Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(83)

“Knox could crack into it.”

“You’re serious?”

“It’s a rush to have a piece up there—a real piece, I mean,” he says, “I think it’s always been leading to this. You teaching that memoir class. You didn’t just show up to teach us. You needed to learn how to do it, from us.”

Smug.

I don’t hate him though. I love him. And I kind of love the idea.

“You want to do it,” he says. “I can tell.”

It’s more than wanting to. It’s like I’ve always needed to tell my story, just like those inmates needed to. But I could never open up to anyone. Only when I got taken hostage at gunpoint did the story start to spill out.

But that was only Grayson. This would be public. I pick up the book he gave me. “I’d have to choose one of the things I wrote in here. And make it nice.”

“So do it.”

The idea grows on me over the following days. Knox even gets me the password—he can do things like that. Right after they grabbed me from the transport, he made it so I could email Esther to let her know I was okay without it being traceable. Maybe if I change my story in the journal to be an honest and raw one like the guys, I’ll have him help me email her again. Anonymously, so no one can track me.

The problem is my piece, finding just the right nugget to polish. One seems too rambly, another is just wrong. One feels too painful, another not true enough. None are right. I don’t know why I can’t find one. Maybe I’m scared.

Weeks go by, and I’m at my desk in front of the window, having put aside another vignette, when Grayson comes in. There’s this look in his eye, and I know I’m in for it. He’s a force of nature, a tornado, and I’m about to get swept away.

“It’s been six weeks,” he says, his voice deceptively calm.

“I know; I know.” I’ve been stalling.

With rough, possessive movements, he takes my hair out of its bun. My heart races as he pushes it over my shoulder. I close my eyes and let him arrange me how he likes. He gets horny when I do anything that looks academic.

I have new glasses on. I should’ve taken them off when I heard him coming. I’m trying to work.

“I don’t understand how you can be taking so long,” he growls.

I swallow. I don’t either.

“You filled all those pages, and you can’t use anything?”

“None of it seems right.”

He twists his hand in my hair.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Don’t what?” With an evil gleam in his eye, he hauls me up from my keyboard. It hurts.

“I need to work on it,” I whisper, knowing that’s exactly the wrong thing to say. I’ve been working on it, but I’m not finishing it.

He pushes me into the wall. The air thumps out of me. He watches my eyes as he trails his fingers down my neck, my throat, controlling even my gaze.

“Please,” I say as he nuzzles my neck with his stubbly chin, hard enough to leave marks.

“I think you’re hiding up here. You don’t get to hide with me,” he rasps, pulling up my shirt.

“I’m not hiding,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his grip, knowing I sort of am. I can’t let him take me over. I’m pleading now. “I have to do this. I have to work.”

“If you were working, you’d be done. Why is it taking you forever for something us guys did in a few weeks?”

“I don’t know!” I wouldn’t have let them get away with excuses—and he’s not letting me either.

He pulls away and eyes me suspiciously. Then he pins my wrists above my head with one hand and just rips off my shirt, baring my breasts to the cool breeze. I feel way too exposed, way too vulnerable.

I close my eyes, heart pounding. “Grayson.”

He palms my breast, moving against me, hot breath on my neck. I stay stiff, but he doesn’t care. He presses his fingers down into my waistband, finding my clit. Forcing me to feel his finger, rubbing relentlessly.

“Grayson,” I plead, starting to melt into him.

“I have to f*ck you,” he grates.

Yes.

I pant as he turns me around. I cling to the corner table just to keep myself up. He shoves his hand under my skirt.

My panties are satin and lace, a sugary confection from the large drawer. The panties and bras and lingerie arrive in hordes to our anonymous post office box. Grayson and his tribe are very inventive criminals and never seem to want for money, though I don’t know where he gets the time to order it all. There’s almost been something new to wear each day. I guess when I said he should have nice things, he took it to heart.

I’m his nice thing, his possession, and he dresses me up in every color and style and fabric he can find.

He pulls my panties down my legs and tosses the expensive scrap of fabric onto the bare wooden floor and slides his fingers along the wetness waiting for him.





Chapter Forty-Four




Grayson


I know she’s working on changing her piece in the journal. I know I should leave her alone, but I can’t. I have to f*ck her. This is how it is between us. She’s mine to do what I want with, and I can’t leave her alone.

Can’t stop f*cking her.