Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(49)

He doesn’t ask why I changed my mind. Maybe he doesn’t care. He just pulls a condom from the drawer and slips it on. He flips me over, drags my hips up, and pushes a pillow underneath.

That’s the only warning I have before the hot, blunt head of his cock breaches me from behind.

My body opens to him, wet and soft and willing. My mind understands him, why he is the way he is. But it’s my heart that aches for him, wanting whatever shards of love he can give me, jagged, even knowing I’ll get cut in the process.

“You want this,” he says, breathless.

It’s not a question, but I answer him anyway. “More.”

His fist twists in my hair—like earlier, only hotter now, because he’s pressing my face into the cool sheets. The wet sheets, made damp with my tears.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I manage to say. I can’t stop crying, but I need him to know he’s not hurting me. It’s important to him, not to hurt me. I don’t even know why I’m crying, but it’s not because of his cock or his fist or his warm weight covering my back.

“Why?” His voice grates, a rough burst of air against my cheek. He’s holding me down completely, every part of him covering every part of me.

Why am I crying? Why do I want this? I don’t know what the question is exactly, but I reach up and hold his wrist. I use it like an anchor as the storm of him batters me about. His cock drives into me, relentless, bordering on pain but never there.

He’s careful even in his fury, almost tender as he shudders over me and groans his release.

Then my body clenches around his, sudden and wild, and I can’t breathe at all. It doesn’t matter; I could die this way, warm and wet, protected like never before, the salt of my tears on his lips as he leans down and kisses my cheek.

And now I know why I’m crying: because I’m losing, just like he said I would, because I want to be in this prison of his, enclosed by him, the object of his intense focus, and I know it’s wrong—it’s a wrong thing to like. Maybe it’s myself I’m losing. Maybe it’s my sanity.

I just know I have to get away.





Chapter Twenty-Eight




Grayson


A phone rings, startling me. I realize we fell asleep after I f*cked her this morning.

That was careless. I can’t believe I made that kind of mistake. I detach myself from her warm body, hating every inch I put between us. I reach over to the bedside table, fumbling around, trusting she’ll lie there, waiting. Wanting. Docile. Everything between us feels new. And right.

So I’m sure it will end wrong.

Nate is all business on the other end. “Guys in nice SUVs crawling around town,” he says. “A few guys at the diner asking questions.”

“How long ago?”

His tone is urgent. “Now.”

“We’re gone.”

“Take the Suburban that’s in the back garage. It’s not mine. Red key chain on the hook. Money in the safe.”

He gives me the combination, and the line goes dead. I scrub my face with my hand. I needed to move out way earlier. I should have already secured supplies and fake identification. And I spent what cash I had at the motel. There’s no time for that anymore.

I turn to face her. Maybe a normal guy would be moved by the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. I’m not normal, though. The sight of her broken doesn’t make me want to help her. It makes me want to f*ck her all over again.

“Get dressed,” I say, and for some reason, maybe because she’s soft and well f*cked, she obeys. She asks to go the bathroom, and I drag her to the one in Nate’s room. I hear her open a drawer. Taking a razor. Scissors, maybe. Sad little weapons. I’ll allow it. I shove the clothes in his closet to the side to reveal his safe. I twist the knob to the combo he gave me, but it doesn’t open. Did I get the numbers right? I try again. Nothing. Fuck. A third time isn’t the charm. Fuck it. I grab a shirt from a hanger and nick the change off his dresser just as she’s coming out.

I should blindfold her, but there’s no time if guys are already asking around in town. Someone might have seen us drive through; eventually they’ll expand their radius to search here.

The last thing I want is a f*cking standoff, dragging Nate into the mix. And her.

I take her hand and drag her down to the kitchen where I grab the red key chain from the hook; then I stuff a box of cereal and the half empty OJ carton into a bag.

“Let’s go,” I tell her.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

“Trouble.”

I lead her to the back. The sun is high, telling me it’s near lunchtime. I pull up the old wooden shed door—one of those old-fashioned jobbies where it tips out and up.

The beater I stole from the motel is in there next to a Suburban. I’m not surprised. Nate probably came back between vet gigs to move it. He’s thorough like that. Part of what makes him an awesome healer.

I wait until she climbs into the truck and buckles herself in before I press the gun into her neck, letting her feel the cold, hard tip of it.

She stiffens and leans away.

I follow her with it, keeping metal on skin. She needs to know that f*cking hasn’t changed anything. The thing isn’t even cocked, but we’re about to head onto the road. I need to know she’s with me. This isn’t a f*cking fairy tale. I’m not going to turn into a good guy because her cunt is made of velvet and rainbows.