I’m his captive.
It takes me a while to remember because I’m so comfortable as I wake, I find it impossible to feel any of the trepidation I ought to. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happily snuggled, ever.
It’s not that the bed I’ve slept in my whole life was uncomfortable. It was fine. But on my own, it’s always a little too cold. Grant’s bed though, it’s like sleeping on a summer cloud. And although the night was all heated air, this morning is fresh and birdsong comes from an open window.
I’ve never lived outside of London. At the Southwark compound if you heard birds it would be pigeons plodding around on a roof. Here there’re the chirps and fluting warbles of little feathered critters.
At my waist the cover that held me secure moves.
Not a cover. A hand. Grant’s palm sweeps down my body, light but unmistakably possessive. To my knee, pause, then slowly back up.
A test maybe? I don’t flinch. I can’t even bring myself to tense up. Honestly, my body tries to get more, shifting slightly under his touch to continue the caress once he stills.
I open my eyes to find Grant watching me, a serious, tender expression on his face in the creamy morning light spilling into the room. It picks out the silver in his sideburns and reveals a tiny divot on his cheek. A small scar maybe. How would it feel under my fingers? And how did he get it?
My kingpin is a finely crafted puzzle box, and I want to explore him until I understand every facet.
Wait, he’s not mine. That’s ridiculous.
I should be aware by now, after twenty-one years, no one wants me for myself. Or not for long. David Bree-Fogg is just the latest in a long line of people who judged me insufficient. No doubt the kingpin will too, once he gets to know me. All I can do is desperately guard my heart until I leave and hope this day of being his isn’t too memorable.
Grant brushes a strand of hair off my face and leans in to press a kiss to my mouth and whatever I was thinking about dissolves. It’s a soft kiss. No tongues or any hint of the filthy sexy things he did last night.
It should be weird, or unnerving. But his grey eyes are so familiar, it’s like coming home. I like him way too much. He is a dangerous kingpin twice my age and I’m falling for him like a penny tossed from the Eiffel tower.
I am going to Australia at the end of this day. I have to, before he tires of me.
“I need to go to the loo,” I stammer. I have to get space.
He nods his permission and I almost fall out of bed with relief.
The bathroom is classic luxury and my heartbeat slows. Pristine black and white tiles are warm on my bare feet, chrome fittings gleam, and the morning light is a caress on my skin. There’s a claw foot bath and a walk-in shower so big I’ve seen smaller bedrooms. I breathe in eucalyptus and sandalwood and it’s so clean and fresh this room is basically a magic relaxing spell.
I comb my fingers through my hair uselessly, until, with more chutzpah than usual, I open a couple of the cupboards and find some essentials in one of them, on a single shelf. Cleanser, moisturiser, a toothbrush and toothpaste. And, ah-ha! A hairbrush. All seemingly brand-new.
I wash my face and work out the knots from my hair until it is straightened out, even if my thoughts aren’t. Then I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m still wearing that white silk dress from the rehearsal. Or wedding. Whatever it was. The honourable kingpin didn’t undress me. Well, apart from tearing open said dress at the crotch, which gapes obscenely, revealing my knickers.
Even aside from the now grubby and ripped dress, I look different from usual. Haunted by my brother’s betrayal, yes. But also, there’s a new gleam of knowledge in my previously innocent eyes. My lips are reddened from kissing Grant. And—wait I didn’t see it before because my hair covered it. There’s a love bite on my neck. A dark pink oval mark.
I bring my fingers up to touch it, expecting a stab of pain, but none comes. The skin is still smooth but at some point last night the kingpin deliberately took advantage of my mindless pleasure to set a sign of his presence on my skin.
I suppose they fade after a few days like bruises, but this feels like a brand.
Twenty-four hours. I don’t know what time it is now, but at a guess there are about seventeen left?
Then I’m going to Australia, I remind myself. An interior design business, a house in the country with birds outside the window in the morning, and perhaps eventually someone to love me.
Because when your only family tries to have you assassinated, the signs are clear. You’re not loved.
But that love bite. My fingers gravitate back to it. Not loved maybe. But owned.
And right now that feels… Good. Special. Grant chose to save me from the grim fate I didn’t realise I was stumbling towards. He selected me, even if it was just for his twisted game.
The kingpin is sitting up in bed when I return, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, all his focus on a tablet he’s reading from with a scowl. He’s like a sexy half-naked professor. All he needs are some dusty books and a stern voice about my assignment being due.
He looks up and brightens when he sees my face. Setting his glasses and tablet aside he smiles until his gaze drops to my dress. Then the scowl is back.
