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We all have our strings cut at the same time, dropping to the bed, boneless. But moments later, it seems like the most natural thing in the world for me and Klay to sandwich a drowsy Wendy between us, holding her as the three of us fall asleep. If either of us feel a ripple of tension building in Wendy throughout the night, we choose to ignore it.
For now.
Chapter 5
Wendy
I’d managed to convince myself that afternoon at the prison never happened.
Avoidance is a powerful drug.
With Klay and Ruger out of sight, I could wake up every morning, go to my job, eat dinner, watch television. All normal things. They might have come to me late at night in my dreams, but during the day, I could deny how thoroughly they sapped my willpower in that prison cell. How their calloused hands on my skin felt like a prayer being answered. I’ve never been fulfilled. Not a single second in my life. Until them.
Until they converged on me and we absorbed each other. Became one.
So obviously I’m bananas.
I’ve lost it.
I can’t just allow two escaped—presumably dangerous—convicts into my home and allow them to slake their hunger with my body. But that’s exactly what I’ve done. No matter that the last half an hour has transcended time and space. I’m pretty sure I saw the face of God somewhere in the middle. Heard the angels singing.
And it has to be the last time. Allowing these men to sleep in my bed? That makes me an accomplice. I’ve given seriously new meaning to aiding and abetting.
I spent the first sixteen years of my life tiptoeing around my father’s danger, trying not to get burned. Or tip the scale of his temper. Since then, I’ve tried to outrun him. To move on with my life. But until he was imprisoned, he kept showing up, pulling me back into the quicksand. Terrifying me. Making me feel small and unworthy. Manipulating me.
These men are of the same ilk, aren’t they?
Offenders.
Men who are such a hazard to the public, they have to be locked in a cell to prevent them from committing any harm. I should have fought harder when Klay’s sensuality started to overwhelm me. I should be sneaking out of bed now and calling the police. Or running to my car and driving away as fast as I can. Yet here I remain. Soaking up the heat of these two men, feeling their heartbeats against my body and being lulled by the rhythm.
Ruger’s hand sits possessively on my hip, his chest hair tickling my spine.
Klay’s face is in sleepy repose on the pillow, mere inches from my face. When awake, he’s obscenely gorgeous. Asleep, he’s a wicked angel that has been booted out of heaven. Probably for excessive vanity.
A tug of affection for both men doesn’t even catch me off guard.
No, I felt something similar the day of the prison riot.
These men being in my life almost seems fated. There’s a sense of completion when they are touching me, talking to me, talking to each other about me. It’s like I’ve woken up in a new land with a unique language that somehow makes perfect sense to my ears. To my body.
In their roughness tonight, they cherished me.
And each other—though I sense they haven’t admitted it.
There’s a deep undercurrent between Ruger and Klay that excites me. That hesitant lust exhilarates and fulfills me almost as much as their hunger for me. It heightens every look, every touch and taste. When they take me, I become the glue holding everything together and there is nothing more satisfying for someone who craves the feeling of being anchored. Anchoring these men in return is even more vital than that.
But I can’t ignore the similarities of their lifestyle to that of my father.
I’m crazy to get tangled up with two criminals after spending my whole life escaping one—and finally succeeding. So I’ll just have to chalk this whole evening up to…what? Recurring insanity? And move on with my life. Pretend this never happened. Who would even believe it?
They’ll have to leave eventually, anyway. They’re escaped prisoners.
They can’t just live in my guest room forever undiscovered.
I’m sure they’ll be out the door as soon as the sun comes up—and that’s fine with me!
Perfect.
Ignore the hollow, panicked feeling in your stomach.
Resolutely, I slide out from between the men and scoot off the bed, padding my way to the kitchen. It’s only three o’clock in the morning, but there is no way I’m going to sleep with my brain in a meltdown. I stand at the kitchen counter for a moment, palms flat on the cool surface, then take a deep breath and begin the process of making a huge pot of coffee—
“Something bothering you, sweet cheeks?”
With a squeak, I spin around and find both men standing on the other side of my kitchen island, arms crossed over their bare chests. Ruger appears concerned. So does Klay, but only in the eyes. As usual, there is a cocky smile playing around the corners of his lips.
