6. Lena #2
“Hm.” His lips tug into something that’s not quite a smile. “Old enough to know better than to go out with a stranger who looks like a model.”
I bristle. “Wow. Thanks. Good to know I’m being judged by my kidnappers.”
He tilts his head. “So you admit he looked too good to be real.”
I ignore his question. “How did you know about what happened?” My old suspicions come back again. How would he know I went out with Ethan? Unless they already knew who he was.
As if he could read my mind, he says, “We checked the CCTV footage at the warehouse. We saw them bring you in. And judging from your clothes.” He looks me up and down. “You were dressed to impress.”
For some reason, his words really piss me off.
“So?” he presses. “Why’d you go?”
“Why do you care?” I snap.
“Because I want to know what kind of girl you are.”
My breath stutters. “What does that even mean?”
He steps closer—not enough to touch me, but enough that I’m pressed back against the window before I realize I’ve moved.
“It means,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to my mouth, “I’m trying to figure out why someone like you ended up in a mess like this.”
“I didn’t choose it,” I whisper.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
His gaze lifts slowly, meeting mine with a heat that steals the air from my lungs. It’s not subtle. Not careful. Not even remotely professional.
And suddenly, I see it clearly: He’s attracted to me.
Not in a soft, sweet, oh-she’s-cute way. In a sharp, feral, this-is-danger-and-I-like-it way.
Panic flickers beneath my ribs, because if he wants something from me, that makes everything worse. “You’re staring,” I say, trying to deflect.
“I know,” he answers, unbothered.
“Why?”
“Because you’re pretty.”
I blink. Hard. That was… not subtle.
He shrugs, expression unapologetic. “Blunt is easier.”
“Easier for who?”
“Me.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Right. Because this situation is all about your comfort.”
“Not comfort,” he says. “Curiosity.”
I swallow. “About what?”
He just continues to come closer without answering.
“Stop,” I whisper.
He does—but only physically. His presence, his stare, his intent stays pressed against me like a second shadow.
“You’re not in danger from us,” he says quietly.
“But I’m going to figure you out, Lena Brooks.
Every last piece.” His eyes drag over me slowly, deliberately. “Whether you want me to or not.”
A shiver runs down my spine. His words settle over me like smoke—thick, intoxicating, impossible to breathe around.
He’s too close. Too focused. Too interested.
I should move. I should tell him to back off. I should remember that I’m supposed to be terrified of these men. But my body betrays me, pulse hammering under my skin, breath catching like he already has a hand around my throat even though he hasn’t touched me.
Not yet.
His gaze drops to my lips again, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s savoring the view.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, even though I already know.
“Deciding,” he murmurs.
“Deciding what?”
“Whether I can get away with kissing you.”
My breath stutters. “And… can you?”
He smiles—lazy, wicked. “No idea. Guess we find out.”
He lifts a hand, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my cheek. The touch is shockingly gentle for someone built like a living weapon. His knuckles graze my jaw, tracing a line that feels like a warning and a promise all at once.
“You should tell me to stop,” he says softly.
I don’t.
His thumb slides to my lower lip, brushing over it with maddening slowness. My lips part instinctively, and his breathing tightens just slightly—just enough for me to know he felt that.
“You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rasping with heat. “I’ll take it the wrong way.”
“What way?” I manage.
He huffs out a dark little laugh. “The way that ends with you pinned to this wall for a very different reason.”
My thighs clench involuntarily.
Shit.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
And that’s what breaks the last thread of restraint holding him back. He leans in, mouth brushing mine before actually kissing me, testing whether I’ll pull away.
I don’t. I sway closer instead, breath shuddering against his lips.
That’s all he needs. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair as he finally, finally presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is hard—not brutal, but claiming, confident, hungry in a way that feels like he’s been thinking about this since the moment he walked in the room.
I gasp, and he immediately deepens it, tongue sliding against mine in a slow, deliberate stroke that pulls a broken sound from my throat. His other hand finds my waist, gripping, pulling me flush against him.
He’s solid muscle everywhere.
Hot. Overwhelming. And completely in control of the kiss even though he asked me to tell him no.
I don’t.
I kiss him back, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between our bodies—until I can feel the hard line of him against my hip, heating the air around us.
He groans into my mouth, low and rough, like the sound was dragged out of him against his will. “Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak against my lips. “You taste… better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?” I whisper, dizzy.
He smirks, leaning in again. “Sweetheart, I imagined throwing you over my shoulder the second I saw you tied to that chair.”
Heat floods through me so fast I can barely stand.
He tilts my chin up with two fingers, kissing me again—slower this time, deeper, his tongue sweeping into my mouth in a way that makes my knees buckle.
His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of my waist, not grabbing, just exploring, teasing, testing how far I’ll let him go.
