The chair is comfortable when I sink down into it, and I have no doubt it’s expensive. But it might as well be a prison cell to me, the wide leather wings blocking me in as effectively as steel bars. Especially when I spot the duct tape sitting on the desk.
My eyes widen. “Wow, you came prepared. You really are a Boy Scout.”
He gives a wry smile and sets the bag down against the wall. “Don’t think that means I’m going to take it easy on you.”
“Who are you going to call?” My voice is hoarse, exposing my weakness, but I have to know. “The cops? Or Ivan?”
“Neither,” he says simply.
Shock is a cold rush from my heart to my toes. I know what some men in his position would do. Most men, really. They would take advantage. I’m about to be in a vulnerable position. I’ll be at his mercy. He could touch me. He could fuck me. And no one would believe me—or even care.
I never thought he would do that to me. He wouldn’t…
Would he? I can’t be sure.
The sound of duct tape ripping from the roll snaps my attention to him. He places it over my wrist, smoothing the silver tape along the butter-soft leather.
He’s taping me to the chair.
It’s over my black long-sleeved T-shirt, but tight enough that I can’t wriggle free.
He pulls another piece of tape out. “So what was it?” he asks almost conversationally. “Drugs? Gambling?”
My lips tighten. I hate for West to think of me like that, that I would have gotten myself into this mess. Maisie and Jeb are the ones crazy enough to steal from the fucking mafia.
But in another way I
did
get myself into this. I went along with this plan even though it was too soon.
Even though it’s wrong.
Even though it’s immoral and screws over the very people who have been my friends the past few months. That’s why I’ll never get to be with West, why I’ll never deserve him. I could dream of his strong hands and whispered words. I could imagine my silver-blonde hair over his dark chocolate skin as I worked my way down his body. And that’s all I’ll ever have—those dirty-sweet dreams.
We would have been beautiful together.
I can’t ruin him like this. “You don’t want to do this,” I whisper.
He smooths the last piece of tape over the chair, locking me in. “Do what?”
“Touch me.” He would hate himself after. He isn’t that kind of man. I wasn’t wrong about him. I may have pushed him into doing something drastic with my mixed signals and then breaking in here. But if he touches me like this, while I’m tied up, he’ll only hate himself later.
A short laugh. “I want to do a lot more than touch you, Bianca. And I think I’ve earned that right, don’t you?”
There’s a lump in my throat. “Not like this. Not while I’m tied up.”
Are you sure about that, Bee? Didn’t you taunt him for being too good? Now he’s offering to be bad.
The voice in my head sounds too much like Maisie for comfort.
He runs a dark finger down my cheek. “There’s no better time. Now you can’t run away.”
With every word, the room seems to shrink, the bonds seem to get tighter. The air seems to get sucked out of the basement. There’s nothing here but me and him, floating in a black void. No escape.
My fists tighten, and I tug against the tape. Nothing happens. “You can’t do this.”
His smile is hard, but his words are gentle. “How are you going to stop me?”
“West, please.” I don’t know why I’m fighting so hard, why I’m near tears. I never expected him to take advantage of me. I’m supposed to be tougher than this. I’ve been messed with on a con before. I know how to endure things. But it’s worse with him.
“And you know what else?” he asks, studying me. “I think you’ll like it.”
My body grows warm—humiliation? Fear? There’s something else too. Something hot and sensual, because I want West. I’ve always wanted him. And now it looks like I’ll have him.
He stands and pulls his phone out. “It’s me. Send it down.”
S
hock renders me
speechless. What is he having sent down? I could have been okay with what he did to me. Maybe. I would have been okay with him touching me if we’d been in a bed, both of us hot and willing. Being tied up turns me on, but it also makes my heart twist in fear. I don’t want him to be this man. I want him to be better than that, just like he believed I was better than a common thief.
If he’s bringing down some other men to touch me, to use me, I won’t be able to endure that. Not the pain of their hands or cocks. Especially not the knowledge that it was
West
who forced this on me.
My teeth are pressed together so hard, my whole body clenched tight against what might happen next. Tears burn their way down my cheeks.
No no no.
