Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(66)

“The fixture still has the price tag on it.”

“So what?” I say. “It’s a light. It lights things.” I watch her, seeing the Bradford through her eyes suddenly, and my gut tenses. This place isn’t dark and cold like a basement, but it’s not that far off. My room has old furniture that would be nice except for the gouges in the wood. The walls have bright rectangles where pictures used to hang, before we got here. A thick layer of dust covers the lines in the woodwork. We’ve got lots of nice shit, sure. The tech, the cars, old scotch. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to her.

“This place is ours. It’s a good place.” I turn, lying on my good shoulder. “Safe from everyone,” I whisper, sliding a wisp of hair off her forehead even though I’m not supposed to be moving my arm.

“A bare bulb with the price tag on it, from fifteen years ago.”

I lean my head to her ear. “You know I can’t let you leave.”

She slides a sly gaze to me. It’s different when I say it now, but it’s still true. I can’t let her leave. My heart pounds as she looks back at the ceiling. “You deserve a nice place, that’s all,” she says. “I mean, it has beautiful features, but it feels kind of abandoned still. Temporary.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” I grate.

She turns to me. “Right, but you can’t decorate it with nice things?”

“Decorate it?”

She snorts. “Guys.”

She wants to make it nice. A strange feeling comes over me, like when somebody gives you the last burger even though you’ve been an * all night.

“It wouldn’t be hard,” she says. “A decent fixture. Some paint for the ceiling or something. Pictures on the wall. Wouldn’t you like that?”

My breathing starts to feel funny, a kind of soft heaving, because somewhere back in the cobwebby part of my mind where I never go, I remember somebody, a foster mom, maybe, caring about what was on the ceiling. Hanging toy things from the ceiling, like it mattered what the f*ck I saw.

She’s studying my face. “You could have anything nice you want. You could have a thousand-dollar chandelier up there.”

I look away, feeling too exposed. “A thousand-dollar chandelier in a room in a boarded-up hotel?”

She turns on her side now, pursuing. “You deserve to have things nice.”

And suddenly I’m wondering if Stone is a little bit right—if maybe she is too dangerous to me. Because I feel all broken apart, her saying that. And this f*cking place can never be nice. She doesn’t belong here. And that one fact destroys me.

I pull on her collar. “Take off your shirt.”

“Grayson,” she says.

I pat my belt buckle. “Sit up here and take off your shirt.”

She gives me a look. I give her one back. She knows what it means.

She gets up onto my rock-hard cock, straddling me.

“Take it off,” I say. “Slow.”

I read the hesitation in her eyes, and I push. I don’t know why; I just do, like the pain of her kindness is too much. “I said, take it off.”

She pulls her shirt up by the hem—slow and shy, unaware how hot her reluctance is. She’s so f*cking prim, it gets me hard. She pulls it over her head. I reach up and grab her shirt before she can untangle it from her wrists, and I twist them up extra hard, yanking her arms to the front of her. Then I undo her fly and I press my thumb to her clit, holding her, stroking her.

She watches me with those brown eyes as I move my thumb up and down, getting her off, keeping her wrists tied in her shirt, twisting a little more to let her know who’s in charge.

She hisses out a breath and starts rocking against my cock.

“That’s good, baby.” I press my thumb deeper. “You’re wet for me,” I say, holding her gaze, showing her there are no secrets between us.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

She leans down on her shirt-tangled arms and kisses my chest. It’s like heaven, and I close my eyes. It’s all I can do not to flip her over and f*ck her right there, but I just take her in, her kisses, all the tenderness that I don’t deserve.

“Pants,” I grate. She rolls off me and stands, pushing down her pants and wriggling out of them.

I watch with a funny feeling in my gut; she’s so bright and good, and for a second I think maybe I could just stay with her. Maybe I don’t need revenge. But the thought slips away, because killing the governor has always been mine.

Then she gets back on me and rides me sweet until I can’t see or think or hear.





Chapter Thirty-Two




Abigail


The library is on the other side of Franklin City, on a dark, gloomy street, thanks to half the streetlights being out. The buildings are run-down and the sidewalks are strewn with trash, but it’s not a complete and utter wasteland like the neighborhood around the Bradford Hotel. There are actually people and cars going by.

It’s late. The library is closed, but Grayson walks me right up to the door like he owns the place, grip hard on my arm. Does he think I’ll try to escape? I know Stone still thinks I want to.

It’s the first time I’ve been out of the Bradford for days. Time has gone by in a blur; it seems like I spent half my time lying in bed with Grayson, reading while he slept and recuperated—and staying near him, not entirely trusting Stone and the guys not to take me out and shoot me or something, as much as Grayson insists that danger is past. Once he was well enough, he was holed up with his guys, cleaning weapons and running scenarios, preparing to hit the governor.