Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Dom: Forget I mentioned the cash, then. Tell me how you got started.
Evie: If you care that much, it’s not a special story. I grew up in garages, scrap metal everywhere. One Mother’s Day, I wanted to get Mom a necklace because she’d lost hers. I didn’t have any money, so I scavenged around the garage until I had enough materials, then I twisted the pieces together and made a crude necklace. She loved it, and she encouraged me to keep going. The end. See? Nothing special.
I’m breathing hard, as if I didn’t type this message, but yelled the words into his infuriatingly handsome face.
Dom: That sounds special to me. You had a parent who saw your gift and encouraged you to build your skill. You had somebody who believed in you. That’s the most special thing a kid can ask for.
Evie: Didn’t you have that? Were your parents in the mafia too? Is that why you left to join the SEALs? Did they support you?
There’s a long pause, then he replies.
Dom: We’re not talking about me, Keepsake.
Evie: If you refuse to have a two-way conversation, we’re not going to have any kind of conversation. I’d say ‘goodnight’ but that would be a lie.
Dom: Bad night then, Evie.
I need to stop smiling at his stupid texts. I put the phone on silent and stuff it in a drawer so that I’m not tempted to text him again.
Rolling onto my side, I close my eyes, whispering, “His compliments won’t fool me. My only goal is to get out of here.”
I’m lying to myself if I claim his text didn’t have an effect, and worse, the memory of the scintillating steaminess is still showering my body in unwanted and desperately wanted tingles.
Biting my lip, I stroke my hand down my body. My lip actually hurts from how hard I’m biting it, but I can’t seem to stop as I get closer to my sex. I know this is wrong. My nickname for him was perfect.
Warden, because this is a prison.
I know what Stockholm Syndrome is. Some prisoners develop feelings for their kidnappers. How fast can that happen, and can it happen if the prisoner is aware of the phenomenon?
My hand slips down my underwear, over my nub, my folds, caressing as the memory slams into the now and it’s like I’m reliving it all over again. Only this time, he doesn’t stop, and neither do I.
In the fantasy, I don’t just nervously kiss the base of his huge, hard manhood. I suck the tip, swirl my tongue around him, causing him to groan as if I hold all the power. Then I climb into his lap and guide my slick sex onto his tip.
I imagine sitting heavily on him. As my fingers press against my clit and I grit my teeth together to stop from waking Meatball, it’s like it’s really happening.
He grabs my ass and moans like he’s never seen or touched a more attractive woman. Whatever else is true, I know he’s not faking that. His attraction toward me isn’t a tool of manipulation. When he looks at me, it’s with pure, animalistic hunger.
The orgasm makes my entire body tremble, my legs twisting in the sheets, sweat beading all over me as a tsunami of release floods my mind and makes me feel lightheaded.
When it’s over, I sit up, gasping. Meatball leaps down from the closet and stares at me with accusation on his scrunched-up face.
“I know. That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Meatball purrs and seems to shake his head. Sometimes, I’m certain he can understand me. He doesn’t believe that was a onetime thing.
Perhaps he already knows the truth I’m trying to avoid.
Already, I want to do it again.
CHAPTER 9
DOM
Her braid brushes my chest as she leans in, warm breath against my neck. We’re tangled in the sheets. She tastes like salt and heat, like danger I want more of. My hands are on her hips, hers in my hair, pulling just hard enough. Her eyes–those bright golden eyes–pin me down harder than her body does.
I growl at something low. She laughs. It’s the sound I’d kill to keep hearing. She shifts, and I follow, every inch of her under my hands, under control.
Then the bed tilts.
Her braid turns to rope. Her mouth is gone. Sirens scream. The air goes tight.
I’m not in a bed.
I’m in the surf.
Wet sand grits between my teeth. My weapon’s jammed. Someone’s shouting “clear left” but no one's watching the right. I try to call out, but my comm’s dead. My pulse hammers. My lungs can’t get enough air. I drag myself behind a cover that doesn’t exist and see Johnson drop. Chest shot. No time to help.
The woman – my Keepsake – is standing in the open.
I try to run to her. Legs don’t work. Something pins me down.