Chapter 17 #2
My mind is as empty as the open, limitless expanse of stillness surrounding us.
The shrinking moon paints the desert in an eerie pale glow. I’d trade every ounce of this godforsaken natural beauty for some good rest.
After eating a simple meal of sandwiches and fruit, I sequestered Trinity and myself in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. The room has simple beige paint, a ceiling fan, gray carpet, and a mattress with plain blue sheets. She dropped into the bed as soon as she saw it and hasn’t moved.
Here we are, hours later. Me sitting by a window that overlooks this desperate landscape, and Trinity curled up on the mattress a few feet away from me, pretending to sleep.
Exhaustion presses my tired eyelids down, but I fight the pull with everything I have. Truth be told, I could sleep for a week.
I don’t have that luxury, even though I’m running on empty. That was the case even before I nabbed Trinity and everything went to hell.
I recognize that a tired a man is more likely to make mistakes.
But letting Trinity out of my sight—giving her the exact opportunity she’s been lying in wait for, even just to grab an hour of rest—would be my final, fatal error.
I’m sure of that.
This defiant little bitch threw a fucking stool at me.
God help me, I’ve never been so turned on.
At this point, I’m sure I’ve crossed the line into full delirium.
That’s the only explanation for what I do next.
Rising from my seat at the window, I stalk toward the mattress on heavy, exhausted legs. As I climb aboard, the bed groans under my weight.
Trinity flinches in the darkness. Even that tiny tremor is still tremor enough to satisfy me.
I plop down on my back, fully clothed, and set my gun on the nightstand. The bed is a double, which is basically just a twin bed built for two. Though there’s technically room for us both, it’s a cramped fit.
My shoulder sits inches from her spine.
Two prisoners forced to share a bunk in a jail cell.
My soft inhale through my nose carries the scent of her fear and sandalwood soap straight to my brain.
I can already tell I’ve miscalculated.
While it’s tactically insane, it’s also my only option.
I need sleep, and she can’t be trusted.
Lying beside her is the most practical way to get rest and monitor her simultaneously. I’ll sense if she tries to get up, and I’ll snatch her.
Except there’s nothing practical about my body’s reactions to our physical proximity, or the way my muscles flex, tense, and pulse from the two inches between us.
There’s absolutely nothing practical about the ridge of my dick pressing against my pants the same way an inmate leans against the bars.
I listen to her steady breathing, waiting for her respirations to deepen and level out. They never do. I’m about to drift into the red zone of exhaustion—where I blackout whether I want to or not—when she whimpers.
My eyes flick over to her. She’s shaking. A little, then a lot.
A nightmare?
Another second passes, and her body jolts against the mattress, creaking the springs.
The strangled sob she releases cuts straight through me.
It’s the cry of the girl I kidnapped, not the fighter I’ve been sparring with ever since. An ache probably triggered by the wound I ripped open downstairs.
This is the kind of vulnerability I’m trained to exploit.
After all these years, I should be immune to any reaction. Yet when another achy little sob crawls out of her throat, I cringe.
I roll onto my side and find myself facing her back. My heart’s jogging in my chest, my fingers jerky as I grope the curve of her hip and rub my thumb in small circles against the line of her waist.
A few seconds later, Trinity goes absolutely rigid.
She’s awake. And she knows I’m right here with her.
I say nothing, merely hook a possessive arm around her waist. Lust flexes through my veins as I drag her back against my chest, squeezing her to me like she’s a pillow or a teddy bear.
Trinity lies still, her body a tense line against mine. Then, inch by inch, her muscles begin to relax.
Heady satisfaction settles inside me. This infuriating woman—willful brat, more like— submitting to my touch sets me off like a five-alarm fire.
I splay my fingers across her collarbone, just a centimeter from the base of her delicate throat. A non-negotiable act of ownership.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t fight me. Lust barrels through my veins.
I’m enjoying this, but it’s not enough.
I need to possess her stillness without reservation. I want this to be her surrender.
But I know better. With Trinity, surrender won’t happen until she’s fought me and lost. Just draping my arm around her doesn’t satisfy me. My ego won’t be appeased until I erase the analytical look she gave me in the living room.
I want her to remember she’s the captive, not the psychologist.
Not a mafia princess on a lonely pedestal.
I slide my hand beneath the oversize t-shirt she’s wearing, over the flat, soft plane of her stomach. At my caress, she stiffens and sucks in a sharp breath. I hook my calloused fingers into the waistband of her borrowed sweatpants and tug the fabric away from her body.
Then, I slide my hand inside.
Her muscles clench under my palm as I spread my fingers wide, staking a claim on her sweet, soft skin.
I kiss her neck, relishing the way her skin shudders beneath me. The sensation sends a slow, satisfying hum of electricity through my body.
My lips brush her earlobe. “You asked what kind of man I am, Trinity.”
I dip my hand deeper, pushing into the hot, humid enclosure of her panties.
Doesn’t take a sexologist to discern how turned on she is.
She’s soaking wet.
All for me.
“Allow me to show you.” With my longest finger, I push her outer lip aside and rub my thumb against her clit. “This is the kind of man I am.”