it. She can’t climb through a window. They’re fitted with mosquito screens that don’t open.

  Pushing to my feet, I wince at the pull in my shoulder. “Tell you what. Why don’t you help me clear the table, and I’ll show you the bathroom when we’re done?”

  I don’t need the help, but the task will help calm her. She doesn’t argue. She carries our empty glasses and the half-empty bottle of wine to the kitchen while I load the dishwasher and wipe down the table before blowing out the candle.

  She’s shifting the wine around on the counter, first placing it in one corner and then moving it next to the microwave. I step up behind her. Unable to resist, I drag my hands over her arms. Her skin is softer than silk. She’s tall for a woman, but still a good head shorter than me. Acutely aware of her smaller frame and frail figure, I suppress an urge to drag her against me and shelter her in my arms. However, I can’t resist nuzzling her neck and inhaling that intoxicating perfume of flowers that blossom in winter.

  My voice is hoarse. “Cold?” My need is raw.

  On cue, she shivers. The night is cooler at the foot of the cliffs. I want to make sure she’s comfortable. My hands feel empty when I let go to switch off the ceiling fan. When I turn back to her, she’s watching me. I wait, giving her the opportunity to make the first move.

  A tense stretch of silence follows. Still, she says nothing. She’s going to need some coaxing.

  “What you do want, Cas?”

  She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It’s been a long day. I better have that shower.”

  The action draws my gaze. I imagine biting those lips and other parts of her body. When I finally manage to tear my eyes away from her mouth, I’m quietly panting like a dog in heat.

  Her words register in my mind. She didn’t invite me to join her in the shower, not that I expected her to. The night is still young but not nearly long enough. There’s no time for beating around the bush.

  Crossing the floor, I don’t hide my feelings. I let her see the lust burning me up from the inside. “Will you let me touch you?”

  All I get is a small shake of her head and the distance she puts between us as she backs up to the fridge.

  I follow, stopping short of her. “This is how it’s going to work, baby doll. I won’t touch, but you’re going to let me watch.”

  Chapter 11

  Cas

  It’s not what I expected. Baffled, I stare at the imposing man who’s backed me into a corner. Yet he’s not pouncing. He is, however, unrelenting. He’s enforcing his dominance, making sure I understand how the compromise is going to work. Awareness rushes over my senses, tightening my skin. The touch I’m denying him ghosts over my body, leaving multiple shivers in its wake.

  Do I want him to touch me?

  Yes.

  Should I let him?

  No.

  There’s no happy ending to this. He’s already made me an accomplice to his crime. I had no choice. I can write off the fact that I gave in due to exceptional circumstances. I can argue I gave him my body in exchange for my life. Maybe I did. I’m still not sure why I opened my legs for him. No one would blame me. But a second time? It makes my innocence a bit harder to swallow.

  The cops are already doubtful of my statement. I don’t want to get sucked deeper into this mess. I’ve already lost my job and almost my home. I have no wheels or income. My life has all but gone to pieces, and I’ve yet to pick them up. Who knows what another night will cost me? I don’t want to deal with the consequences of giving in to him again. I’ll be faced with handling the aftermath of tonight alone. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone, and he’s not coming back. Unless it’s to make good on his threat if I talk.

  Giving me one of those half-smiles, he walks to the door that leads off the lounge and opens it in silent invitation.

  He didn’t bring a gun inside. If he had, I could’ve tried to disarm him. My dad taught me to shoot before I could walk. I can handle a pistol or rifle as well as any soldier, and
when I pull the trigger, I always hit a bullseye.

  “Cas,” he says in his deep, husky voice, letting me know he’s waiting.

  I’m not shy about my body or about nakedness. I love the feel of skin and the beauty of flesh. What makes me hesitate is my own reaction. It’s what letting him watch can lead to. I’m not immune to his touch. He excites me. The danger that emanates from him draws me. He’s the magnificent, walking proof that not all sex is a cliché and that fantasies can be real.

  That’s not why I finally put one foot in front of the other. What makes me cross the floor is the need to dislike him. I don’t want to trust him, but I do. I do because he hasn’t hurt me. He hasn’t killed me. Yet. He will if he must, and that’s why I can’t let my foolish heart feel safe with him. I need to prove to myself my trust is unfounded when he breaks his promise. That is why I walk through the doorframe into the bedroom.

