by Huss, JA
“Weird,” I say.
“Yeah, kinda is,” he agrees. Then he looks at me with a serious expression. “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never kidnapped anyone. I’m not a criminal, Lyssa. I mean, I know guys like that. The ones who hunt down people for other reasons. Lots of guys like that, actually. But I’m not like them. I’m one of the good ones.”
For some reason this makes my heart hurt. “I know that,” I whisper.
“I didn’t want to do this job. I didn’t want to hurt you that night. I tried to make the van as comfortable as possible and I barely gave you any of that drug. I just—”
“It’s OK,” I say, smiling as I walk down the kitchen stairs and make my way over to him.
“It’s not OK. I took you against your will and I’m sorry. But—” He hesitates.
“But what?”
“But I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I brought you here too. I don’t think you should marry that guy.”
“Well,” I say, blushing. “I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He laughs. “Oh, that’s horrible. You have low expectations. I can do much better, I promise. Just stick with me, Wild Thing. I got you.”
He’s got me.
I don’t think anyone has ever expressed that to me before. Not once has anyone ever really had my back or best interest in mind. My mother did her best but she was sick long before she was really sick, if that makes sense. She didn’t have the power to really do well when it came to raising me.
I can’t really say she had my back though. She did leave my real father and marry the asshole. And she let him boss me. She let him act like my father when we all knew he wasn’t. She never stood up to him. Not even when she was planning on divorcing him when she got really, really sick.
So it would be normal for me to think Mason is just another asshole full of shit. And when my stepfather shows up here, and he will, Mason will back away and forget all about how he’s got me.
But I choose to believe him.
Maybe he didn’t set out to save me and maybe he’s no Prince Charming.
But he is one of the good guys.
I can feel it in my heart.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - MASON
Just getting her away from that house makes a difference. I’m sure of it. I could feel her change during the drive. She got more relaxed. She perked up and took an interest in things. She’s talking now like she’s fine, and not acting like some weird zombie.
It’s that room, I decide. Even if her stepfather did have the house decorated for her future children, that’s not how she took it. That room morphed her back into a child for some reason.
Everything about it is creepy and unsettling.
And I want to throw that backpack away. I should’ve let her drop it in the dumpster but I felt like there was more to it. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But I’ve been hunting down bail-jumpers for more than a decade and when I get a gut feeling about something, it’s generally right. I’ve learned to listen to that feeling.
I still feel the lingering residue of that house and I have a sudden urge to take a shower. To take Lyssa into the shower with me and wash her clean.
But I don’t want her to know I know that something is off. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I know more about her than I should. I read all of her criminal records. I saw all those mugshots, read the statements from the arresting officers, the transcripts from court, and I know what her stepfather did to get her off.
I totally and completely invaded her privacy. If she wanted me to know all this stuff about her, she’d have told me. I mean, how would I like it if she went through all my personal shit without my permission while she was here?
I don’t have deep, dark skeletons in my closets, but that’s not the point.
The point is… people who care about each other don’t do that shit.
It implies that there’s no trust and I really want her to trust me.
So I take her hands and pull her close. She automatically wraps her arms around my middle and that feels amazing. I take her face in both my hands and kiss her mouth. No talking, no pushing, no expectations… just a kiss.
She kisses me back. Her lips soft and pliant. Her tongue exploring mine, but not in an urgent way or a desperate way.
Just a natural way.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out of our kiss. “You wanna take a shower with me? Hmm?” I waggle my eyebrows at her, hinting that this is no ordinary shower I’m offering up.
She nods her head and says, “Take me there.”
I lead her into my bedroom, looking back over my shoulder so I can watch her come to a conclusion about what my décor says about me.
Everything in this place is kinda dark. Kinda gray, but there’s a blue tint to everything at the same time. It’s masculine, but sophisticated.
My bed is low and modern. Very different from everything back in that country estate. The side tables are made out of burnished metal, the floors are dark hardwood that match the living room, and the slate-colored rug is modern and plain.
She just looks around as I lead her into the bathroom and flick on the light.
I turn to her, my hands on her hips. My fingers inching their way up under her shirt so I can feel her soft skin.
Her eyes wander around, taking in the dark gray, oversized tiles that line the walls and the ceiling. The floating soapstone countertop with burnished metal double sinks. The shower glass that walls the whole space in all the way up to the ceiling to keep the steam in. And then she finds my eyes in the mirror.
We do that a lot, I realize. For two people who have barely known each other a week, we find ourselves in our reflections more than most.
“I like it,” she says.
“I like you,” I say. Because I do. And also because I want her to know that.
“I like you too,” she says.
I walk over to the shower and flip the hot water on, then turn back to her and say, “I’m going to take off your clothes now,” as I begin lifting up the hem of her shirt.
I go slow. Like she’s just a frightened animal and not a wild one. Revealing her stomach inch by inch. Then the bottom of her breasts, then her nipples—all hard and peaked. Then finally, she lifts her arms so I can pull it over her head.