“Do my prison rations include coffee?” I joke, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. I try not to look directly at him. He’s like the sun when he’s topless. Too beautiful to view straight on. Though obviously I do anyway, risking eye strain. And I covertly examined every scar that covers his chest while we were in the car.
“I thought…” He leans his forearms onto the sheets. They are very nice forearms. Muscled and with a light coating of black hair and with fewer scars than are on his chest. “I might eat first. I am very hungry.” His voice is dark and full of intent I don’t fully understand.
That assignment that I was thinking the sexy professor would tell me is due? Ope. Apparently it’s breakfast.
“Well, I can make you food…” I can’t. I have no idea how to cook. But I can burn toast, right?
“All you need to do is let me eat,” he corrects me. “Will you?”
It’s not a question. I am his to do with as he wants for the day.
What would happen if I said no? I haven’t a clue, and part of me would very much like to find out. But more wants what he promised—dirty and perverse—so I nod.
“Come here.” He pats the bed beside him.
Cautiously, I approach, my knees wobbling. In the light of morning, he’s more real than he was last night. This whole thing is unavoidably happening. I can’t pretend it’s a dream.
“Take off your clothes, sweetheart.” His smile is full of challenge. He knows I’m… not scared exactly. Nervous. I’ve never been naked with a man before.
“This is not food,” I say and it comes out not as a protest, but as soft surprise. At the same time, I tug the straps of my ruined dress from my shoulders because my body is inclined to do whatever he says, regardless of my brain blinking and gesturing like a meme of a puzzled animal.
“It is nourishment,” he purrs, and he does seem to be taking sustenance from watching me shimmy out of the dress, letting it fall onto the floor.
I’m down to the white knickers and bra and I’m… shy. Struggling not to cover myself with my arms.
“And the rest,” he says implacably when I hesitate.
I bite my lip to stop it wobbling. It’s not like the scarce inches of flesh that are covered by my underwear are going to reveal something that surprises him. Just nipples. The triangle of my mons. But I’m afraid as I reach behind me to undo the clasp of my bra, and shake it off my arms. The drop of the straps down my shoulder wasn’t sexy, was it? I’m left with it in my hand, hanging like a bit of fluff I don’t know what to do with but can’t put down.
I peek at the kingpin and my tummy flutters.
He doesn’t look like revealing my nipples was nothing. If he thought my bra skills lacking, his demeanour doesn’t show it. He devours me with his eyes.
And when I cast my gaze “demurely” down, I see a tent in the bed covers. His erection.
Perhaps it’s the visible sign that I’m pleasing him and doing this right, more than his expression, that boosts my confidence. But it’s also the recollection that he’s in control here.
I’m caught. He kidnapped me. He chased me down. It’s not my responsibility to figure out what to do, just to obey. And funnily enough, that gives me the sauciness to shimmy my hips a little as I push my knickers down my thighs.
“Good girl.” He reaches forwards, pulling me onto the bed to sit between his knees, my legs over his. Tangling his fingers in my hair and watching my eyes, he slowly draws me in, the moment stretching.
“You are so gorgeous.” He skims a hand down my side, then back up to cup my breast, kissing across my jawline as he does so. “I’ve been dreaming of your beautiful tits. And finally I’m going to suck on them until you cry out from pleasure.”
I moan my assent and he takes it as such, lowering his head to my breasts.
The first touch of his mouth makes me twitch. I … Oh my. I had no idea it could feel like this. So good. Then he’s sending sparks through me, like I’m a firework and he’s a match.
I writhe, trying to rub my thighs together to get a little relief, and the side of my knee touches a hard length. His cock, exposed by the bed covers having fallen away. I can’t help but press myself against him. There’s a frustrating layer of fabric between our skin, but his boxers are unexpectedly silky and he’s hot against my leg. And utterly unyielding.
I’m just Grant’s instrument and he’s playing me to both of our delights. He brings a hand to my other nipple, and suddenly it’s like the music is in stereo. It’s better, stronger, and working in tandem.
I’m sure if his cock was in me it would be mind-blowing. I can’t ask. Probably he wouldn’t even want to have the inconvenience of taking my virginity. He’s most likely used to women who have experience, not little innocents like me who wouldn’t know what to do to please him.
Because he certainly knows how to please me.
“I’m going to touch your pussy.”
I nod and he gives a growling sound of approval as he nudges me to lie back, and I’m exposed to him, over his lap.
“You’re all flushed.”
