Mindless.
Helpless.
His hand fell from her face then, and she whimpered at the loss of his touch. Then she moaned in victory when his arms came around her in a crushing vice as he lifted her off her feet. She automatically wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her hands spearing into his hair.
It was as soft as it looked.
And warm, so very warm as she pulled him tighter. Ever tighter.
She wanted to cry with victory at the proof that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She’d never felt more complete than she did right then, right there, in his arms. And for the first time in months—maybe years—she didn’t feel broken. She felt chosen and?—
“That woman will fuck the hair clean off your balls.”
Sabrina blinked open her eyes and groaned at the pain pounding in her temples, the bite of the zip ties at her wrists and ankles, and the awful crick in her neck that made it feel fractured.
The blood on her cheek had dried to a crust. And hours without water had scorched her throat like someone had poured in gasoline and struck a match.
She wanted to go back to sleep. Go back to the delicious dream that was part memory and part fantasy and all escape from her current reality.
Hew had come to her room after her first trip to Red Delilah’s. She had teased him about the brunette and the pastries.
But that’s where things had ended.
The instant she’d stepped next to him in the doorway, the instant he’d loomed above her and his wonderful body heat had wrapped around her, she’d lost her nerve.
There’d been no flirty walk of her fingers up his chest. No suggestive invitation in her eyes or on her tongue.
She’d simply punched his arm and said something inane before scurrying off down the stairs like a complete chickenshit.
“How would you know?” The brusque voice pulled her from her thoughts. Her regrets.
Three of the Banshee’s four men gathered around a rusting metal table. It was piled high with weapons that looked like they belonged on a battlefield.
The musky smell of gun oil hung in the air. It mixed with a slightly more chemical tang, and she was reminded of the time she followed Hew to the outbuilding where the Black Knights kept their arsenal.
She’d been overwhelmed by the sight of so much death-dealing machinery then. She was overwhelmed by the sight of so much death-dealing machinery now.
The difference was BKI’s arsenal had made her feel safe. This one made her feel like prey.
“I know because I’ve been there. Done that.” The blond man smirked.
“When?” demanded the short guy with the pug nose and the mean eyes.
“After we celebrated the Idaho job. She was knee-deep in Jose Cuervo and all over me outside the bar.”
“Bullshit,” Pug-nose snapped. “She’d fuck Diesel if she was gonna fuck anyone besides Hummer.”
“Far as I can figure,” the blond mused, “she refuses to fuck Diesel because he has a bad habit of putting his conquests in the hospital. And she refuses to fuck you because you’d have to stand on tiptoe to get the tip in.”
The short man pointed a thick, blunt finger at the blond. “Ever heard that old wives’ tale about a man’s short stature being a sure sign he’s packing serious heat in his pants? You know, ’cause all his growth hormones went to his dick?”
The blond guffawed. “You made that up.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I swear to god, Kurt, you whip that thing out and I’ll use it for target practice.”
The short man—Kurt apparently—grinned. The sight sent a shiver down Sabrina’s spine.
