Oh.
Oh!
Suddenly, the look he’d shot me when I’d cuffed him to the bed and made my way to the door made so much more sense.
It hadn’t been anger. Or even frustration. But it had been oddly charged.
Because I was running.
And he liked to chase.
My belly flipped.
And I turned and bolted toward the front door.
He totally gave me a chance to get away first.
He was longer-legged and faster. He could have had me before I even stepped foot out into the darkness.
But where was the fun in that?
He gave me a head start.
And I tore off down the grass path we were calling the driveway.
I heard it when the door slammed closed.
I couldn’t help but to glance over my shoulder, watching him stand there on the doorstep, a wicked glint in his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips, as he watched me.
I saw the way his muscles tightened just before he broke into a run.
With a hitch in my heartbeat and a strange little squeal, I pushed my legs to carry me faster and faster, remembering to zigand zag like I was taught growing up, since it was much easier to catch someone running in a straight line.
I could hear his footsteps, pounding like thunder. Gaining, no matter how hard I pushed myself.
So I bided my time, waited until he was closer, then shot out to the side and ran back, passing him in the process.
He made a grab, but I stayed just out of reach as I flew back toward the overgrowth on the side of the driveway.
I heard his pleased little chuckle as a shiver in my belly as I leapt over a downed tree limb, while bushes and brambles bit at my calves.
It didn’t matter.
I barely noticed.
All I felt was the way my lungs started to burn, how my thighs ached.
Yet he was still gaining on me.
Branches cracked behind me.
Close.
Way too close.
I shot off to the side, hoping the darkness acted as camouflage as I pushed myself harder still.
It was a fake chase.
