Crap! What does that mean?
“Fuck,” he mutters, over and over as we drive through the dark.
His breathing is harsh and fast. His gloved hand doesn’t move from my hair.
I’m starting to panic. I’m suffocating on the smell of him. I’m well aware of how close I am to his belt buckle. Is he getting off on this? I can’t tell from the dress slacks.
My arm is numb, and my knee hurts.
I expect him to keep driving—out of the city, toward an abandoned farmhouse where my disappearance becomes a true-crime episode.
Instead, the car veers into a dark concrete structure.
A parking deck.
… What?
The car stops. His hand is still at the back of my neck. I’m still trapped, my head on his lap, huffing in that intoxicating masculine scent of him, which I will be unpacking in therapy later, thank you very much—if I survive.
“Don’t fight me,” the deep voice orders me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He waits a beat. “But I will.”
Fantastic.
He drags me out of the car, my legs flailing, and throws me over his shoulder. For half a second, I’m impressed by how strong he is.
No.
Absolutely not.
Get it together.
“Loser,” I croak, kicking uselessly, wishing I were the kind of woman who wore heels to work and could weaponize them.
“Run! Get help!” I scream at my Frenchie.
She does not run.
She follows him into a private elevator.
“Traitor.”
I catch my reflection in the polished marble floor as the doors slide shut.
I’m dreaming, I tell myself.This is what happens when you eat three slices of pizza instead of one. A pepperoni-grease nightmare.
“Fuck,” he mutters as the elevator opens onto a marble foyer. “What am I doing?”
“You kidnapped someone and you don’t know what you’re doing?” I shriek.
“Shut up.”
His hand comes down sharply on the back of my thigh. Hard.
Also—unfortunately—on a spot I’m pretty sure no one has ever touched before. Ever. Certainly not a man.
Do not think about that. Do not.
I try not to think about why a kidnapper would bring me here. What his hand on my thigh means.
