Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(45)

Still I rub her toes, knowing she’ll like that. “Mmm,” she says. I move to her other foot, full-on massaging it. “Mmm,” she says again. I can tell she’s in a place where even things you don’t want feel good, as long as they come along with warmth and softness.

I spent a lot of time in that place.

It wouldn’t hurt her if I f*cked her now. I was always going to f*ck her—what better time than now? There were days I would’ve given anything for a dose of painkillers, but I had to go without. It’s a gift, that sedative.

Remembering it sparks a white-hot fury inside me. Fury at myself, at the governor and his minions. The men who ran that house. Perversely I’m even mad at her for making me want her this much.

Instead of climbing onto her and pressing her legs open, I push her feet away and pull the wad of string out of my pocket.

One soft loop around her ankle and one around mine. We’re connected now. She won’t know it’s there unless she tries to take off. After what happened in the motel, I probably don’t need the extra layer of alert, but I’m not taking any chances. I have to take care of her. That’s important. She’s mine, and I have to watch over her.

I climb into bed next to her and ease off the blindfold. Then I pull the sheets over us both, tucking her in next to me, pressing the blankets around her, getting her into a protective cocoon. I think about how she looked in that cell. The governor probably got her named an accessory. Maybe he figures it’s how he’ll get to me. Anger flashes through me. Fucking putting her in that dirty cell.

She’s on her stomach, head resting on one arm, hair a dark halo around her pillow. I tuck her in tighter, but it’s too much, too tight, and she stirs. “Grayson,” she whispers. Then she fights her way out of her cocoon and finds me, nestling her head into my chest. My arm goes around her, and she snuggles into me.

“Don’t let go,” she whispers, and my heart surges.

“I won’t,” I whisper, pulling her in and kissing her forehead. She presses her body alongside mine, and I drink her in, cock like steel.

“Grayson,” she says, and she kisses my neck.

She doesn’t really want this. It’s the drugs making her soft and desperate. But when I look at it in a certain way, it’s as if she does want me.

It’s like that hundred-dollar bill they put out with that inkwell hologram. If you tip the bill one way, it’s just an ugly-ass inkwell, but when you tip it another way, the Liberty Bell appears inside the inkwell, like there’s something shiny and special in there when you know there isn’t.

That’s how I feel now. Because I’m just the piece of shit who kidnapped and drugged her.

And I know the only reason she’s enjoying being in my arms is that she’s drugged and uninhibited, giving in to animal needs for comfort and warmth.

But it’s like the f*cking Liberty Bell appearing inside me when she slides against me. And suddenly I want the illusion. I love the illusion. So I just f*cking take it. I take her mouth and get a taste of her. And I push my hand up inside her sweater, finding the lacy edge of her bra, feeling the swell of her tits underneath.

She makes a soft sound of pleasure and there’s the f*cking Liberty Bell, clanging like crazy.





Chapter Twenty-Five




Abigail


One minute he’s feeding me blueberries. The next he’s dragging me up some stairs. Or maybe it only feels like dragging me because my feet aren’t working, maybe because I can’t see anything.

A bed. Soft, wonderful, with sheets smoother and cooler than sheets have any right to feel. Everything is a little dizzy and off center. So tired.

My shoes are off. My feet feel warm and loose, like taffy. So good. So tired.

I blink, but he’s just a fuzzy shadow in the dim light of the room. I can’t make out Grayson’s dark eyes or his cocky smile. I want to. He’s beautiful to look at, but all I can do is close my eyes and sink into his touch.

I sigh as the musky scent of him surrounds me and hands tuck me in safe and sound, but the covers are too tight, so I fight them off, which isn’t easy; my limbs feel heavy and disjointed, but I get free and find him. He’s soft grass and damp earth, and I want to lie flat on the ground of him and breathe in deep, but I can’t move. His arm is a heavy band over my waist. Trapped. For some reason that seems okay.

The tart flavor of berries lingers on my tongue.

I’m heavy and warm and a little bit floaty. I think I should always feel like this.

He drugged me.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper.

“I won’t,” he says, and I sink into him. I just want to crawl inside him… And suddenly I can’t breathe.

At first I’m not sure what’s wrong, and something hot and smooth is inside my mouth, but then I realize he’s kissing me, frenching me. I’m not sure if I like it, but then I do, because it shocks me with feeling. And his warm hands are weights on my skin, under my shirt, pulling at my bra.

I move against him. Our bodies are two animals, sliding against each other with perfect rhythm. Something rubs my shin, just a little rough. It takes me a century to realize it’s his leg on mine, and there’s something a little magic about his skin, his warmth. I say his name.

“I got you,” he whispers. I feel this strange coolness on my breasts, exposed, like my arms are tangled up and my face is warm. I try to get free, but my arms still aren’t working, and then it doesn’t matter because they’re free, and this new sensation is even more delicious, all the cold, all the heat, all at once.