Hot For His Hostage

by Angel Payne

  All too quickly, she cast her gaze back down, elegant even in that movement.

  Just like a flawlessly-trained submissive.

  Good-bye, surreal. Hello, torture.

  This isn’t the time for dungeon fantasies, asshole. Tame your dick and focus your mind.

  “The Hilton runs regular shuttles to the outside curb,” Zoe told him after she walked back over. The group she’d just left released a collective whoop as they ordered two more pitchers of margaritas. “At least I hope they do now.”

  Brynn answered the quizzical stare he threw to both of them. “Their shittle—err, shuttle—van was all broken when we called for it a couple of hours ago.” She turned her hands up, fingers splayed like a little girl. “And we’re all in heels. And it was after dark. And the hotel’s, like, a bunch of blocks away. A drink sounded good, and they told us the fix time wouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “Which was two hours ago?” Shay couldn’t help a wry laugh after Brynn answered with a sheepish nod. In all seriousness, he wondered if their hot-ass Vegas show company had considered hiring a bodyguard to travel with these girls. If any of them were his woman, he’d be demanding it.

  Zoe’s heavy sigh broke into his speculation. “Let me call them again. Maybe they took down my number wrong, or—”

  “Fed you a line just to get you off their backs,” Shay interjected.

  She yanked up her chin. Little sparks appeared in her eyes, tantalizing cobalt against the deep blue. “Which means what?”

  So much for not irking her again. Fine by him. He was a little rankled himself now, largely from how cavalier she—and her half-wasted friends—were about their own welfare. “It means they’re likely not going to pick up even if you do call, Miss Chestain.”

  Her lips twisted. She’d obviously expected what he said, but didn’t like it. “Fine. Then we’ll just take a cab.”

  “Bet your ass we will.”

  “We?”

  He repeated the brow-jerking thing before glancing to her friend, still totally toasted in his arms. “So you’re saying you can handle all of this yourself, tiny dancer?”

  The stubborn woman tightened her pout. “Look—Mr. Burnett—”

  “Let’s go. The taxi queue is this way.”

  Chapter Two

  Damn it.

  Zoe almost spat the words aloud, despite risking another heart-halting “look” from Mr. Shane Burnett. She could ignore her animal-level attraction to everything else about the man—his thick chestnut hair, sinful gold eyes, model-perfect jaw, and linebacker-wide shoulders—but when he turned on the look, something strange happened to her bloodstream.

  Strange. And magical. And terrifying.

  It had been a long time since she’d had some scary magic in her life.

  Too long to be projecting such feelings onto a stranger in an airport bar.

  She’d first seen him use “the look” on his phone, glowering at the thing as if willing the texts on it into submission. He’d likely succeeded, too. God knew how her knees went weak, surrendering to the heat that flowed between them and the most tender folds of her body, from just watching him. Caramba, the man was all her favorite flavors, and none of them were vanilla. She would’ve bet her favorite shoes he was a lifestyle Dominant—and imagining him in a Dom’s skintight leathers, holding a flogger in his hand instead of a phone…approaching her across a dungeon with that look on his face…

  Ohhhh, yes.

  Ohhhh, no.

  She couldn’t foster that fantasy again. Ever. The near-disaster with Bryce had taught her that much. Her submissive dreams were doomed to be just that. Dreams. If she had a drop of truly submissive blood in her body, fate had dried it up well before she could do anything about it.

  No, it wasn’t even fate’s fault. When Mom died, Papi had fallen apart. Someone had to take care of Ava, and Zoe was the obvious choice. Maybe the angels had forgotten about her being only eleven years old. She’d been livid with them for a while, of course, but now saw it gave her a stubborn strength she was proud of.

  Most of the time.

  On other occasions, she opted for full retreat. Seemed the easiest route tonight with Mr. Sexy Scowl. She’d gone for duck and cover, sipping her water and checking her phone, praying El and Brynn would get a clue about the man’s polite rebuffs. Before that could happen, Ellie had become Sleeping Beauty on the bar. Then the man himself had gained a name. He was no longer anonymous-fantasy-Dom-to-ignore but Shane Burnett, a businessman with endless patience for her friends, a smile more captivating than his scowl, and a protective streak as huge as the arms in which he now held Ellie.

