Chapter 8 Isabella #2
The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and I have to close my eyes against the wave of want that crashes over me. His hand is still pressed against my bare skin, a constant reminder of his control. "I hate you."
"No," he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. The sound of his voice, so close, so intimate, makes me shiver. "You hate that you want me. There's a difference."
My eyes snap open, and I see my own desire reflected in his gaze. "You're arrogant."
"I'm right." His thumb drags slowly along my pulse point while his other hand remains motionless against my breast, and I bite back a moan.
The dual sensations are driving me insane, pleasure and frustration warring in my chest. "You want me, Isabella.
And Friday night, everyone is going to see exactly who you belong to. "
"I don't belong to anyone." But the protest sounds weak even to my own ears, especially with his hands on me, claiming me.
"Don't you?" He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing mine. The scent of him surrounds me, warm and masculine and intoxicating. "Then why haven't you tried to escape? You're smart enough to find a way out of here if you really wanted to. But you don't, do you?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. Because he's right, and we both know it. I could have tried the windows, could have tested every lock, could have made some attempt to get away. But I haven't. And the reason terrifies me more than anything else about this situation.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of our breathing. Finally, I speak, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Fine." The word comes out as barely more than a breath. "I won't run."
"Good girl." The approval in his voice makes warmth bloom in my chest. "And the rest?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I won't speak to Chase privately."
"And?"
This is the moment. The point of no return. I can feel it hanging between us like a blade, ready to cut away the last of my pretenses. "I'll smile when you touch me."
"Because?"
The final piece. The admission that will shatter what's left of my carefully constructed walls. "Because I want you to."
The words hang in the air between us for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then he's moving.
His mouth crashes against mine, and I taste possession and hunger and something deeper that makes my knees go weak.
His hand finally moves against my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, and I moan into his mouth, the sound echoing off the library walls.
When he pulls away, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tremor in his hands where they hold me. The afternoon light has shifted, casting longer shadows between the bookshelves.
"Friday night," he says quietly, his voice rough with want, "you'll wear what I choose. You'll stay close. And if you try to run, if you try to betray me, I'll drag you back in front of everyone. And you'll like it."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that he's wrong, that I'm not his to command, that I still have some measure of control over my own life. But the words won't come. The taste of him is still on my lips, the memory of his touch still burning through me.
"I understand," I whisper.
He studies my face for a long moment, his hand still pressed against my skin, then slowly withdraws both hands. The loss of his warmth makes me want to reach for him, but I keep my hands at my sides, my body still thrumming with unsatisfied need.
"Good." He straightens his shirt, that easy charm sliding back into place like armor. "I'll take you shopping tomorrow. Something appropriate for the occasion."
He heads for the door, but pauses at the threshold. When he turns back, there's something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Not the controlled desire from moments before, but something rawer. More vulnerable.
"Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For trusting me."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the golden afternoon light with the taste of him still on my lips and the phantom pressure of his hand still burning against my skin.
I slide down the bookshelf until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs too shaky to support me anymore.
The grandfather clock continues its steady ticking, indifferent to the chaos he's left in his wake.
Fury at myself rises hot and bitter in my throat.
What the hell is wrong with me? I should have fought harder.
I should have pushed him away the moment he touched me.
Instead, I melted like some pathetic, starved thing desperate for attention.
He's my captor. The man who kidnapped me, who's holding me here against my will, who treats me like property to be managed and controlled. And I just let him put his hands on me. Let him make me want things I have no business wanting.
Three months ago, I was living my quiet, controlled life in Tribeca, cataloging artifacts and attending charity functions and pretending that everything was fine. I had boundaries. I had self-respect.
Now I'm sitting on the floor of a safehouse library, having just agreed to be paraded around on the arm of the man who kidnapped me. Having just admitted that I want him to touch me. Having just proven that five days of captivity is apparently all it takes to turn me into someone I don't recognize.
My breast still burns where his palm claimed me, the memory of his touch making me ache in ways I don't want to examine. In three days, I'm going to walk into the Plaza Hotel on Matteo Rosetti's arm, in front of Chase and half of New York society, and pretend that I chose to be there.
The terrifying part isn't the pretending.
The terrifying part is that some twisted part of me is looking forward to it.