Chapter 14 #2
But even I’m not some nudist; I don’t usually prance around butt-ass naked, and damn sure not in front of a guy who hasn’t even bought me dinner yet!
…but this was different.
It was a power move on my part.
I made Lochlan Callahan—gangster, kidnapper, convict, murderer, certified psychopath—short-circuit because of how good I looked.
That was a rush I didn’t know I needed.
The thing is, I’m not new to this. I’ve been navigating men and their desires since I figured out how a little cleavage can help you get your way freshman year in college.
The older men I’ve dated—the tech bros, the big-time executives, the schmoozing politicians—they thought they were in control. They used their money and status in order to earn pretty girls like me on their arm.
But it’s not as if I wasn’t exercising my own kind of power.
Men are surprisingly simple. Once you figure out one of them, you figure out all of them.
Use your sex appeal as a weapon, and you’ll have them right where you want them. If you do it right, you’re actually the one calling the shots. Even if you let them believe they are.
It’s not manipulation. More like understanding the dynamics between the sexes and knowing how to play the game to your advantage.
I roll onto my side, pulling the threadbare blanket up to my shoulder. The permanent draft in the room is at its worst at night, though I’m so locked into my scheming I hardly notice.
Lochlan wants me. That much is obvious now.
It should repulse me that he does, but I can’t get lost in ethics and morals right now. Not when I’m fighting for my life in this Addam’s Family deathtrap.
I’ve got to be a realist. I’ve got to do what I’ve always done—know my part and play my role.
Maybe I can’t outrun his guards or overpower them. I can’t plot some elaborate means of escape.
But I can use my wit and charm to my advantage. Even my body if it comes down to it. A smile comes to my face as finally I’m able to close my eyes and drowsiness arrives.
I drift off to thoughts about how tomorrow I’m finally going to play this game like I should’ve from day one…
The garden project isn’t even halfway done.
Sorcha and I wind up in the dirt for yet another afternoon of troweling. The deeper into spring we make it, the warmer the afternoons become.
My edges are sweating. I’ve rolled up the sleeves of my jumpsuit and am half tempted to push down the top part altogether. I’d be left in only a bra, but at this point I don’t even care.
With how I’ve got soil caked under my nails and my braids have grown fuzzy at the root, I’m aware I look like I’ve crawled out of an episode of Survivor.
“Not so bad,” Sorcha pants as she wrenches a particularly stubborn weed from the earth. Droplets of sweat roll down her sunburned face. “We’ll be done soon. Probably in a matter of weeks.”
I neglect to mention to Sorcha that we have a different definition of the word soon.
My gaze travels to the big bay window that offers a sneak peek into the main living room. Lochlan’s in there with some of his men. They’re holding some kind of meeting.
A real psychopath convention.
But rather than brush off what I’m seeing, I pause and study the moment.
A tall, skinny guy seems to be getting told off; he’s got shifty eyes and twitchy mannerisms that I recognize from the Maldives. I’m pretty sure he’s the one I scratched up on the neck.
He looks different but the same without the ski mask, his hair a sandy brown and his nose long and bumpy.
Lochlan gets up in his face and screams at him, obviously furious about something he’s done (or hasn’t done).
I don’t need to be in the room to understand the dynamic.
Lochlan’s men are terrified of him. I can’t say I blame them either.
Lochlan Callahan is generally so psychotic he could probably intimidate the devil himself.
But at the end of the day, he’s still a man. He’s a red-blooded male, which means he’ll respond like they all do if the right buttons are pushed.
I stand up and dust off my hands, grains of dirt spilling from my jumpsuit to the dead grass.
“Miss? You’ve stopped weeding.”
“I’m taking a break,” I say vaguely. “I drank so much water this morning.”
“We have lots of work, miss. Please don’t be gone more than a few minutes.”
I barely remember to nod as I pivot on my heel and start toward the house.
I pretend I’m no longer a captive toiling away in the hot spring sunshine in a jumpsuit smudged with dirt and sweat on my brow.
Instead I’m wearing one of my cute Balmain minis with Jimmy Choo chunky heels. My edges are laid and my manicure fresh.
The trick is to be delusional enough to believe your own hype.
As I strut back into the house through the French doors, I absolutely do. I’m riding my own wave as I pass through and right away capture the men’s attention.
Most are confused, staring at me and then exchanging glances, probably wondering why the captive has the audacity to stroll through their gang meeting.