  And one more “little” thing.

  A presence that pulled on her like the moon did the tides.

  Which was why she could muster nothing but a prissy huff before following him out of the terminal and into a cab.

  What the hell was she doing? She was easily the only sober one left in the company tonight. She had to take care of the others, not just El and Brynn, yet she followed Burnett right out the door, letting him load the three of them into a cab. She was aware, perhaps better than most, that dominant men could also be assholes, even abusers. Though Burnett directed the driver to the Hilton, what plans did he have for the three of them after he got them to the room? Images blared to mind of tomorrow’s headlines, relaying the news that she, El, and Brynn had been beaten to death by an unknown attacker…

  She shook her head free of the melodrama. Resolve time. She simply wouldn’t let him get past the lobby elevators.

  For the time being, he offered a true favor. El was down for the count, Brynn still more than a bit blasted. Handling them by herself really would have been a bitch. The ride was only four blocks, and—

  Every inch of it was going to be hell. In all the most tantalizing, torturous ways.

  Zoe realized it the second Burnett slid into the car and closed the door. Even after he unloaded El, letting her head slide down into Zoe’s lap, he seemed to consume the taxi’s back seat. With Brynn opting to grab shotgun in front, Zoe found herself the sole object of the man’s concentration, a focus he drilled into her without mercy. Or apology.

  The car’s confines seemed to shrink more. She breathed deep, battling to calm her racing nerves, but wound up drenching her senses with his scent, instead. Earthy strength, woodsy spice. An escape to the forest in the middle of Century Boulevard. Wow.

  Time for Plan B. But returning the man’s stare with a scrutiny of her own was another failure. Why did he keep studying her like the rest of the world didn’t exist? The neon signs of the airport district whizzed by—Girls on Fire, Strip-A-Rama, Boobalicious Beauties—but the temptations could have been dust mites for how weakly they dragged his attention from her.

  Ohhh, God.

  Wait.

  Maybe he was gay.

  The possibility was such a relief, she smiled for a second. That was all the time he gave her to enjoy the feeling. As he extended his arm along the top of the seat then dropped two fingers to her nape, the inquiry on his face intensified. He added a third finger to the pressure, his gaze again a wordless query, seeming to question whether she’d welcome him or shirk him.

  Before she could help it, a long sigh spilled from her lips.

  Burnett’s alluring mouth parted a little. His jaw undulated in quiet assessment, flashing with a small tic of muscle.

  Her whole body zinged with awareness.

  Crap.

  Not gay.

  She scrambled for logical argument. This was insane. Unreal. Serendipity that only happened in movies, to people who had perfect lives and all the right lines pre-written for them. Not someone like her, who’d made a desastre of her last “relationship” and now must have a tattoo on her forehead, visible to men only. Hit on me; I haven’t had sex in almost a year. People who could summon a drop of moisture to their mouths instead of letting their tongue turn to cotton from the simple press of a man’s fingertips.

  “You’re te
nse.”

  He murmured it between a couple of El’s snores. Wait. That wasn’t El. It was Brynn, who slumped against the window like she’d pricked her finger on the same enchanted spinning wheel as Ellie.

  Great.

  She pulled in another breath. And was hit by another arousing wave of his fresh forest smell. Vaya, it was nice. Why did a guy in a designer suit smell like he’d just stepped off an alpine hiking trail? Further, why did she sense he’d ditch the suit for the trail in a second? With that jaw, that hair, and those eyes, he was stunning enough to fill one of the Rolex watch ads on the billboards overhead, yet claimed he was in the airport for “business.” Now he was stuck in a dingy city cab, in the middle of a freak LA fog bank, with two women who might rouse from their drunk stupors any second just to barf on him—and a third who’d gone dizzy from the effort of resisting his smoke-dark stare.

