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The first instinct was normal, entirely expected. The second was more confusing. Why on Earthwouldn’tI want him to let me go?
Instinct is telling me that it wasn’t about Uri. Well—it wasn’tonlyabout him. It was about the feeling of being held like that. It didn’t feel claustrophobic or invasive. It was almost… nurturing. Protective, in a way. It was like he was trying to hold me together while I was falling apart.
And the only person who’s ever really done that for me was Ziva.
I take a deep breath and walk over to the bed. I collapse onto it and try to think of nothing, but I keep going back to that feeling. The needy desire to be held.
I pound my fists against the bed in frustration. It makes no sense that I would feel anything remotely close to comfort inthisplace, fromthatman. As it stands, I do loathe him. I just feel a lot of other things for him, too…
Before tonight, he was my dark, broody, mysterious billionaire neighbor with a chip on his shoulder. He was the guy who stormed into the city zoning committee to threaten them about tearing down my house. He was the guy who tore through women like those women tore through clothes. He was the guy who was so stinking rich he could get away with blue murder.
But after the fence, the bandage, dinner… he became someone else.
Turns out he wasn’t the mustache-twirling villain I’d created in my head. I mean, he was that, yes, but there’s more to Uri Bugrov’s story than meets the eye. And I’m not talking severed body parts, either. I’m talking about the family he refuses to talk about. The lovingly furnished basement that’s currently my home.
This place wasn’t built to be a prison; it was built to be a sanctuary.
But for whom?
I lie back and close my eyes. I do what I do whenever I feel stressed or anxious. I run my hands over my body, touching myself gently. When other girls, normal girls feel this way, they go partying. They go to a nice club, catch the eye of a cute boy, and work out their frustrations the ol’ fashioned way.
By getting good and hammered, then good and laid.
But me? Give me a little light background music and some peace and I’m good to go. I call myself independent. Elle calls me a coward. The scientific term she uses is “scaredy-cat.”
Right now, I’m not interested in trying to wade through the recesses of my subconscious. I just want to feel better. And nothing calms me down faster than a good orgasm.
I’m fondling my breasts when I flash back to a few minutes ago.
Uri. Me. My back pressed up against his chest. His erection grinding hard against my hip.
My eyes fly open and my hand freezes on my boobs.
Oh,hellno.
The man just locked me in a damn dungeon, for crying out loud. He doesnotdeserve to be the star of my fantasies. I am not about to spend one single second of my precious time on this planet lusting after my captor. That is some serious Stockholm Syndrome shit.
And I will not partake.
That’s it. End of story. That’s all she wrote.
But I’m wet and needy now. And my body really wants a release. My mind could do with one, too.
I try again, slipping my fingers inside my jeans while I urge myself to relax. Except I can’t relax because I’m too busy trying not to think about my captor.
“Goddammit!” I snap. “Fine. So be it. But starting in half an hour, I will never think about Uri Bugrov this way again.”
I slide my finger over my clit and massage slowly, all the while picturing his face, remembering the way he wrapped his arms around me, the way he touched me, the way he took me on that dining room table, forcing my body to feel things that it hadn’t felt in a long time.
I throw myself into this forbidden moment, all the while promising myself that it will never, ever happen again.
15
URI
Her list is decidedly practical. Toothpaste, dental floss, moisturizer. She’s asked for some clothes, too, but she hasn’t made specific requests. No “bring me the purple sweater with the black stripes, NOT the lavender turtleneck with the dark gray stripes” like I might’ve guessed based on her attitude today. Instead, she’s written in a neat, slanting hand, “a couple of t-shirts, leggings and/or jeans.” She’s also asked for pajamas, though I’m tempted to “forget” them so she has no choice but to sleep naked.
I scowl at my own juvenile bullshit.Get your head in the game,mudak.
