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What was going on?
I couldn’t see what he was doing on his laptop, though every time he looked into the mirror, I felt his smoldering eyes on my body like a physical caress.
The energy between us had changed since our little altercation outside when he buried me under his body and kissed me.
That kiss.
That kiss was out of this world. Not that I had extensive knowledge—or any—when it came to kisses, but a kiss like that was almost certainly out of the norm. Because if that’s what it felt like every time, why would anyone ever do anything else but kiss?
What I didn’t understand was that ever since that kiss, he could cause the same zing of energy and lust within me with just his look.
Holy shit. I was a goner.
If he wanted sex right now, I would totally be game.
Despite our situation.
Despite him being the man he was.
And being a virgin at my age was borderline mortifying anyways. So why not do it with someone who took my breath away? Who would’ve thought I would remain a virgin even after being kidnapped, kept as a slave, and then kidnapped again? Wasn’t that ironic?
Though the alternative—being raped—would’ve been my worst nightmare, of course.
But somehow, it had me wondering if my Irish grandma hadn’t cast some old Gaelic chastity spell on me. Doomed as untouchable until my wedding day, or something like that. Or was it just the good old Catholic guilt instilled in me that was acting up now?
He stood and came toward me in one fluid motion, his eyes burning like molten lava. How could his eyes change their color—according to his mood?
And what mood was he in right now?
He’d grabbed his T-shirt before he led me back up to the room earlier, and I almost regretted not having had more time to study the tattoo on his chest some more before he covered it again. But from what I’d glimpsed—being buried under him—it was a harrowing 3D effect of his open chest and a charred heart underneath.
Was it how he saw himself? Did he feel like his heart was blackened and burned?
Well, it was probably the truth, a prerequisite for gangsters like him.
I braced for what would come next.
Would he want to talk?
Or would he want to play?
I dragged air into my increasingly tight lungs.
And did he mean by play what I wanted it to mean?
Sex? Please let it be sex!
“You saved my life,” he said, his voice hoarse and emotional when he reached the bed and stared down at me.
He reached into his nightstand.
Condoms?
Would he have condoms?
He pulled out a keychain, then uncuffed me.
“I can’t believe you really saved my life. Why?”