  He follows but not so close on my heels as to make me nervous. Well, not more nervous than what I already am. He gives me time to take in the space. The room is small but clean. It smells like a mixture of thatch and laundered linen. A comforter without a single crease covers a double bed. The pillows in their white pillowcases look fluffed out.

  “There are towels and a robe,” he says, opening the en-suite bathroom door. “I brought shampoo if you’d like to wash your hair.”

  The consideration catches me off guard. The dinner, the candle, and the toiletries… he prepared for spending the night. When he made it sound as if breakfast was my idea, that breakfast had already been a foregone conclusion.

  “Go ahead,” he says, “unless you want to chicken out.”

  No one calls me a chicken. I walk to him and stop so close our bodies are almost touching. I notice with satisfaction how his chest expands with the breath he takes and holds.

  “If I don’t let you watch?” I challenge.

  His dark eyes heat. “I get to touch.”

  He scorches me with nothing but a look. “That’s not what you said earlier. You said you won’t touch, but you get to watch. You didn’t say anything about touching if you can’t watch. You changed the rules.”

  Holding my gaze, he cups my nape and brings his mouth a hairbreadth from mine. His words are soft-spoken, which only adds to their intensity. “I make the rules.”

  Affected, too much so, I step away, escaping the touch and the quiet but undoubtable promise. No idle threats. No empty promises. I don’t have to know him well to know this about him.

  A promise is a promise, even if it’s an unspoken one. Making good on my promise, I turn my back on him and step onto the bath rug. Then I face him. I don’t shy away from the challenge. Keeping my gaze trained on his face, I take in his expression as I undress. When I pull off my sneakers and socks, his lips tilt in that lazy way that says he’s amused. He braces a shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms and ankles. If I were naïve, I would’ve thought he’s getting comfortable to watch the show, but there’s more to the relaxed stance. He’s blocking the only exit, trapping me in the small space.

  Refusing to think about it lest I lose my nerve, I pop the button of my jeans. When I pull down the zipper, his smile slips. The skin of his cheekbones pulls taut as he flexes his jaw when I shimmy out of my jeans. The effect my bare legs has on him is written on his gorgeous face. All traces of cockiness vanish as I kick the jeans aside and straighten.

  The shirt tails hide my underwear, but his gaze slips to my groin and burns on the spot as if he wills himself to see beneath with X-ray vision. For that reason alone, I start with the top button, unfastening it slowly. The action draws his gaze. A flash of heat darkens his eyes as he follows the path of my fingers.

  By the time my fingers flitter over the third button, he’s hard. The bulge in his jeans runs down his thigh, reminding me of that long, thick, and perfectly shaped part of his anatomy. His biceps bunch when the last button pops through the buttonhole. He swallows when I drag a nail down the center of the shirt to part the edges.

  “Wait,” he says in hoarse voice.

  I stop.

  His gaze locks onto mine. “Slowly.”

  A spark ignites under my skin. His arousal doesn’t leave me unaffected. He’s ten shades of trouble and more, but the way he just stands there and lets me behave like a tease while he keeps his word to keep his hands to himself only makes me want him more. I’ve always found willpower sexy. That’s my secret turn-on. Good looks and a stud body are just bonuses.

  What am I doing? I don’t want to play into his hand. I want to mistrust him, like I should. Dipping a shoulder, I let the shirt fall down my arm in a careless action. I’m about to tear out of the shirt in a very unsexy move when he stops me.

  “Cas.” His tone is soft but filled with warning. “I only have this one night with you. I want to savor every part of it.”

  His words invite both relief and a foreign sense of disappointment. The disappointment feels too much like rejection, even if it’s illogical and unfounded. With his lifestyle, he must be constantly on the run. He’s risking his freedom being out here with me, and I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s for my personality. It’s for what lies beneath the shirt. It’s the every part he wants to savor.

  “I didn’t say to stop,” he says, meeting my eyes with a glint in his that warms the brown and highlights the amber flecks.

