3. Chapter 3
TATE
Ihave hardly slept, and I’ve been fighting a hard cock all night.
Both of those things are Reese Donaldson’s fault.
The video plays on a loop in my head even though I turned off the monitor hours ago.
Her thrashing in the guest bed at almost four in the morning.
The scream that caught in her throat when she woke.
And then the part I can’t stop thinking about—her shoving two fingers into her mouth like it was the only thing in the world she had left.
She did that for several minutes before she fell back asleep.
I watched every second, questioning why my first instinct was to go to her.
I am not the fucking comforting type. But I wanted to make sure she was alright.
Instead I forced myself to watch from my computer until she was able to get herself back to sleep.
That left me with more questions than answers.
There is something she doesn’t want to tell me, and I’m not certain I want to hear it. I could see how she reacted to some of my questions. That’s why I ended the interrogation and let her go to bed. And so I could see what she would do when she got time to herself.
She never once tried her phone, which I find odd.
She doesn’t want to get away from me too bad, then.
I didn’t lie when I said there was no cell service, that is true.
But we do have satellite internet which would allow her to get messages and make calls, if I gave her the password.
If she had checked her phone, she probably would have seen it as an option.
I spent most of the night thinking through everything she said, and what she didn’t say, trying to put the puzzle together. Some of the scenarios I have come up with make me fucking sick. I’m not sure what I’ll do if something I don’t like turns out to be true.
I gave up on trying to sleep once the sun was up. Now, I’m standing in the kitchen turning bacon in a pan like some kind of domesticated asshole. Thankfully I had this place stocked with food before I brought her here. But I didn’t plan for any staff.
I stare at the pan. I know this is what Fox’s life must look like now. A small pang of something hits me thinking about what it must be like to care for another person enough to have that kind of life.
But that isn’t this. I’m hard for her, I can admit that.
It took everything I had in me not to fuck her last night.
I may be an asshole who uses women, but I knew something was off about her behavior.
And I meant what I fucking said. I fuck women who actually want what I’m going to give them. The women I use want to be used.
She’s going to be the death of me, though. There’s a fire in her eyes that is intoxicating, and she’ll dig right beneath my skin if I let her.
I move the eggs around in the pan.
The least I can do is feed the woman. I did technically kidnap her, even if I wouldn’t exactly call it that.
I finish the bacon and then some eggs. I’m going make them scrambled, because that’s harder to fuck up and I haven’t done this in years.
And it isn’t lost on me that I shouldn’t care if she approves of the quality of the eggs.
She’s supposed to be a means to an end, a lead on her father’s operation and leverage.
Except I don’t believe that anymore.
I’ve been doing various investigative work for my father for years, since I was nineteen. I know how to read people. And everything about Reese Donaldson screams that she’s not the complicit princess I expected to find.
She’s scared. And I don’t like that one fucking bit.
That thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at the screen and see Thorne’s name.
Thorne: Are you alive out there? Figured I’d hear from you again last night.
I type back a response, keeping one eye on the eggs.
Me: I’m working.
Thorne: Working on what? Or should I say who?
Me: Fuck off.
Thorne: That’s not a no. Is she hot?
I think about Reese in that pink dress last night. The way her ass looked when she bent over in that hallway. The way her lips wrapped around that stranger’s cock while I watched from the shadows, so hard I could barely think. But my little brother doesn’t need to know any of that.
Me: STFU. You know I’m working on a lead for Fox.
Thorne: I would have helped.
Me: Don’t you have class or something?
My brother is supposed to be getting his MBA at Harvard just like Fox and I did. But we all know that going to class isn’t exactly required for us. It’s more of a paperwork formality that our father takes care of.
Thorne: Fuck that. I’d rather be an asshole to you, big brother.
Me: Find a hobby.
Thorne: That IS my hobby. Seriously though, what’s going on? You bailed on Dad’s meeting this morning. He’s pissed.
Fuck. I should have told Dad where I’d be.
I’ll deal with that later. But I still can’t tell Thorne anything right now.
