Page 23 of Destroyed With You

No, I want his hands on me so that I’ll feel alive again, even if only for a little while.

“Please,” I repeat. “Hate me if you want, but touch me now.”

For a moment he does nothing. Then he holsters his gun. I watch, then raise my eyes to his. “Don’t even think about it.”

I laugh. “Guns aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

He makes a scoffing sound, then reaches for my upper arm, pulling me toward him. “Take off the damn ring,” he says, lifting my hand.

The mention of the ring brings me up short. One prick, and he’d be totally amenable to anything I wanted, unless of course he got too much of a dose and passed out. But neither of those situations sound appealing to me. It’s not what I want. I want the man. I want to steal back a remnant of our past to keep with me when I get out of this mess and walk out that door.

Still, the mention of the ring disturbs me, and I look at him curiously. “What’s wrong with my ring?”

“That setting’ll scrape the hell out of me.” His hand slides down to my fingers and he tugs it off. I hold my breath, afraid he’ll discover its secrets. “If I’m getting scratched, it’ll be with teeth or nails.”

He releases me and backs away, then leaves me long enough to set the ring on the dresser by the television, along with his holster and weapon. Relief washes over me. If he’s putting away his gun, then he trusts me.

He turns, and for a moment he simply stands there. Then he lets his eyes roam slowly over me as sparks ignite inside me. “I should hate you,” he says, as he comes closer, then closes his hands over my shoulders.

“I know.”

His hands glide down to cup my breasts, and I gasp. “I should,” he says. “Hell, maybe I do. But it doesn’t matter. Right now, I just want you.”

“Yes,” I murmur as I arch back, losing myself in the feel of his hands on my skin.

He eases me sideways so that we fall in a tumble onto the bed. I’m on my back, his hands moving as if he needs to feel every inch of me to be certain that I’m real.

When he shifts to straddle me, I moan. He’s still dressed, and I’m naked, my body so responsive. I’ve missed this. Missed him. And even though I know this isn’t real—even though I know that I’m only playing this role to get out of this situation—I still want this moment. I want his touch. I want him inside me.

I reach for his belt and fumble for the buckle. He finishes the work, then slides the belt off and tosses it on the bed as I work on the button and zipper.

He bends forward, his hands sliding up to my breasts again, his fingers pinching my nipples. I’m naked and he’s clothed, and the rough feel of the material of his slacks against my naked flesh is wildly enticing.

He lifts my arms above my head, then bends to kiss me. I close my eyes, losing myself in the heat of the moment as his hand roams down my side, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. For a moment, I feel no contact, then his large hand tightens around my wrists.

I open my eyes and try to yank my arms down, but he’s straddling my ribcage now, his knees digging painfully into my sides.

“Winston!” I cry out his name, but it’s myself that I’m cursing. Because not only has he trapped me under his weight, he’s bound my wrists to the ornate ironwork of the bedframe with his belt.

“You son of a bitch.” I jerk against the bond, only to wince when the unyielding leather cuts into my tender skin.

Winston leans back, his eyes going cold as he looks at me, still straddling me. He cups my breasts as he leans forward, looking straight into my eyes. “And now, my lovely wife, I think it’s time we had a real conversation.”

Chapter Eight

“Goddammit, Winston, let me up.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get right on that.”

There’s sarcasm in his voice, but when he comes and stands right by me and starts to fiddle with the belt, I think maybe he really is going to free me. Then I hear the distinctive zzzzzp and realize that, no. All he’s done is tie me down even tighter with cable ties.

He steps back, the belt now in his hand. “There you go.”

“You bastard.”

He grins. “Pretty much.”

I make a frustrated growling noise as I tug against the headboard, but to no effect. All I manage to do is make my wrists sore. But what the hell, right? I deserve the pain. I completely misjudged the situation, and all because being around this man has thrown me completely off my game.