I expect his fingers like he did yesterday, but he’s shifting backwards. The next thing I feel is his breath on my inner thigh. Then his palms brush my knees in a light request. I let him push them apart.
“Spread your legs wider.” That demand in his rough voice sends a fresh wave of wetness to my core. I obey, opening up completely to him, my thighs creaking with the strain of almost doing the splits.
“Very pretty,” he says approvingly. “Your pink folds soaked. I bet you’re aching for my touch, my good girl.”
He doesn’t seem to need a reply to that question, which—phew—because when his lips reach my slit there’s nothing but the new sensation rolling through me. And those words. Good girl. They’ve sent a shot of pleasure into my core.
I don’t get many compliments, or someone telling me I’m doing it right. I’m usually not enough. Not obedient enough, not docile enough. No one has ever made obeying better than rebelling, as my kingpin does. I must have been praised like this at some point, but I can’t recall when.
It’s gentle little kisses at first, but before long he is carefully escalating his kisses from soft to firm to hard. Then to greedy licks all the way up me, like I’m an ice cream and he is going to taste every bit. As though he won’t let even a drop of my arousal go.
I’ve never felt anything as good as Grant licking my pussy.
And, it would seem, neither has he. He’s making rumbling noises of approval as he feasts. There are occasional words that light me up.
“Delicious.”
“Yes.”
“Sweet, so sweet.”
He reaches up and tweaks my nipple, biting into my skin and sending sensation all down my torso to where he’s licking me.
I need him so much. There’s an itch deep inside me and I’m sure he’d be able to… I give in and collapse deeper into the bed. But that softness beneath my shoulder blades isn’t enough to keep me in reality. I reach down and touch Grant’s hair. So silky. He makes a sound of agreement and I lace my fingers in and grip the back of his head, holding him close. I anchor myself to him as the pleasure threatens to knock me out.
He tongues me harder and slips a finger into my passage and I swear he beckons me, pulling against my inner wall. Whatever he does, it is exactly what I need.
I break apart.
I come so hard I think I might never be able to stop. My body jerks and pulses like I’m a leaf blown by a warm summer breeze. I can’t do anything but ride it out, allowing the pleasure to control me.
When my brain is half functional again, I notice what Grant is doing. He smooths his hands across my inner thighs, thumb pressing in sweeping movements. Possessive, but there’s also affection in every brush of his skin on mine and the tingling of my orgasm is replaced by a subtler warmth.
“Mmm.” He sits back and licks his lips. They’re glistening with my pussy juices. “Thank you for that,” he rumbles.
The kingpin looks as though he found that as satisfying as I did. Which is saying quite a lot.
Except… I glance down and my gaze snags on the massive bulge in his boxers. Surely…?
“Thank me?” I echo, bewildered.
“Yep.” He smirks. “Shower. Then I’ll make you breakfast. Come on,” he says, a little impatiently, when I don’t immediately follow him to the bathroom.
I’m so confused. He got twenty-four hours of whatever he wants, and he hasn’t taken anything for himself yet.
“Here.” From the shower he points at the spot between his feet. A big golden creature, with water streaming over him, demanding my presence. He’s thrilling and terrifying. Every fantasy I’ve ever had of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and what he says he wants is me. I step under the water hesitantly, but Grant isn’t having any of that. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, warm water sluicing across our skin, over our faces. It’s like one of those shampoo adverts with a waterfall, except, so much nicer. His tongue is hot in my mouth, and I’m moaning even before he shoves me up against the cold tiles and slides his hand between my legs.
The pleasure is more familiar this time. It’s easier because my body is moulding to his will. When I’ve come, gasping and slumped, unable to hold myself up, he washes me. Which sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I’m a grown adult. I can wash myself.
But it’s reverent. Sweet and caring. I’m a puddle. His hands are so big, it’s more efficient, that’s what I tell myself. The shower gel smells like him, and now I’m covered in his scent, and I love that too. I want to rub myself all over him like a cat. A water-loving cat. A sexy pussy… Alright. I’m losing it.
Suffice to say, I don’t stop him. And if my bottom and breasts get more than their fair share of washing? Well. As I said, his big hands make up for it. More efficient.
I try to touch him, and he clicks his tongue and murmurs, “Do I have to tie you up to make you behave, sweetheart?”
That sends a new flood of arousal between my legs even as doubt crowds in. Does he not want me to touch him? Does he not want to come with me? I don’t understand, but my pleasure-addled brain can’t pick out what is because I’m inexperienced, what is because of this weird deal we have, and what is that maybe he just doesn’t fancy me that way?
