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“T-Timothy?” I whisper, feeling foolish. Why the butler would be in my room in the middle of the night is beyond me, but it’s the first thought that comes to mind. There’s no answer.
“Mother? Father?” I try, but again, there’s no answer. I lean to the side of my bed and click on my bedside lamp, but nothing happens, and I’m alone in the dark. Is the electricity out? A scratching noise sounds, closer this time, and I stiffen in fear.
“Who’s there?” I manage in a hoarse, terrified whisper, but of course, there’s no reply. There’s a soft, grating sound over by the wall, and realization suddenly dawns on me: we’re being robbed! The Dali is on that wall, and the intruder must be cutting it from its frame right now.
My heart pounds in my chest. How is this possible? The penthouse is rigged like Fort Knox, with security cameras everywhere and a 24/7 security detail. Who are these people, and how did they get into my room? My eyes dart back over to the window, with its carelessly flung open curtains. How did they manage to get up to the penthouse of a Manhattan skyscraper? And why don’t they care if I’m awake? Don’t they see me as a threat? I’m a witness who could jeopardize their whole operation.
But I have no further time to think because suddenly, there’s a scuffle and I’m pinned to the bed with a rough hand coming down over my mouth to stifle my scream. Several more large hands hold me down on the mattress, and I can’t move a muscle. I try to breathe, terrified, my eyes darting around as I attempt to make out my assailants. Peering up into the darkness, I’m able to make out the silhouettes of two enormous, burly men holding me effortlessly in place. A mingling of fear and arousal courses though my body in a strange concoction that has me confused. What’s wrong with me? How can I feel turned on by two criminals who are trying to rob us blind? It must be those novels. I make a mental note to stop reading them, as they’re obviously turning me into some depraved sex addict who doesn’t recognize danger when it’s literally right in front of her.
“We don’t have time for this,” comes a baritone growl on my left. I think he’s the one holding his hand over my mouth, practically enveloping my whole face with his palm. “Let’s just knock her out and get out of here.” At this, I start squirming and emitting muffled screams into his hand. He roughly shakes me, subduing my cries.
“No knocking her out. It’s too messy,” comes another low growl from my right. I squirm again, biting at the skin of the hand pressing against my mouth. The man on the left grunts, confirming my suspicions that it was him.
“This bitch is feisty. I’m not in the mood for any altercations,” he whispers, annoyance in his deep voice. Odd – they don’t speak like I expect robbers to speak. They seem educated and almost refined, instead of rough and crude.
“Maybe take your hand off her face. Let’s see who we’re dealing with,” says the one on my right. I nod fervently, provoking a deep growl from my left.
“No screaming, little girl, or you’ll be sorry,” he rasps. Another fervent nod from me gets my mouth released, but the rest of me remains pinned to the bed. My eyes have adjusted to the dark a little, so I’m able to make out a little more of my assailants’ physiques. Their shoulders are broad and strong, their chests the width of a truck, and the hands that are holding me down are heavy, yet strangely gentle. I see flashes of blue eyes as they stare down at me, and black hair falls over their foreheads. That’s all I can make out from their dark silhouettes, but it’s enough to know that these are gorgeous men like the ones in my steamy romance novels. I find myself wondering whether they’re as hung like my heroes, or whether Jessica’s right and that stuff doesn’t exist in real life.
“Don’t kill me,” I whisper in a faint voice. But it’s unnecessary. As dangerous as these men seem, I can tell they’re no killers. They’re holding me down with firm hands, but they’re not hurting me. Besides, if they wanted to kill me, they would have done so already. Instead, the two men bear down on me, breathing heavily and staring at my curvy body through the thin nightdress, but they don’t say anything.
“P-please,” I continue. “I won’t be a problem. Just let me go.” I hear them breathing heavily from my right and left sides as they stay perfectly still. My breasts heave with arousal. What is wrong with me?