But I’m not worrying about them—my attention is focused on one man and one man only.
The same man who stops in the middle of handing the twitchy, skinny dude his ass and tracks my movements through the room.
I pretend not to notice as I make it to the double doorway and then the hall outside.
My walk has just enough flavor not to be too obvious, hips swaying and shoulders straight but relaxed. My pace is slow as I walk down the hall and toward the wide staircase in the foyer.
It takes only a matter of seconds before I hear boots clacking behind me.
Lochlan reaches out, his thick fingers snapping shut on my upper arm to stop me in place. He wrenches me around with the same rough aggression he usually has. His features are set in a scowl, dark gaze burning hot as it meets mine.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls.
I play innocent, blinking doe-eyed up at him as I gesture at my dirty jumpsuit. “What does it look like? I’m filthy. I’m going to go up and take a nice, hot bath.”
There’s a soft breathless quality about the way I say it. Almost as if I’m teasing him.
…and I am.
But I’m pretending like the statement’s innocent.
As I say I’m filthy and mention a hot bath, his gaze accidentally dips to my chest, where beads of sweat roll toward the swell of my cleavage. His jaw clenches, probably silently chastising himself for taking a look.
Good. Be mad.
Then his hardened gaze returns to mine. “You don’t think you’re gonna use my bathroom again, do you? I hate to break it to you, my bratty little captive, but that was a one-time deal.”
“But where else am I supposed to clean myself when I’m soo dirty?” I ask.
Not that I even wait for a reply. I turn back around and start climbing the stairs, already aware he’ll absolutely follow—and he does.
Barely a second later, Lochlan’s rushing up after me. His energy thickens, swirling around me like a storm about to sweep me up.
I keep going anyway, audacity limitless as I make it up to the second-floor landing.
“Hey!” he barks, his hand flying out. He seizes hold of my elbow and wrenches me back toward him a second time. Even more roughly than the first.
I find myself dragged back so far, I’m practically up against him as he glares down at me and growls. “You’re not fucking using my bathroom, you brat. You got that? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“What are you going to do?” I ask coyly, tone still innocent. “Punish me?”
I knew going into this moment it would be risky; I could miscalculate the interaction and end up worse off than I started.
But I also know Lochlan’s deeply attracted to me, however hard he tries to fight it. That’s a weapon I can—and will—use against him.
As I challenge him, he grits his teeth and a vein in his neck protrudes, pulsing as if to signify his rage. He hasn’t let go of me as the tension rises and reaches a fever pitch.
My heartbeat is increasing just as much; it’s beating so fast I wonder if he can hear it. But I still refuse to back down, waiting for him to make his move.
“You want to be punished?” he asks. Then his scowl vanishes for a taunting grin. “Today’s your lucky day, brat. C’mere.”
A squeak comes out of me as he drags me toward the nearest door and shoves me inside. He’s right alongside me as he slams shut the door and then he’s on me.
His large, strong hands grab me by the throat, and he crushes a kiss to my lips. He’s warm and aggressive and immediately ravages my mouth.
But I’m ready for him this time, meeting his tongue with mine and tangling my fingers into his shirt.
It’s a war we fight with our mouths as we quickly find a combative rhythm and then battle it out.
Lochlan leans harder into me, pushing me back. I resist by trying to fight him on it. Whereas a second ago I was fisting his shirt, now I’m shoving at his chest. I’m standing my ground as best as I can as he once again easily overpowers me and backs me up against the wall.
The lashes of his tongue are unapologetic and greedy. He traces my mouth and awakens the same heat that’s kept me up at night thinking about our interactions.
Goddamn is he a good kisser.
He’s dominant and commanding while mindful of how he strokes his tongue against mine. His lips are pretty full for a White man, which only makes his kisses that much more intense.
He holds my face between his hands and presses his hard, muscular body into mine and makes me feel like I’m being consumed whole.
It’s a disorienting experience—all thoughts vanishing as the sensations he gives me take over.
The shiver down my spine and throbbing between my thighs, and he has me panting for air within seconds.
He’s so passionate, so damn hungry, it’s almost too much.
I’m finally able to wrench myself away, and I go for the response that makes most sense (at least in my hazy brain).
I smack Lochlan across the face.
The slap reverberates not only through the room but through me. As my hand collides with his cheek, a shockwave passes through me and leaves me wide-eyed and startled.