  She finally managed to answer, “And you, Mr. Burnett, are nearly a stranger.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “A nice one” —he trailed his fingers up the back of her neck— “unless you ask me not to be.”

  There was a rebuff in her brain for that. Somewhere. But as he emphasized his point by sifting his fingers into her hair and pulling by the tiniest degrees, all she could do was gasp. The sound trumpeted what he’d just done to the sensitive nerves between her thighs.

  “Damn,” the man whispered.

  Zoe straightened with a jerk. “What is it?” she demanded. “What’d I do wrong?”

  “Wrong? Not a damn thing, beautiful.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck too. “As a matter of fact, if you do things any more right, I’ll be bugging out of the Hilton on three legs.”

  She surrendered to a nervous laugh. At the renewed curiosity in his golden silk eyes, she explained, “You sure you’re just a mild-mannered businessman, Mr. Burnett?”

  “Define ‘mild-mannered.’” He kneaded his neck harder. “Why’d you ask?”

  She settled her back against the cab’s door and regarded him for a long moment. “Because you talk just like the army sergeant who’s going to be my brother-in-law come New Year’s Eve.”

  His expression didn’t change. But if it was true what the New-Agers said about a person’s energy having a color, his just amped from focused purple to alarmed crimson. Before she could discern why, he flashed an extra-smooth smile and countered, “You know, I’m tempted to boomerang that at you.”

  What was this? A hint at playful? The switch-up gave her hope of gaining back some composure. “Is that so?”

  The man leaned forward, matching the angle of his head to hers. “Are you sure you’re just a mild-mannered dancer, Miss Chestain?”

  She arched a brow. “You’re asking that of a Las Vegas backup dancer, mister. They make us check our ‘mild-mannered’ cards at the door.”

  “Ahhh, yes. That’s right. A dancer for a ‘hot’ Sin City show.”

  “Did Brynn and El tell you that?”

  “They supplied the ‘hot’ part. The rest is original material.”

  She tossed her head the other way, giving the move some spunk. The man was comfortable to talk to when she stopped fantasizing about him with a paddle in his grip or his hand on her ass. “You know ‘Sin City’ isn’t exactly new, right?”

  She raised a hand to put the cliché into air quotes but lowered it when he straightened his head, zapping her with the full, delicious effect of his darkening stare. “Sin itself isn’t original, little dancer. But what one does with it can redefine a man.” He jolted her anew when scooping up her hand, rotating it over, then dipping his lips to the center of her palm. “Or a woman.”

  So much for comfortable.

  Or any semblance of rational.

  Do it again. Oh God, please do it again.

  Fortunately, her brain was more cooperative than her libido. One second of clarity later, she successfully yanked her hand back. “You’re a naughty man, Mr. Burnett.”

  She didn’t have any strength—or motivation—to add humor. That didn’t stop the guy from smirking again, looking like a Survivor player who’d found the immunity idol. “Nah,” he drawled. “Just a grunt doing my job, ma’am.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Who really likes doing it with a shitload of those cute military words.”

  For a second, long enough for her to notice, his smile wavered. “Some of my best friends are ground pounders,” he supplied. “That probably explains it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She didn’t alter her gaze. He maintained his, too.

  “You don’t believe me,” he finally asserted.

  Zoe bit the inside of her bottom lip. “Actually,” she murmured, “I do. But that’s the trouble.”

  He propped his head on a tripod of the fingers that just been on her skin. “Why?”

  She had an answer. But the best way to phrase it? Caramba. Thankfully, her confusion lasted for all of two seconds. “What the hell. It’s not like we’re going to see each other again.” She squared her shoulders. “Because there’s something else you’re not telling me, Mr. Burnett. Maybe a lot of something else’s. And—”

  “And?” His soft smile matched his prodding tone.

  “And I can’t figure out why that bothers me.” She frowned and glanced back up. Not unexpectedly, his stare awaited her again, only he’d ramped up the trying-to-see-through-her factor. His neck was taut, his strong lips pressed together. His whole body seemed poised and ready.