I toss it in the trash can. She huffs out a small laugh, looking at her discarded shirt, but doesn’t retrieve it or demand that I do.
I pull her elastic-waist shorts down her legs as I kneel before her, my face directly in front of her pussy.
I draw in her sweet scent and things flutter through my mind. Romantic things. Happy things. Sweet things. I picture life with her by my side. Where would we live? Here? Or would we sell this place and go shopping for something else? Something that is more us?
Would she get a job? What kind of job would Lyssa Baylor get? We don’t need jobs. Not with all that money in my account, but people need to work.
I would ask what she likes to do, then see if we could turn that into a business. That’s how you make work fulfilling.
And I’d take her to Fiji. No escape plan necessary. Maybe, after my mom is cured, we all go there? Would my mom like Lyssa?
Yes. I think she would. I don’t care that Lyssa has a record a mile long. That girl in that file drawer isn’t this girl. Not my girl. Her life is all fucked up but I cling to that first opinion I had when the job first started.
Lyssa can’t help who she is. She didn’t choose to be Baylor’s daughter. This is just the hand she was dealt. So I’m gonna forget I ever saw that drawer of file folders until she’s ready to tell me about it.
And maybe she’s never ready? Maybe she wants to put it behind her and move forward.
I’m OK with that too.
Because there’s this little part of me that just can’t reconcile the two versions of Lyssa presented to me.
Her stepfather says she’s this wild thing. This crazy, out-of-control girl who does drugs,
and flashes her pussy, and sells her body. And the bodies of others, I reluctantly admit.
I have the proof. So I know he’s not lying. And I did see her in action that first night. Out clubbing in that gold dress. Passing that guy money from her purse.
I think about that for a moment. Because whatever she paid for, she didn’t get anything in return.
Still, all that stuff really happened.
Before me, that is.
Because the side of Lyssa I see is one of a thoughtful, playful, somewhat innocent young woman who just wants some space to figure out who she is.
The only thing I know for certain is that Lyssa Baylor isn’t the girl I found in that file drawer. OK. So she did those things. But drugs make people do weird shit.
I don’t know. I need more time to fit all the pieces of this puzzle together. And the time for thinking isn’t now. Because I’m jolted back to the present moment when Lyssa places her hands on my shoulders to steady herself, then steps out of her shorts one leg at a time, kicking off the sneakers on her feet.
“I bought you all that underwear,” I say, tossing her shorts in the trashcan. “And still, you refuse to wear it.”
“I brought it with me,” she says. “It’s the only thing I brought.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “You only brought underwear?”
She nods, smiling. Blushing. “Because it came from you. And none of the other stuff did.”
See? This is what I mean. Girls who are arrested for prostitution, pimping, and pandering don’t say shit like that. Not seriously. And she’s fucking serious, I can just tell.
I stand up and slip my hand under her hair. “Come here,” I whisper, pulling her towards me.
She presses her naked body against my clothed one and this time our kiss isn’t sweet. Our mouths are open before we even touch. Our tongues eager. Her fingers pop the button on my jeans, dragging the zipper down a moment later. And then she pulls me out.
I’m already hard for her.
She pumps me a few times, still kissing me. More desperate now. Breathing heavy to let me know she’s getting turned on. And then she begins lifting my shirt up my body with the exact same precision and slowness as I did hers.
I want her hands back on my cock, but I can’t have that if she’s taking her time. So I rip the shirt over my head and toss it on the ground. I bend down again, making her whimper, and lean in to kiss her stomach as I unlace my boots.
Then I stand up, grab her face with both hands and kiss her as I kick off my boots and her hands eagerly tug my jeans and boxer briefs down my legs.
Two seconds later we’re both naked and the steam pours out the open door of the shower, wrapping us up in a cloak of heat.
“Come with me,” I say through our kiss. Then back away, eyes locked on hers, as I take her hand and lead her into the shower.
She closes the door as she steps in and I adjust the water temperature so it’s hot, but not scalding.
I want to make sure to wash everything off her. That house. That room. Those clothes. Her fear. Everything.
I want her skin to be bright pink from the cleansing. A fresh start.
We walk under the water together and get wet. I spin her around so I can see her face as the water runs down her cheeks. She tilts her head up, eyes closed, and soaks her hair while I grab the shampoo bottle and squirt some into my palm. Then get behind her, pressing my cock up against the small of her back, and wash her hair.
“Wow.” She sighs. “That feels incredible. You’re going to spoil me even more than I already am.”
“No,” I say, lathering the ends of her long blonde hair up with frothy, coconut-scented bubbles. “I’ve realized something since I’ve gotten to know you.”
“What’s that?” she says, drawing in a deep breath.
“You haven’t been spoiled nearly enough.”
“Oh, please.” She laughs. “I didn’t even think to change my own sheets. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know why I did that.”
I do. But I don’t want to say it out loud.