The answer is apparently: farther than I should.
His teeth catch my lower lip, tugging gently, and a sharp, helpless whine escapes before I can swallow it. His smile against my mouth is pure sin. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That little sound. I knew you had it in you.”
He presses me harder against the window frame, his thigh sliding between mine, nudging them apart with effortless dominance. “Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice dark and thick with desire.
But we both know I won’t.
Not now. Not with his hands on me. Not with his mouth ruining every bit of logic I had left.
His mouth trails down my throat, hot and open, his breath skating over my skin like he’s marking new territory with every inch he claims. My pulse is a frantic drum beneath his lips, and he smiles against it—like he likes hearing how wrecked I already am.
Then he pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. And the look he gives me… It isn’t a question. It’s a promise.
“I need to taste you,” he says, voice low and rough, each word hitting me in the spine.
My knees go weak.
Before I can even form a response, he sinks to the floor with deliberate slowness, pulling my jeans down as he goes. He kneels in front of me like it’s nothing—like he’s done this a thousand times and has every intention of doing it again.
He makes me step out of the jeans and then throws them aside. Then his fingers slide up the inside of my thigh, teasing, coaxing, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake. “Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs.
I do.
Not because he asked. Because I want to.
His hands hook into my panties, and he looks up at me while he pulls them down—slowly, devastatingly slow—like he’s unwrapping something precious.
Cool air hits my pussy and I gasp, knees wobbling as he spreads my legs with hands that are far too sure of themselves. He slides one up—pressing his palm against my inner thigh—guiding me open for him.
God, I’m so exposed. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing worth worshipping.
He presses one hand against my hip, grounding me, holding me steady as his other hand slides between my legs—fingertips finding heat and slickness that makes his breath catch.
“Fuck,” he whispers, reverence bleeding into hunger. “You’re soaked for me.”
My head falls back against the window frame, a helpless sound leaving my throat when he slides two fingers through me—slow, teasing strokes that spread my wetness along his skin.
He brings the fingers to his mouth and watches me as he tastes me. His lips close around his fingers lazily, tongue curling to savor every drop like he’s memorizing it. His eyes never leave mine.
My entire body trembles.
When he pulls his fingers free, they’re shining—and he’s smiling like he just confirmed a suspicion. “Sweet,” he says softly, almost reverent. “I knew you’d taste sweet.”
My knees buckle, but he catches me, strong hands sliding up to grip my hips as he leans in closer, breath hot against my bare pussy. “I need more,” he rasps. “I need to taste you properly.”
I don’t even have time to brace.
He licks me. One long, slow stroke straight up my pussy, tongue flattening against my clit at the end, and the shock of it rips a choked moan out of me that fills the whole damn room.
My hands fly into his hair, gripping hard, pulling him closer without meaning to—but he takes it as permission, groaning against me as he buries his face deeper between my thighs.
“I-I…please, Knox.” His name breaks out of me like a prayer.
He groans again—like hearing it from my mouth makes him feral—and licks me harder this time, tongue circling my clit in slow, perfect, devastating patterns.
My legs shake violently. Heat surges up my spine. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can only feel.
He slides two fingers back inside me—deep, curling them just right as his tongue works my clit with maddening precision.
I cry out. Loud. Open. Shameless.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, voice vibrating through my clit. “Give me those sounds. I want all of them.” He sucks gently on my clit and the pleasure punches through me so sharply my vision whites out.
I’m dripping, shaking, hanging on to him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
He looks up at me—face between my thighs, lips wet with me, eyes dark and wild.
The door swings open. “What do you think you’re doing, Havoc?”
I freeze.
My head snaps toward the doorway—and there he is.
Another man. Taller. Darker. Colder somehow. His presence fills the frame without effort, eyes locked on the one in front of me like he’s already calculating damage control.
My brain trips over itself.
“Havoc?” I repeat, the word falling out before I can stop it. I look back at the man who just—God—who just had his mouth on me. “You said your name was Knox.”
“That would be me,” the man in the doorway says flatly.
Silence. Then?—
The one in front of me laughs.
Not soft. Not embarrassed.
Full, unhinged, delighted.
“How could I resist a good old prank?” he says, still grinning, completely unapologetic.
I blink at him, breath still uneven, body still humming, brain trying to catch up. “You—” I splutter. “You lied?”
“Technically,” he says, leaning in just enough that his voice drops into something conspiratorial, “I adapted.” He dips closer, breath brushing my ear as he murmurs, “I knew Vale would’ve already warned you against me, so I didn’t want to take any chances.”
He straightens, flashing that same reckless smile. “He’s a bit of a Goody Two-shoes.” Another shrug. Casual. Unbothered. “Well,” he says, “as good as one can be around here.”
I stare at them—at both of them—and feel something settle low and heavy in my chest.