Chapter 1 #2
He found himself almost smiling, but then Preston caught himself.
He shouldn’t smile when they were trapped.
He shouldn’t smile when they could be dying.
How in the hell had she made him want to smile right then and there?
Another slow breath. Easy. Not too deep.
Not too fast. Preston didn’t know how much air they had.
Didn’t know how long they’d already been in the coffin.
Did she know?
How in the world had she ever gotten trapped with him?
How had he gotten trapped?
One of her hands rose and trailed lightly over his throat. The move caught him off guard, and Preston flinched.
He wasn’t used to people touching him. In fact, he tended to only touch someone when he fucked. A rather necessary situation.
But she’d been sprawled over him the whole time. She’d kissed him. And he hadn’t flinched.
Until now.
“Easy,” she whispered. “I will not hurt you.”
Why did her words sound like a vow?
Her soft fingertips fluttered over the pulse that raced along the side of his neck. “Your heartbeat is so fast.”
His fingers skimmed up her back. A delicate back. One covered by a light, silky shirt. His fingers eased round her body. Kept sliding and sliding…
And he touched her throat, too. His fingers curved around the delicate column of her neck. Sloane didn’t flinch when he stroked her. She didn’t tense. She remained loose and relaxed on top of him…buried in a coffin.
But…
She wasn’t really relaxed. He could feel the frantic drumming of her pulse beneath his touch. Far too fast. She was panicked. Terrified. Yet she was doing one incredible job of hiding her fear from him.
Admiration filled him. “I will not hurt you,” Preston heard himself say. His words were just as much of a vow as hers had been.
His fingers didn’t stay on her neck. They rose. Callused fingertips. Probably rough against her skin. Her touch had only been softness. He knew too little of softness.
His fingers glided along her jaw. Edged upward to curve under her chin. Then his fingers extended to feel the plumpness of her lips. He traced her lips with his index finger. Bow-shaped. Full.
She licked the tip of his finger.
“Sorry,” she murmured. Then, “Nah. Not sorry.”
He wasn’t sorry, either. His dick shoved hard against her. He wanted in her. To fuck his angel before he died—
We are not dying.
His fingers skimmed along her cheekbones. High cheekbones. Did she suck in a breath when he touched her left cheekbone? He thought that she had. Why?
His fingers eased away from her left cheekbone. Drifted over the delicate line of her nose. He couldn’t see her with his eyes, but he could feel her with his touch. “Beautiful,” he said.
She laughed. “I bet you say that to every woman that you meet in the dark.”
How could she be laughing?
His hand went back to her throat. Felt that too fast racing of her heart. His fingers lingered on her. “How did we get here?”
Her pulse jerked beneath his touch.
In the dark, his eyes narrowed.
Then…she moved. Easing her body a little to the side, arranging herself so that her face was over his right shoulder. She sort of nestled against him. Not like there was a ton of room in their prison, and he realized that in her former position, she’d been craning her head that whole time.
Instantly, his hand moved to the back of her nape. Preston began to massage her.
She tensed. Then seemed to melt against him. He liked it when she melted.
I am going to get her out of here. I will not let her die in this prison with me.
“I saw him jam a needle into your neck.”
What? The bastard had put a needle in him? Drugged him? That would explain the cobwebs in his head. Cobwebs that were slowly clearing.
“I rushed to help, screaming for him to let you go even as he shoved you into the back of a van. He didn’t let you go. He…took me with you.”
She’d tried to save him? And been tossed into a grave for her effort?
“He knocked me out,” Sloane confessed.
“With the same drug he gave to me?” Preston strained to remember the events around his attack. He’d been going jogging. His usual, early evening run. No, no, he’d finished the jog. He’d finished the run, and he’d been sweaty and—
I still have on my jogging shorts. My running shoes.
No shirt. She’d been pressing against him, against his bare chest. Her fingers had skimmed over his bare arms, and he hadn’t even realized that he still wore only the jogging shorts.
For just a moment, Preston became acutely conscious of the socks and tennis shoes around his feet.
Seeming to squeeze tightly. And then aware of the shorts around his hips.
Hell, no wonder his dick was surging toward her.
The shorts weren’t going to contain him.
And…
The run. I went for my run. Took my usual route. Came back around the house, on my private property—
What had she been doing on his property?
“He didn’t drug me. He punched me.”
Preston remembered that she’d sucked in a breath when he touched her left cheek. A dark, savage rage bubbled just beneath his control. The control that held by a thread. The bastard had punched Sloane? “He’s dead.”
“Better him than us,” she muttered.
Preston had not been bluffing. When he got out—and he would get out—he would find the bastard. He would kill him.
Maybe he’d bury the sonofabitch alive.
“I woke up and…it was dark. I was on top of you. And…for a moment…I thought you were dead.” Her words trembled.
“I’m not dead. We’re not dead. We’re getting the hell out of here, angel.”
“I’m not an angel.” So low that he almost didn’t hear her. “And I told you, we will be rescued—”
“We’re saving ourselves. We’re getting out of here. Now.” Because they could not waste more air. His panic was gone. She’d soothed him, spellbound him. Now he was locked on her. The bastard punched her. He hurt her. He buried her alive.
Preston would make him pay.
He’d get out. He’d get her out. They would survive.
And then I will find you, you sonofabitch. I will hunt you down. I will make you wish for death.
“How do you think we’re going to save ourselves? How do you think we’re getting out of here?” Soft. Curious. Not panicked.
She’d controlled her fear and panic all along.
He rubbed her nape once more. Then his hand slid from her.
“The same way I got out before.” His nostrils flared as he greedily drank in her scent.
Strawberries. He’d always loved the sweetness of a strawberry.
The scent clung to her. A body lotion? Shampoo?
It was a nice scent to have in the air around him.
A sensual, tempting scent. When he’d been buried before, all he’d smelled had been the dank earth that poured in on him.
In my mouth. My nose. Onto my chest. “Not like it’s my first time to be buried alive.” A mocking laugh. Look at that. He could laugh in hell, just like she did. “I got out before. I will get us out again. But I should warn you, it’s going to be bad.”
“Not like it’s been good up until this point.” A brief hesitation. “Except for kissing you. That part was good.”
Even in the dark, he closed his eyes. Preston pulled her words in deep. She had no idea how dangerous he was. Probably because she was seeing him as a victim. She’d come to save him, hadn’t she? Rushed to the rescue?
Why was she on my property? Why did she try to help?
Because she was good? A good person? He hadn’t met a whole lot of those in his life.
Good people seemed to know that they should avoid him and the darkness that he carried so heavily. The darkness that was pushing hard against his control. Driving him. Splintering within him.
I will hunt down the monster who did this. I will not stop until he is dead.
He’d fought against the darkness inside of himself for years. Ever since he’d been a fourteen-year-old boy, and he’d felt the first stirrings inside. The urges that told him…
Destroy.
Hunt.
Kill.