“Wait,” I say, close to begging. And then I am begging, whispering for him to
stop please no.
His expression turns soft with sympathy—the kind of implacable sympathy that means he’s going to do it anyway. He runs a hand over my head, pushing the black beanie off and stroking my hair. “It’s as soft as I thought it would be,” he says, almost to himself. “Softer. Like silk.”
There’s a knock from the basement door, and then someone pushes it open. I can hear footsteps coming down the steps. Only one person as far as I can tell, but maybe there are more. Anyone other than West would be too much.
Oh God.
Someone reaches the bottom step and then comes into view.
My heart gives a hard, angry kick. It’s Blue. He owns the security company the Grand uses. I know that he and West used to be in the military together, and sure enough, they clasp hands briefly in a gesture of masculine intimacy that makes my stomach pitch.
Blue doesn’t look surprised to see me. He studies me, his expression unreadable. “She looks worried.”
“She should be,” West says, his response fast and easy. That’s how they’re taking this, without shock or drama. Just a girl caught in their web, something to be eaten.
Except that Blue is in a relationship with Hannah, one of the girls who used to work here. He wouldn’t fuck with me, would he? Not when he has a girl he’s into at home. But then I know as well as any girl here that commitment doesn’t mean much to a lot of men. When they come to the club, they don’t see us as women, as girlfriend material. We’re just warm bodies to grab and to fuck before they go home to the real women in their lives.
Blue sighs. “Are you sure about this? We’d get in serious trouble if Ivan finds out.”
Well, that’s a surprise. And a relief. Ivan will be mad if they touch me? I hadn’t figured he’d care, but I’ll use any excuse to get out of this now.
West shakes his head, firm. “I’m handling this my way.”
There’s a long pause while Blue considers me. “You know I owe you one,” he says finally. “Or two or three.”
My heart sinks. Any hope I had dies a quick death. He’s going to let this happen.
West smiles faintly. “That’s because you’re a crazy fucker. Always getting yourself into trouble.”
“And you have my back every fucking time.”
“Yeah,” West says, voice soft. “And you have mine.”
The moment would be touching if I wasn’t terrified of what they were going to do to me. “I’m sorry,” I burst out. “I got—I got in over my head with something. I wasn’t going to take a lot. I would have put it back.”
That’s only kind of a lie. I had some vague plans to send the money back, but it would have taken me forever to earn that much.
Blue barely spares me a glance. “Do you want me to stick around?”
West laughs. “Like the old days? You always did like to watch.”
“Not anymore. Not since Hannah. Speaking of which, she’d kick my ass if she found out I let you do this. She’d kick your ass too.”
“I don’t doubt it,” West says, but he doesn’t sound concerned. “Give her my best.”
“Will do.”
Then Blue hands something over to West—a big white paper bag—and turns to leave. Just like any ordinary day, they’re nodding their goodbyes and turning away. As if I’m not tied up here.
“No, wait. Don’t leave me here.” I’m desperate enough to press any advantage. “Hannah would hate this. It isn’t right. She’ll find out and she’ll—”
Blue just shakes his head, waving away my plea. “Don’t look at me. I wanted to do a lot worse than he’s planning.”
That shuts me up quick. Then he’s gone up the stairs, leaving me alone with West and whatever he’s got in that white paper bag.
H
e sets the
bag down on the desk with a small but solid
thud.
It has weight, whatever is inside. I’ve seen a lot in eighteen years, and my mind can imagine horrible things.
Whips, chains.
Chemicals to wipe away any trace of blood.
What can I say? My parents know some unsavory people.
But when he cracks open the bag, just a smidge, I know it’s something else entirely. It doesn’t smell like ammonia or chlorine. It smells like garlic and onions and butter. The inside of the bag is lined with foil—I can see that from here. That must be how it kept those delicious smells inside. Now that he’s opened the top, the savory scent of fresh bread and melted cheese fill the basement.
My mouth waters. Is this how he’s going to break me down? I have visions of him eating in front of me, bite after bite, never letting me have a taste. Torture. “What are you going to do with that?”
