Florrie
I wake to warmth and the steady thump of a heartbeat under my ear.
For a moment, I can't remember where I am. The light is too soft, the room too quiet, the scent too masculine and unfamiliar.
Then it all crashes back.
The warehouse. The guns. A stranger claiming me as his wife.
Leon.
My eyes snap open, and I realize with a rush of heat that I'm still in his lap, sprawled across him like he's a piece of furniture. One of my legs is hooked over his thigh, my hand fisted in his shirt, my face pressed against his chest.
Oh god.
I start to pull away, but his arm tightens around me.
"Easy." His voice is rough with fatigue. "You're okay."
"I fell asleep on you." The words come out muffled against his shirt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." He drops a kiss to the top of my head in a way that feels familiar and normal and I’m not sure what to do with it.
I lean back enough to look at him, and the sight makes my breath catch.
He's still in his clothes from yesterday, though they're rumpled now. His hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Softer. The morning light coming through the window catches the grey of his eyes, turning them almost silver.
He's beautiful.
The thought hits me sideways, inappropriate and undeniable.
And then I register something else. Something pressing against my hip where I'm sitting in his lap.
He's hard.
Very hard.
Heat floods my face, and I try to scramble off him. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't—"
His hands catch my hips, holding me in place, firm enough that I can't move.
"Florrie." There's amusement in his voice. "Breathe."
"But you're—" I can't even say it. My face feels like it's on fire.
"I'm aware." His mouth quirks slightly. "It's morning. There’s a beautiful woman on my lap with thighs that make me thirsty in a way I’ve never known. It’s basic physiology."
"Still. I should move. Let you..." I gesture vaguely, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Should you?" His thumbs stroke slow circles on my hips through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. "Or do you want to?"
The question stops me cold.
Do I want to move?
I should. Obviously I should. This whole situation is already insane enough without adding... whatever this is to the mix.
But if I’m being honest with myself…I don't want to move.
I feel safe here. Which is absurd, given that he's the one who trapped me in this situation in the first place. But his arms are warm and solid around me, his heartbeat steady under my palm, and for the first time in hours, I'm not afraid.
"I don't know," I admit quietly.
His eyes search mine, and I watch something shift in his expression. The amusement fades, replaced by something darker. Hungrier.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he says.
"I'm thinking this is insane." The words tumble out.
"I'm thinking I barely know you. I'm thinking that last night I was on a terrible date with a guy who couldn't remember my name, and now I'm sitting in your lap in your house with your.
.." I gesture vaguely at his obvious arousal.
"And I should be terrified. I should be trying to escape.
But I'm not, and I don't understand why. "
"Why aren't you terrified?" His voice is quiet, careful.
"Because..." I swallow hard. "Because you make me feel safe. Which is crazy, because you're dangerous and you've essentially kidnapped me and you're planning to get me pregnant. But when you hold me, I feel..." I trail off, not sure how to explain it.
"How do you feel, Florrie?"
"Good." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "I feel good. Better than I've felt in a really long time."
His hands tighten on my hips. "How long?"
"I don't know. A year? Maybe more?" I look away, embarrassed. "Dating has been...awful. Every guy I meet is either too pushy or too distant or just not...I don't know. Not right. Like Brad last night. He seemed perfect online, but in person he was all hands and expectations and—"
"He touched you without permission." It's not a question.
"Yes."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. Not really. Just made me uncomfortable. Made me feel like I owed him something just for buying me drinks." I risk a glance back at Leon's face. "You haven't done that. Made me feel like I owe you, I mean. Even though objectively, I do, since you saved my life and all."
"You don't owe me anything." His voice is firm. "This situation isn't your fault. You didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither did you. Not really." I shift slightly in his lap, acutely aware of the hardness beneath me. "The mandate, I mean. You're as trapped as I am."
"Not the same."
"Maybe not. But we're both stuck here." I take a breath, trying to organize my thoughts.
"And the thing is... I've been alone for a really long time.
Not just single, but alone. My parents moved to Florida two years ago.
My friends are all busy with their own lives.
My job is fine but not fulfilling. And dating has been this endless cycle of disappointment and awkward encounters and men who make me feel worse about myself instead of better. "
"Do I make you feel better?" There's something almost vulnerable in the way he asks.
"Yes." The word comes out sure and steady. "You're terrifying and dangerous and you've upended my entire life. But when you look at me, I don't feel invisible. When you touch me, I don't feel like an obligation. And when you kiss me..."
I trail off, heat flooding my face again.
"When I kiss you?" he prompts, his voice going lower.
"I feel wanted." The admission makes me want to hide, but I force myself to hold his gaze. "Really wanted. Not just because I'm convenient or available or willing to settle. But because you actually want me. Which is weird because you don’t know me, not really."
"I do want you." His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. "More than I should, considering the circumstances."
"Why shouldn't you?"
"Because you deserve better than this. Better than being forced into a marriage you never asked for just so you can stay alive."
"Maybe." I lean into his touch without meaning to. "But that's not the reality, is it? The reality is I'm here. You're here. And we both have to figure out how to make this work."
"And how do you want to make it work?" His eyes are intense on mine.
I take a shaky breath. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life being afraid. I don't want to spend it feeling like a prisoner or a transaction. If I'm going to do this, if I'm going to be your wife and have your baby, I want..."
"What, Florrie? Tell me and I’ll make it happen."
"I want it to feel good." The words come out barely above a whisper. "I want to feel wanted and safe and like this is something I'm choosing instead of something being done to me."
Understanding flashes across his face, followed by heat that makes my stomach clench.
"You want control," he says.
"Yes. No. I don't know." I press my hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate under my palm. "I just know that when you kissed me last night in the warehouse, it was the first time I felt anything real in a long time. And right now, sitting here with you, I feel..."
"Feel what?"
I gather my courage. "I feel like I want you to kiss me again."
His jaw tightens. "Florrie—"
"I know what you said last night. About waiting until I'm ready. About not taking me to bed until I want you there." I shift in his lap deliberately, feeling him grow larger beneath me. "What if I'm ready now? What if I want this?"
"You're sure?" His voice is strained. "Because once we start down this road—"
"I know." I lean closer, my lips almost brushing his. "I know what it means. I know where this leads. And I'm choosing it anyway. I'm choosing you and praying you choose me back every day, even after you get to know me…"
Something breaks in his expression. The control he's been maintaining cracks, and suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding and absolutely perfect.
This kiss is different from the tentative exploration last night before I fell asleep. This is hunger and need and a promise of things to come.
His hand tangles in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. His other hand slides up my spine, pressing me closer until there's no space between us.
I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring all my fear and confusion and unexpected want into it.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says roughly.
I shake my head. "I don't want to change my mind. I want this. I want you."
"Fuck." The word is half prayer, half curse. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me." The words surprise me as much as they do him. But I mean them. "Show me what I do to you."
His eyes go nearly black. "Florrie—"
"Please." I roll my hips against him deliberately, feeling him pulse against me. "I'm tired of feeling like things are happening to me instead of with me. I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then something shifts in his expression, the last of his restraint crumbling away.
"Okay," he says quietly.
He shifts us, laying me back against the pillows with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. He settles over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that could feel suffocating but doesn't.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he says, his hand tracing along my jaw. "At any point. I'll stop even if it kills me. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that's achingly soft. "Then let me show you exactly what you do to me, Florrie. And what I'm going to do to you."