crushed her with his full weight, making her the filling
in a reaper/wall sandwich.
Her breath whooshed out. The heat of her captor’s
body pressed full against her back, his stubbled jaw
resting against her temple. She could feel the smooth
hum of his power, purring like the engine of a finely
tuned Bugati. No doubt about it; she was outgunned.
Mind racing, she evaluated her options and came up
with damned few.
Damn. Double damn.
Squashed as she was, a shallow inhalation was all
she could manage. It was enough to tickle her senses
with the scent of his skin, citrus and spice. Luscious.
Clean. Faintly familiar. A hazy memory.
A memory that had coalesced into solid muscle and
male heat, pressed up against her closer than paint on
plaster. She knew it was him a millisecond before he
spoke.
“Hello, Roxy,” he murmured, his voice smoke and
crème brûlée, smooth and rich with just a hint of
crackle. She’d heard that voice a million times in her
dreams. She hadn’t told him her name that long-ago
night. But he knew it now, and the sound of his voice
pounded through her.
A part of her had waited for him for eleven years,
warring with the part that had prayed he’d never come.
Memories stirred. For an instant, she wasn’t here in
her stone church far north of the city. She was more than
a decade in the past, back in a deserted factory, in a
room that percolated mildew and sweat and white-hot