He’s an idiot about some things, but he’s not actually stupid.
If I say too much, he’ll start asking questions I don’t want to answer.
And he could find me sooner than I want to be found.
Me: I’ll talk to Dad. Anything I should know?
Thorne: He got pulled away. There’s something going with the Council. He wants us all to keep an eye on our phones in case he needs us.
Goddamnit. That could be about Reese. I had hoped I might have a little bit more time. And I definitely should have given my father a heads up that I took her.
Me: Let me know if you hear anything.
I pocket the phone and turn back to the stove. The eggs are done. I slide them onto two plates and add a couple pieces of bacon to each one.
My eyes dart to the door as I hear movement from the hallway, and then she appears in the doorway.
My cock goes from half hard to fully hard in about two seconds.
She’s wearing clothes she found in the guest room last night—sweatpants that hang low on her hips and a tank top that’s too big and doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra.
Her nipples are visible through the thin fabric, and I have to force my eyes up to her face before I do something stupid, like cross the kitchen and find out if they’re as sensitive as they look.
Her dark blonde hair is messy from sleep, falling around her face in waves. Without the makeup from last night, she looks fucking gorgeous. She looks even more innocent right now, if you didn’t know what she looked like on her knees with a cock down her throat.
I know. And it’s been playing on repeat in my head ever since.
“Morning.” I nod toward the plate. “Sit. Eat.”
She doesn’t move. Her stormy gray eyes scan the kitchen then land on me standing here barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, like I’m not the same man who threatened to make her beg last night.
“You made breakfast.”
I am not at all offended by the tone of her voice when she says it.
“I’m aware of what I made.”
“You actually know how to crack open an egg, and cook them.”
“I know a great many things. Are you going to sit down, or do you want to keep narrating the obvious?”
Her eyes narrow, and there she is—the sharp, defensive woman from last night, not the vulnerable one I saw on my camera.
“Why? How?”
It’s fair. I’ve lived in a house with cooks my entire life, just as she has. And I’m going to guess she hasn’t actually cooked a damn thing in her life.
“I didn’t staff the house for our visit, so I suggest you eat while you can. A little bit of appreciation never hurts.”
She crosses her arms, which pushes her braless tits together in a way that makes my dick throb. “Will words do or are you looking for a thank-you blowjob for the herculean strength it took to fry eggs for your hostage?”
The image of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth slams into my brain so hard I have to grip the counter behind me.
“You aren’t my hostage, and we can skip the gratitude.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Now eat the fucking eggs before they get cold.”
“Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want.” I pick up my coffee, mostly to give my hands something to do that isn’t reaching for her. “The food’s there. I’m not going to force it down your throat.”
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. She’s trying to find the angle, trying to figure out what game I’m playing.
Good. I want her a little bit off balance. Because I want answers.
She walks to the counter slowly, like she’s expecting me to grab her at any moment. She slides onto the barstool and looks down at the plate, then back at me.
“You’re not eating?”
“I will.” I motion toward the other plate. But I’m too focused on watching her.
She picks up the fork and takes a small bite. Then another. I watch her chew and how her throat works when she swallows, and I think about what other things I’d like to watch her swallow.
I need to get my fucking head straight.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask. The question sounds casual. It isn’t.
“Fine.” She’s lying.
“No trouble adjusting?”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” She takes another bite. “This is actually pretty good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just didn’t peg you as the cooking type.”
“What type did you peg me as?”
She looks up, meeting my eyes. Her lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk. “The type who kidnaps women and convinces them to spread their legs at your command.”
“So is that what you think I want?” It doesn’t sound half bad.
“Isn’t it?” She holds my gaze, but I can see a slight flinch in her jaw. She’s fighting for control so hard and she doesn’t think I see it. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since I walked in here, Sinclair. At least have the balls to admit what you want.”
I set down my coffee and close the distance between us in three strides. She tenses on the stool but doesn’t move as I stop right in front of her, close enough that her knees brush my thighs.