I pluck the letter out of his blunt fingers in mid-air—a move that I didn’t really think through. Not all the way. Because I land face down across his thighs with an oof. Knowing I probably only have three seconds before he wrestles the letter back, I scan the hastily scrawled words on the sheet of paper as quickly as possible.
* * *
You’re going down with me.
They’re all going to know who you are.
I’ve known all along, but it won’t be my secret much longer.
* * *
I’ve only just finished the final threatening line when Myles moves, reaching over the top of me to steal back the letter and I twist to the right, free falling from my position on his lap. With a curse, he tries to catch me, sliding a burly arm beneath me to cushion my fall—and that is how I end up on my back, face up, with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on top of me. I must be operating on pure pride now, because I make a silly attempt to hold the letter above my head, out of his reach, arching my back to extend as far as possible.
Reach, reach—
His groan rends the air.
I’m breathless, halfway to laughing, because me trying to keep anything from this mean, professional hunter of humans is comical, but…suddenly there is nothing funny about our positions. Nothing whatsoever. His hips weigh down on mine, fastening me to the floor. A telltale ridge grows between us with every panting breath we exchange. I look down between our bodies, reluctantly eager to catalogue our size difference. How he looks on top of me. I think I know what I’m going to find, but the actuality of what I see is staggering.
My breasts are almost free of the romper. Free of the bikini top I’m wearing underneath. The neckline has been tugged down in our struggle and I’m all but exposed, my nipples on the verge of making a very enthusiastic appearance. Yes, enthusiastic, because they are rock hard and throbbing with more and more awareness the longer this man, this huge, visibly frustrated man, keeps his weight on top of me. It’s not just our size difference that occurs to me in this moment. It’s the fact that he’s older, by at least eight years. Undoubtedly more experienced with sex. Intimacy. And he’s dangerous. Mean and dangerous and I’m underneath him, tempting him. Giving him a stone solid erection.
“I’m going to get up now,” he says, breathing hard.
“Okay,” I whisper, dropping the letter.
When I do that, when I let go of the piece of paper, there’s no longer something to fight over. He’s just a man on top of a woman, holding her wrists. Fastening them to the hard ground. Looking like he’s contemplating eating me whole. In one big bite.
My body wants that.
It’s thrumming, anxious, begging me to open my thighs around his hips and lift, tease, do whatever I have to do to make him touch me. Make him use his strength on me. Now.
“Please.”
“Please what?” He hooks a finger in my top and tugs it lower, that final inch that reveals my pointed nipples, a groan rumbling deep in his barrel chest. “Suck these beautiful-ass tits? Goddamn, I knew they’d have those little triangle tan lines on ’em. Fuck.”
I’m intoxicated in a blinding instant.
He just…
Talks like this.
All the time. Bluntly. Even crudely. But he’s…complimenting me? I don’t understand why the gravel delivery of such abrasive words should make my hips writhe impatiently beneath his entrapping ones. I’m bowing my back even more dramatically, wanting him to perform the act he spoke about in such explicit terms. Yes, yes. What he said is what I want.
“Please.”
His long hair falls around his face and I can barely make out his features. Only enough to know they’re tight. That his lips are open and parted. Eyes dark.
Briefly, he lets go of one wrist and removes the gun from the back of his waistband, sliding it away carefully on the floor. Then, he lifts the same hand slowly. Slowly. Lets it hover just above my naked breasts. And my tummy tangos excitedly. Hollows and heaves, waiting to see what he’ll do. Where he’ll touch. All because he lifted a hand. I’m holding my breath, a whimper ready to break free. I’m shaking. I’m shaking. Waiting for the contact is borderline excruciating. “Never seen anything so hot in my life. Hot—and hot for it. Aren’t you?” Tongue perched in the center of his bottom lip, he lowers the pad of his index finger to one of my nipples, barely touching it, and he slowly grazes a light circle. “Yeah, you are.”
I choke on a moan, the end of it releasing long and loud, my body tightening and melting all at the same time beneath him. I don’t know what comes next or exactly what I want. I just know I need it now. Immediately. And I don’t want to think. I want him to think and decide for me. For us. All day long is for thinking and deciding. Right now I just want to be hijacked.