“Don’t think it about anymore,” I say. “Now rinse.”
She turns around into the shower as I grab the liquid soap and squirt it into my hands, then reach around and wash her breasts first.
Hey, I’m a man. What can I say?
She leans back into my chest, the water spilling over both of us, and I back up so she doesn’t rinse off all my bubbles.
I want to take my time washing her. Do a very thorough job. I wash her belly next. Then her hips. She stands quietly while I bend down and rub my soapy hands up and down her thighs, teasing her a little as I almost dip between her legs, but don’t.
She hisses in a breath of air as I lather up her thighs, then wash each of her feet.
I do her arms and her shoulders next. Then pause with my hands on her throat. Wait for her to swallow and then close my eyes because that’s so fucking sexy.
When I’m done I stand in front of her and see if I missed any spots. Bubbles cover pretty much every inch of her body and she’s grinning at me with the most adorable smile. I just want to eat her up.
“OK,” I finally say. “I think you’re clean. Rinse.”
She steps forward into the water and washes off all my hard work and the lingering feeling of filth leftover from that house in the same instant. Then turns to face me and rinses her back.
She’s smiling. And she looks so different even though nothing has changed. She wasn’t really dirty, and yet… she sparkles like a new woman.
“My turn now,” she says, reaching for the bottle of soap.
I feel dirty from being in that house too, so I stand still and quiet as she lathers up my chest, keeping eye contact with me the whole time.
Who are you? That’s what I want to ask her. Where is that girl in the gold dress? The one who fights, and kicks, and screams.
Where are you, Wild Thing?
Where did you go?
CHAPTER TWENTY - LYSSA
He is the most beautiful specimen of a man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And don’t get me started on his eyes.
I remember them that first night we met. Staring at me from across the dance floor. Locking with mine, then the smile and the way he turned away, like he was playing a game with me.
As a stranger Mason Macintyre is all business. He was so intriguing in those first few minutes we met. Kinda out of place, but not really. Mason is one of those guys who can fit in anywhere. Someone totally at ease with himself. He knows who he is, he’s never had an identity crisis. He is confident, and commanding, and in control.
It was a trap that night. I know that. But I see it differently now. He liked me. That me. I could tell. He liked my dress, and the way I danced, and the fight.
He liked my fight.
He liked the chase too.
But what does he think of me now that he’s caught me?
Has his opinion changed? Am I weaker now? More fragile? Something to be pitied? Or does he enjoy being the alpha male? In control of everything.
Because I like the way he does that. I like the way he takes control.
“You did a good job,” I say.
“You’re doing a good job too,” he says.
And I know he means the soap. That’s what he thought I meant too. The way he cleaned me. The way I’m cleaning him.
But that’s not what I mean.
“No,” I say. “You did a good job taming me. Because I don’t feel like that girl anymore.”
“Which girl?” he asks, narrowing his eyes a little.
“The wild one,” I say.
“Lyssa,” he says, placing a hand on my cheek. “No. I like the wild one too.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Well, too late now. I’m all tamed up for you, Mr. Macintyre.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, his expression becoming serious. “No. You’re still her. I see it inside you.”
“Wild me?” I laugh. “Spoiled-rotten, wild me.”
“That�
��s not who you really are. And that’s not who you were that night. Don’t you see? That night in the club, Lyssa. You were magnificent. Like a lioness in charge of hunting food for the entire pack.”
“Hmmm.” I chuckle. “Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about it. I want her. Not that little girl you morphed back into back at the estate. That’s why I brought you here. So you can be yourself.”
I just stare at him for a second. Confused. But something about that makes sense too. I was myself in that club. That was the real me. And everything since then has been some other version of me. Some older version. Some weak, confused version.
He steps under the water and rinses off, then reaches for a bottle of conditioner and begins to slowly, methodically caress it into my hair. He makes sure every end gets attention. He massages my scalp so seductively, I close my eyes and lean back into his chest.
I don’t remember ever feeling so relaxed.
Then, too soon, he says, “Rinse. Then we’ll get out and order some food.”
“Already?” I ask.
He laughs. “Don’t worry, I have more plans for you later.”
I rinse my hair, dreaming about later, as he steps out of the shower and starts toweling off. When I’m done I turn off the water and open the door to his arms open wide with a large towel.
When I step out onto the bath rug he starts drying me off. Dragging the thick cotton down my shoulders and arms. My breasts and stomach. Then he kneels and dries my legs and feet, one at a time.
He stands back up and grabs a large-tooth comb from a drawer and starts to detangle my hair. I watch him in the mirror, looking into his eyes. “I can do it,” I say, reaching for the comb.
But he pushes my hand aside and says, “I know you can. But I want to do it. So just let me.”
He is gentle with my hair. Making sure not to tug too hard. It feels just as good as when he was taking care of it in the shower. And when he’s done I want him to start all over again.
“Now,” he says. “About clothes.”