“Mmm.” She hums sceptically. “I’m glad we didn’t stay for speeches. They usually are pretty dull, but Witham’s would have been murder.”
I give a bark of unexpected laughter, and see our future with her giggling as I tickle her in bed. The image of punishing her for her sassy mouth by pinning her down and thrusting into her hardens my already-rigid cock further.
Her dark-green eyes—the colour of a pine forest at dusk—flit towards me and take me in. I swear her look is so piercing she can tell how much this tie cost and knows how many grey hairs I have to the nearest ten.
“Though, Robert—my eldest brother—had some embarrassing stories in his speech from when I was five, so maybe they would have been almost as entertaining as my abduction.”
“I’m glad I saved you from any embarrassment,” I reply. And him from death. Humiliate my girl? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“Thanks. No one is going to hear about that time I puked because I ate too much chocolate. They’ll be too busy gossiping about how my butt looked over your shoulder.”
The growl that wells up from my chest is feral. They better not have been looking. She’smine.
She looks askance at me, and I restrain myself. A bit. I still probably look like a grumpy old bastard, which is nothing more than the reality.
“Why did you kidnap me?” she asks casually.
The answer is complicated and simple. Because I had to. Because I think I fell in love with her at first sight. Because leaving her in that church was out of the question, and anyone who might take her from me remaining alive is unthinkable.
I want long nights with her sweaty and satisfied and asleep in my arms, and I can’t accept anything that isn’t moving us towards that inevitable end.
“What’s your name?” I say instead. My obsession needs every detail about her, and this is a good place to start.
“Willow Maldon.”
“Zane Bethnal.” Two words she’ll get to know well. One as her surname—sooner or later—and the other as the name she’ll use to beg for mercy when I’m licking her to orgasm for the fifth time within an hour.
“I know who you are,” she replies with a little eye roll. “We do have the internet in Essex.”
“What a relief. It’s not possible to recognise anyone without it. How old are you?” I’m just torturing myself now.
“Twenty.”
Damn. She’s a baby, and I’m a full twenty-two years older than her. Old enough to be her father, and while young, sweet women have never been my preference before, Willow is different. I simultaneously long to protect her and use her beautiful body in filthy, depraved ways that make her writhe and moan and scream my name as she’s overcome with pleasure.
She’stwenty.
And yet… I run my gaze over her again, taking in her curves. She’s old enough to make her own decisions. She was getting married, after all. There’s no denying the curiosity in the tilt of her head as she waits for me to reciprocate. I don’t. I’m loath to admit I’m more than twice her age.
“Where are we going?” she eventually asks, in a light conversational tone, like we’ve met at a party.
We’re almost out of Essex and green fields whiz past. “My estate in Suffolk.”
“And then what?”
I bounce you on my cock until you’re pregnant? We get married, I fuck you raw, fill you with my come over and over? I treasure and love you and defile you in bed?
I really didn’t plan this.
“Am I your hostage now?”
“My guest,” I correct her abruptly.
What am I going to do with Willow? My little bunny. It would be better for her if she never knew how I feel.
Maybe I can just keep her, as she says, as my captive. Perhaps that would be enough?
“Kidnapping your guests and carrying them over your shoulder is normal in London?”
