He groans, deep and rough, then pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against mine. We're both panting, breathing each other's air.
His hands grip me as if he's afraid I'll disappear, like I'm something precious he needs to protect.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice raw. “Tell me you'll never fucking run from me again.”
“I won't,” I whisper, unsure why I'm agreeing, but right now I'd give him anything. I'm completely caught in his orbit, and I don't understand why. “I won't run.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out, then closes his eyes like I've given him something sacred.
We stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together in the quiet cabin, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
Despite everything—the kidnapping, the fear, the confusion—I feel safer in this moment than I have in years.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
This can't go on. I have to get away.
Chapter Thirteen
Ashland
Jesus fuckin'Christ, am I out of my fuckin' mind? What the hell am I doing? Trying to keep the lass safe? Not give her all the more reason to run away?
Fuck. Did she feel how fucking hard I was when I spanked her perfect, plump little arse? I'm a little out of breath, my heart hammering like I've just gone three rounds in the ring.
“Come. Eat your dinner,” I say, not making eye contact with her. I’m not sure how she'll handle it—the spanking, the heat still crackling between us like a live wire.
I help her into her chair. She winces when her arse hits the seat.
Good. That'll teachher to run again.
But as I watch, I note she doesn't just wince—she bites her lip, and her pupils dilate slightly.
She shifts in the seat again, and I catch the way her breath hitches. Not just pain, but… something else.
Fuck me.
I watch as her thighs press together under the table, and I immediately wonder if she’s turned on.
Did Crowning touch her? Is she a virgin? If he?—
No. I won’t think about that, not now.
I take her plate, give her a liberal amount of penne, crusty bread, parmesan cheese, and thick, fragrant meatballs, then push it in front of her, glaring at her as if to dare her to tell me she's not gonna put these fuckin' carbs in her belly.
She takes the fork and stabs at the pasta, not looking away from me, then takes a large bite.
Good girl.
“This is delicious,” she says reluctantly, her eyes flickering to the table, where I've got a small dish of butter.
I push it over to her with the tip of my index finger. Her eyes track the movement of my hand, like she's remembering where else it's been.
Aye, lass.
On her arse. In her hair. She swallows hard when our fingers almost touch.
“Thank you.” She pauses, then adds almost conversationally, “You'll let me cook too?”
