“What do you want?”
The sexy, two-timer-possible-killer-kidnapper’s eyes took a leisurely journey down my body. The green orbs studied the few freckles on my face, the beauty mark on my right collarbone, paused at my breasts that were damn near spilling out of the strap of the shirt I’m wearing. They’re never where they’re supposed to be without a bra. His eyes stayed there for a while, probably fascinated at the tightness of my nipples trying to escape. I’m trying to pretend his look isn’t arousing, but it is very arousing. Damn his almost kind eyes and the memories of how it feels to have him inside of me.
A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he continues to look until he notices that the undershirt I borrowed rode up to my waist when he pinned me. He cannot see my goods because his hips are blocking his view, but that knowledge doesn’t stop his body from hardening under his jeans.
Dammit.
His hold loosens to where his grip isn’t as tight, yet I’m still trapped. I hate it and love it. He’s restraining me with one hand now. My heart thunders in my chest. I’m mad because it’s due to arousal. He uses the tip of his finger on his free hand to trace a tight circle around my nipple without touching the peak.
“I’m not married,” he repeats, his voice husky and aroused. “I’ve been single for three years.”
“Still carrying a torch f-for her?” I hate that I stutter to keep from moaning.
He switches to the other, doing the same teasing.
“In theory.”
I can see the sadness mixing with desire.
“Meaning?”
His hand continues its torture when he slides the shirt up my torso achingly slow. I bite my lip to keep from begging. My adrenaline caused me to act out of character and jump a stranger. Now, I can’t blame my reaction to him on celebrating surviving almost sudden death.
This time, it’s all him, and the way his fingers set my body on fire. The shirt is his accomplice as the cotton teases my nipples when he slides the hem past them. He’s undressing me, baring me in the daylight. I’m nervous—not a “somebody-come-stop-him”-nervous. It’s more of a “does-he-like-what-he-sees” nervous. The shirt blocks my vision as it moves over my head. It travels up my arms but stops at my wrists where he twists and loops it, then ties it to the headboard.
My insides throb; I’ve never been tied up before. Wait. I’m supposed to be trying to leave. I must go back to some semblance of my life. My body disagrees when his finger traces my belly button. Is it so wrong to be held in captivity by someone so thrilling?
“Widowed.” His voice is whisper-soft yet full of emotion.
It takes my brain a moment to catch up with his words. I am too busy feeling what he was doing to me with one finger. I feel moisture pooling between my thighs as his finger moves from my belly button and traces a non-existent happy trail. I never knew how sensitive that vertical line on my stomach would be if touched seductively.
I squirm; I can’t help it.
“S-sorry.”
“For?”
His husky question adds to my horny state. He, too, has forgotten what we’re talking about. He traces the vertical line again, this time using his nail.
“Everything,” I moan. “Your loss, throwing things, name-calling…”
I can’t concentrate. My heart is pounding like I’m running at top speed.
What the hell?
“It’s okay. I can understand how you came to your conclusion. Too bad I had to tie you up to get you to listen.”
He doesn’t feel bad about this at all. We’re both pretending that we’re not enjoying his teasing.
“Three years,” he says. “For three years, I’ve been able to dodge the advances of the women I know…” I don’t think he’s talking to me. He’s thinking aloud. I’m basing my theory on the look of wonder in his eyes. “Yet, I’m incapable of keeping my hands off a stranger.”
“Wait. Are you saying…?”
“That you’re the first woman I’ve stuck my dick in since she passed? Yes.”
“So, there were men?” I joke.
He scrunches his nose, but his serious eyes light up with amusement. “Hell, no.” He teases one of my nipples with his nail. “Very funny.” His tone suggests the opposite.