He looks amused now. “You are the least trusting person I know.” His smile fades. “There’s probably a good reason for that.”
My stomach grumbles. Loudly. I can’t help but blush. It’s embarrassing to be in this position—tied up and so obviously starving. “Maybe I would be more trusting if you told me what you planned to do with me.”
He turns to rifle through the bag, taking out black plastic containers and foil-wrapped packages. There are utensils and a couple bottles of water. It’s like a romantic picnic—except I’m tied up and he’s holding my life in his hands.
“I was thinking you could eat,” he says. “To begin with. You look like a stiff wind could knock you over. There’s only so long instant noodles can hold a person up.”
“How do you know what I’ve been eating?” I stiffen in the soft leather chair, suspicious. “Have you been in my apartment?”
He raises one eyebrow. “Jesus, woman. It was an exaggeration. At least I thought it was. If I’d known you were living on instant noodles, I probably
would
have been in your apartment, doing this before now.”
Great, so I’m actually a cliché of a hungry person. “You know that’s still breaking and entering, right? Even if you’re only doing it to bring me food.”
“You’re really going to talk to me about breaking and entering?”
Fair point.
“Well, I wouldn’t have appreciated it then, and I don’t appreciate it now.”
He smiles, a little mischievous and somehow shy. “That’s because you haven’t tasted this vodka cream sauce. I have a feeling you’ll be singing a whole different tune then.”
My stomach clenches hard at the thought, and I’m afraid he might be right. I’m so hungry, both for food and for someone who gives a damn. He’s standing in front of me, offering them both.
It’s just a mirage though. When I drag myself through the sand to get to him, I’ll find he was never really there. What future can there be for us? At some point he’ll have to turn me in. He can’t let me break in and go free. He’s too much of a Boy Scout for that.
His gun is sitting beside the bag, and it’s a painful contrast. The way he’s taking care of me and the way he’s threatened me. The hard soldier and the man who could have been my boyfriend.
He pulls out an aluminum container and opens it, revealing stuffed pasta in a cream sauce. Another package reveals a jumble of glistening garlic bread, studded with golden-white flecks of garlic and green herbs. His strong hands rip a piece of the bread and dip it into the sauce.
Then he holds it up to my mouth.
It smells delicious, almost painfully good, and my stomach caves in on itself in anticipation.
I force myself to wait, though, because I’m used to denial. I’m used to wanting. “You could use a fork,” I say, my voice only a little unsteady.
“I could,” he says, “but I like it better this way. I’m hoping you’ll trust me a little more if I’m the hand that feeds you.”
“Very funny,” I say darkly.
“Who’s laughing?” he counters, pressing the food to my lips, making them wet and slick with cream.
I can’t ignore it any longer. I can’t deny myself what I want—what I need. I open my lips, and he presses the bread inside. It’s like rapture on my tongue, a burst of salty flavor that resounds through my entire body. A moan escapes me, long and low, and I actually clench my thighs from the sensual force of it.
His fingers follow the food, his calloused flesh a contrast to the soft bread. He slides them along my lips before pulling out again. His eyes are dark, and I know he’s hard as a rock behind his jeans.
I swallow and beg him with my eyes for another bite. He’s already ripping off another piece, already dipping it in the cream. We perform again without a word, his offering at my lips, my acceptance and his entry. He touches me again, finger pad over my tongue, and this time I moan for a different reason.
I swallow again, knowing that I’ll follow him anywhere tonight. “What happens after this?”
He looks down at his hands. In a slow, deliberate motion he brings his forefinger to his mouth and sucks it clean. The motion is straightforward, the way someone might lick a crumb off their own finger. Except there’s nothing there except a lingering taste from my mouth. It’s like he’s kissing me, tonguing me, without even touching me, and I feel the sensation to my core.
“Then it will be my turn,” he says.
H
e opens more
containers and feeds me lasagna and gnocchi and braciole that falls apart in my mouth. There’s enough food here to feed me for a week or maybe longer, but he’s only giving me bites of each dish. My stomach has tightened from a month without much food, and I fill up quickly. He seems to notice that, and he reaches for one black container he had set aside.