Devious Obsession

I t’s almost midnight by the time my kidnapper pulls into the parking lot of a hotel.

I’ve been awake for the last half hour, but I’ve chosen the coward’s way out and pretended to be asleep to avoid talking with him. Or looking at him.

Or even acknowledging he’s there. Because when I do, when I glance at his hands on the wheel, my attention focuses on his fingers. On how easily they made the embers in my body burst into a category five fire just by touching me.

My panties had been wet. He wasn’t wrong about that, and he wasn’t wrong about what made them that way. But just because my body reacts one way to his neanderthal tactics doesn’t mean my brain can’t stay in control.