  For what?

  “I understand that,” he murmured.

  “You do?”

  “I want to know more about you, too.” Even as the driver guided the car around a tight turn, requiring him to wrap a hand around Ellie’s calves to stop her from slipping off the seat, his focus didn’t waver. “A lot more than we can handle in a five-minute cab ride.”

  Zoe had done her part to prevent El’s fall. But releasing her grip from her friend’s elbow played her hand right back into Burnett’s grip. Her breath snagged as his fingers, massive and warm, closed around hers. Dios, he had big hands. So certain and strong. Long and graceful. Ohhh hell, what they did to her thoughts. Was there a shred of truth in the adage about the size of a man’s hands in correlation to his other…parts?

  Get your mind out of the gutter. Now.

  Fat chance. She wetted her lips before stammering, “Five minutes can be an eternity.”

  He molded his tightly around hers. “Is that so?”

  “Mmm hmm. Just ask a dancer trying to look sexy during a major show finale at a dance rave pace.”

  He chuckled. The expression spread over his face, igniting it into a captivating sight. She’d have no trouble with taking up a new hobby: counting the captivating flecks of topaz in his eyes. “You have a very good point.” Just as quickly, those specks heated. “So maybe we should take full advantage of our eternity.”

  Once more, everything from her head to her toes felt like electric lines in a hurricane.

  Stop. This is crazy. The temptation they flirted with…all the ways she longed to define “advantage” and “eternity”…they were ridiculous, dangerous fantasies. He was a stranger. A man possessing only a name and some vague occupation.

  And a stare that dissolved the hinges on some of the deepest doors in her soul.

  She turned to the most dependable go-to in her wardrobe of emotional defenses. Dark humor. “With one of my friends snoring in the front seat and the other drooling in my lap?”

  He considered that for half a moment before setting her hand free—in order to raise his touch to her face. Alluring officially gained a new ambassador as he grazed his knuckles along her arm during the trip. “I only require the use of these.” He caressed the corner of her right eye. “And this.” He drifted his touch over her mouth.

  Before she could think about containing it, a long sigh escaped. Dios. The man didn’t look beneath her neck let alone drift his touch there. So why were her panties already drenched, taunting her with the liquid he’d just
coaxed from her most secret tunnel? Why did her heart thunder and her pulse careen?

  “Miss Chestain?”

  His prompt was murmur yet command, ordering her answer whether she was capable or not. “Huh?”

  “Look at me.” He curved his thumb beneath her chin and gently tugged up. Her gaze was again filled with his face—only now, every shred of its boyish charm was gone. The garish neon of the club lights, joined with the glow from the stoplight ahead, turned him into the granite-hard Dominant she’d previously only guessed at. “And now, I want you to answer me.”

  She swallowed again. Flames and icicles fought for control of her limbs. She stiffened, adjuring herself to resist him, but the power of his fingers on her face…it was the beginning of her end. “Yes, Sir.”

  What the hell?

  She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, fighting to lock him out. Battling to forget the awful but beautiful tilt of his lips, as if her totally instinctual utterance had partly “answered” him already.

  No, no, no! She could almost predict what he’d say next. What he’d command next. And how every cell in her body wouldn’t give her rest until she answered him.

  “How long have you known about your submissiveness, Zoe?”

  Chapter Three

  Nail on the head.

  The catch in Zoe Chestain’s breathing, along with the gorgeous flair of her dark blue eyes, blared the victory cry through Shay’s senses.

  He’d taken a calculated risk on the question. While it was ridiculous to think of his life being stable enough to keep a steady subbie, he’d become damn adept at picking one out in a crowd, even in an airport bar. Zoe had given herself away from the start. The way her gaze followed certain movements he made—then translated them into gorgeous licks at her lips and eager quickenings of her breath—wrote the truth across her fascinating face. Then that moment when she’d ducked her head with such sweet deference, all but daring him to stride across the room and stroke her hair in praise…