Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(34)

“Good girl,” he says.

Oh, I definitely want to hurt him.





Chapter Twenty




Grayson


I love it when she’s angry at me. Back at the prison she always seemed kind of sad. Beaten down, like some of the lifers. But when I make her angry, her eyes light up like firecrackers. I watch her boom boom boom like she’s my own private show.

The room is as small and shitty as I expected. It’s a good thing because it means no one will be eager to fill up the rooms around us. I can’t trust her not to scream. It would be a stupid move, but captive animals do stupid things sometimes. The brain shuts off, and then they’re pure panic. Right now, she’s thoughtful. Watching me carefully for a sign I’m slipping up. Ordinary people can’t cope with this kind of stress. She’s not only coping, she’s impressing the hell out of me.

I can’t afford to be impressed with her.

“I want to take a shower,” she says, just as regal as can be. Like the Queen of England, and I’m one of her subjects.

“Your wish is my command,” I reply just to watch her eyes spark all over again.

I let her have the shower. I even let her close the door—which is a gift on my part. Plus it gives me time to scout the motel room without her watching me. There’s only one bed, and thankfully it’s got a post I can tie her to.

The door is bolted shut with the chain lock in place. The only chair slides right under the knob—keeping intruders out as well as keeping her in.

The shower has been going for a long time. An old motel like this—the water will be cold by now.

I don’t bother to knock; I shove inside and find her huddled in the tub, knees pulled to her chest. She’s making little stifled noises, as if she’s drowning underneath the spray. She’s not drowning; she’s crying. Something strange weighs down my chest, sudden and heavy. I’m not one of those guys who’s allergic to women crying. I don’t care if they like it, even though they usually do. But something about her curled up in a ball like a wet kitten makes me want to dry her off with a fluffy towel and tuck her into bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask her even though I don’t expect an answer. She doesn’t give me one.

The water is freezing, so I shut it off. There’s no fluffy towel, just a thin one. I use it to dry her. She’s shivering, not looking at me. Her hair forms a heavy damp curtain around her face. It’s a shield, but I’m done letting her hide. I tuck the wet hair behind her ear. On impulse, I kiss her cheek.

She flinches like I slapped her.

I touch her gently at her temple—the same place I’d put a gun as a threat. We’re in for the night. She knows what’s coming.

I trail my finger down, down, down her cheek and across her lips. I follow the line of her profile. She becomes two dimensions to me, a cutout silhouette of a real person. The line of her neck is an edge, something I can cut myself on. When I get to the tops of her breasts, she grabs the towel around her and pushes away.

“That’s right,” I say approvingly. “Fight me.”

The back of the neck is a sensitive place. It’s where one animal grabs another to bend them into submission. It’s where I place my hand. I use it like a leash to guide her to the bed. Each step feels forced, and that’s the way I like it.

“Lay down,” I say.

She glares at me.

“Lay down, and I’ll let you keep the towel.”

She hesitates, then complies, fastening the flimsy towel just over her breasts.

“Let’s be clear,” I say as I tie her wrists to the headboard. “If I want to f*ck you, I’ll f*ck you. If I want you to suck my dick, you’ll suck my dick. And if I want you to lie there quietly and go to sleep, you’ll do that too.” But that’s not in the cards, and we both know it.

Her wrists are tied tight enough to press her hands together as if she’s in prayer, with a cloth connecting them to the bedpost. I move to her feet, fastening one ankle to the metal frame under the mattress. Best if the other one’s free.

I stand and survey my work as she glares up at me. And that mouth. That pretty pink mouth with the tongue that darts out and wets her lips. Yeah, I could do a lot with that mouth. She’s mine to do what I want with, and it’s hard to know where to start.

With a huff she turns and curls on her side, away from me—as much as she can be with her hands and one ankle tied, anyway. I run a finger along her arm. Goose bumps rise.

“You gonna pretend you like it?” I ask.

Her fists clench, as much as they can, anyway. I don’t really want her to pretend. I like her how she is. Real. I think about the library, when I took off her glasses. How real she felt. Like we were standing on the edge of something.

I want her to talk, so I goad her. “You gonna pay your way? Maybe if you f*ck me good, I’ll let you go.”

She makes a hissing sound. “Never.”

“Yeah.” My smile dawns slow. “Maybe you’d rather stay with me.”

She jerks her head around, and there go her eyes again. Boom boom boom. Suddenly they seem important, those fireworks. Like I have to keep them in her eyes. Can’t let them fade out.

But then she turns away from me again and goes very, very still. I sit on the bed next to her and run a finger down over the rough, cheap towel that covers her torso until I hit the end of it, skimming the top of her silky thigh. I continue down toward her knee, two fingers now, enjoying her warm, soft skin, enjoying that she’s mine. I’d always known I would f*ck her when I got the chance, but being with her in this shitty little room, it already seems better than what I imagined and I’m not even inside her, yet. She gasps when I change directions, back up.