  He’s in control, even if I’m executing the actions. No matter how much he wants sex, he’s showing me who’s calling the shots. He’s reminding me whatever happens will be on his terms, and I’ll go home when he’s ready. The loss of power is a jerk back to reality. I’m not a girlfriend putting on a striptease for her boyfriend. I’m a hostage doing what my kidnapper demands. He’s just clever at letting me think undressing for him is my choice. That I find cleverness as attractive as willpower is another unfair point for him.

  He’s holding back so hard, his arms are crossed in an anaconda grip. “Cas?”

  Despite his bulging arm muscles and hard-on, he’s still in control of himself. He has enough restraint to trust himself to resist. That’s why he’s standing there so coolly and collected. He knew from the start he’d win. He knew I’d underestimate him.

  Oh, my God.

  He manipulated me.

  Like a fool, I fell for it.

  “Giving up already?” he asks with a wicked smile. “’Cause I’m more than happy to touch.”

  I’m fuming. “That’s not fair.”

  His smile is back in place, amused and victorious. “Rules are rules.”

  “Which you get to make,” I remind him.

  “I don’t want to fight you.” The warning isn’t unfriendly, but he’s not playing around either. “You can undress, or I can go over there and put my hands wherever I like.”

  Fine. He wins, but he’s not getting a show. When I grip the elastic of my panties to pull it down under the shirt, he says, “Not like that.”

  Irritated, I lash out in a snappy tone. “Why don’t you just tell me how to go about this?”

  Immune to my sarcasm, he grabs the opportunity, twisting it into permission to boss me around. “Take off the shirt. I want to see what you’re wearing underneath.”

  I let the shirt slip off my other shoulder and pull free my arms. The intake of his breath is sharp when the shirt hits the floor. The hiss escapes before he can catch it. I’m standing in front of him in my black bra and matching panties. The lace is feminine and the cut flattering. The push-up bra gives me a cleavage, something my smaller breasts don’t achieve unassisted.

  He drags his gaze over me from top to bottom. His eyes don’t reflect glee or victory at my submission. Like the first time we had sex, he shows me how my body affects him. He gives me a great measure of power in return for the choice of going home that he takes from my hands.

  “Take off the panties,” he says in a gruff voice.

  I expected him to go for the bra first. Most men do the undressing in that order.

  At my
hesitation, he says, “I won’t touch, baby doll, not if you don’t want it.”

  If he does, I won’t hate it, but it will give me a reason to mistrust him.

  “I know you’re not shy,” he says.

  No, I’m not. Letting me strip is taking it easy on me. However, it’s costing him. He’s clenching his hands so hard his knuckles are white.

  I’m curious. “Why not the bra?”

  “I haven’t seen your tits yet. I want to keep them for last.” He cocks a brow. “Ready or do you give up?”

  I never give up. Hooking my thumbs into the elastic of my panties, I slide them over my hips and down my legs. His gaze follows the path to my ankles. When I step out of the scrap of lace, he reverses the direction, burning my skin with his eyes until my core catches fire under his scrutiny. His lashes brush his cheeks as he lowers and lifts his eyes slowly. The flames sizzling under my skin reflect in his look as we lock gazes again.

  “Now the bra,” he says.

  He’s a breast guy. He saved the best for last. This is the point where he cracks or wins. Reaching behind my back, I undo the clasp and push the straps from my shoulders. When the bra slides down my arms and drops at my feet, he fixes his attention on my breasts with such intense concentration I’m worried he’ll see the heat that burns under my skin. My nipples tighten as he caresses them with his eyes. My body responds to the admiration he lets me see, getting slicker when it hasn’t been my plan.

  “Perfect,” he says, offering me more power than any man ever has.

  My ex-boyfriends mostly downplayed my body, maybe because they thought if they didn’t show they liked what they saw, the weapon they put in my hands would be less effective. Most of them said my breasts were too small. My last ex never stopped nagging about having them enlarged.

  “Go on,” he says, tilting his head toward the shower.

  Giving him my backside, I turn on the water. In the reflection of the glass, I see him checking out my butt. He doesn’t budge from his post in the doorframe as I step under the spray. He continues to watch as I shampoo my hair and lather my body with shower gel.