Then…she moved. Easing her body a little to the side, arranging herself so that her face was over his right shoulder. She sort of nestled against him. Not like there was a ton of room in their prison, and he realized that in her former position, she’d been craning her head that whole time.
Instantly, his hand moved to the back of her nape. Preston began to massage her.
She tensed. Then seemed to melt against him. He liked it when she melted.
I am going to get her out of here. I will not let her die in this prison with me.
“I saw him jam a needle into your neck.”
What? The bastard had put a needle in him? Drugged him? That would explain the cobwebs in his head. Cobwebs that were slowly clearing.
“I rushed to help, screaming for him to let you go even as he shoved you into the back of a van. He didn’t let you go. He…took me with you.”
She’d tried to save him? And been tossed into a grave for her effort?
“He knocked me out,” Sloane confessed.
“With the same drug he gave to me?” Preston strained to remember the events around his attack. He’d been going jogging. His usual, early evening run. No, no, he’d finished the jog. He’d finished the run, and he’d been sweaty and?—
I still have on my jogging shorts. My running shoes. No shirt. She’d been pressing against him, against his bare chest. Her fingers had skimmed over his bare arms, and he hadn’t even realized that he still wore only the jogging shorts. For just a moment, Preston became acutely conscious of the socks and tennis shoes around his feet. Seeming to squeeze tightly. And then aware of the shorts around his hips. Hell, no wonder his dick was surging toward her. The shorts weren’t going to contain him.
And…
The run. I went for my run. Took my usual route. Came back around the house, on my private property?—
What had she been doing on his property?
“He didn’t drug me. He punched me.”
Preston remembered that she’d sucked in a breath when he touched her left cheek. A dark, savage rage bubbled just beneath his control. The control that held by a thread. The bastard had punched Sloane? “He’s dead.”
“Better him than us,” she muttered.
Preston had not been bluffing. When he got out—and he would get out—he would find the bastard. He would kill him.
Maybe he’d bury the sonofabitch alive.
“I woke up and…it was dark. I was on top of you. And…for a moment…I thought you were dead.” Her words trembled.
“I’m not dead. We’re not dead. We’re getting the hell out of here, angel.”
“I’m not an angel.” So low that he almost didn’t hear her. “And I told you, we will be rescued?—”
“We’re saving ourselves. We’re getting out of here. Now.” Because they could not waste more air. His panic was gone. She’d soothed him, spellbound him. Now he was locked on her. The bastard punched her. He hurt her. He buried her alive.
Preston would make him pay.
He’d get out. He’d get her out. They would survive.
And then I will find you, you sonofabitch. I will hunt you down. I will make you wish for death.
“How do you think we’re going to save ourselves? How do you think we’re getting out of here?” Soft. Curious. Not panicked.
She’d controlled her fear and panic all along.
He rubbed her nape once more. Then his hand slid from her. “The same way I got out before.” His nostrils flared as he greedily drank in her scent. Strawberries. He’d always loved the sweetness of a strawberry. The scent clung to her. A body lotion? Shampoo? It was a nice scent to have in the air around him. A sensual, tempting scent. When he’d been buried before, all he’d smelled had been the dank earth that poured in on him.
In my mouth. My nose. Onto my chest. “Not like it’s my first time to be buried alive.” A mocking laugh. Look at that. He could laugh in hell, just like she did. “I got out before. I will get us out again. But I should warn you, it’s going to be bad.”