He wraps me in a fluffy towel and I perch on the edge of his bed while he briskly dries himself and pulls on clothes.
I’ve never seen a man dress, and I’m fascinated. His big body is so different from mine. Yes, all the things work the same—sort of—but the way he moves and the size of him is fascinating. And his clothes are harsher. More starch and clunks. When he puts in a pair of simple gold cufflinks it draws my eyes to his strong wrists and there’re two hard clicks as they seal the cotton. His trousers close differently too, with a stiff waistband like his clothes have to restrain him. Keep all that stark beauty contained, as though if he wore wafty dresses, his feral-self would escape.
I’ve never seen anyone put on a tie before, but Grant knots it effortlessly, not even looking at the result until he nudges it to the centre with his thumb. Definitely a leash. It’s only when he shrugs into a jacket that I realise I’m still watching him like a maniac. Reluctantly, I pick up my ruined dress. What I’d do for a pair of jeans right now.
“You’re not wearing that,” the kingpin snaps.
And though half a second ago, I was wishing almost the exact same thing, I bristle.
“You destroyed my only clothes. I don’t have anything else to wear.” How are you going to solve this, all-powerful kingpin?
“There’re some things in there.” He flicks his fingers towards one of the wardrobes. “The fit should be close enough.”
I open the door he casually indicated and blink in surprise. There’s a dress. A gorgeous floor-length evening dress in my favourite dusky rose pink. I reach out and finger the silk. It’s unspeakably lovely.
This. This is the type of dress I would’ve chosen as a wedding dress, if I had been able to make my own decisions. I know white is classic, but I adore this soft pink, and the style is elegant without being overly simple. I almost put it on to eat breakfast, but spot the rest of the clothes. There’s a random assortment. Several sets of lingerie in what looks exactly my size, two bralettes with low-rise knickers in white lace in slightly different designs, another in sheer pale almond-pink. Cut-off jeans shorts just like the ones I wore all last summer, and a strappy top. The cutest Fair Isle knit woollen jumper, and a pair of soft cream trousers. A pretty dark blue dress with a floral print. There are even ballet flats in my size. They’re for all seasons and exactly the sort of thing I would buy myself.
It’s so entirely strange, like a fairy tale, and I’m baffled. Delighted, don’t get me wrong. But why are they here?
I don’t enjoy the reasons that come to mind.
I sneak a glance across at Grant. It’s his turn to watch now, but there is something akin to trepidation in his expression. A tension around his mouth.
“Why are there women’s clothes in your wardrobe?”
“You don’t like them?” he asks calmly, one hand casually in his pocket as though it doesn’t matter one way or the other. But he’s unnaturally still.
Could the kingpin be embarrassed about being caught in playboy antics? I look back at the clothes so he won’t see my face crumple. “Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“You know,” I practically hiss. “The woman who visits here often enough to have clothing in your wardrobe. For all seasons and occasions.”
“Sweetheart.” He’s behind me in a second, forcing me roughly around. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he says in that deep voice that makes me want to believe him. “Trust me.”
I don’t. I stiffen in his arms, but I can’t bring myself to move away. His touch feels too good. He’s the first man to ever hold me, and the reminder that this is a temporary thing, whereas there are other women in his life, makes me pout.
He’s my kingpin.
“I’m not jealous.” I am such a liar. I am the colour of a forest on a summer’s day. “But she has good taste. I’d like to meet her.”
I’d claw her eyes out if I met her. I’d send her to the moon without a seatbelt. I’d tell her to get the fuck out of the country if she wants to keep all her fingers and toes.
I’m so jealous I could weep.
“Jessa.” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him.
My heart tumbles into those silver eyes of his. They’re so beautiful, I’ve imagined them everywhere.
“Jessa, they are your clothes.”
I don’t understand but the creature in my chest likes that he uses my name right now. Nothing generic, like babe or angel. My name. Not Jessica Southwark, either. The name that feels like me. Jessa. His using my name might be the only thing preventing me from going into some kind of fit.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. His fingers tighten on my chin. “I bought them for you. I knew you would come here. I arranged for it.”
Oh. There’s so much honesty in his raw tone, I don’t doubt him. “They’re all new then.”
He nods.
No other woman and he planned for this. The jealous creature inside me purrs. “When you discovered the plot to kill me.”
He half smiles. “Something like that.”
“You bought these clothes? You went into a shop?” I can’t imagine it.
Grant shrugs. “My PA did, on my instructions. He wasn’t massively happy, but he knows better than to say so. And it pleased me to have things I thought you’d like.”
It should feel creepy. But it doesn’t. It feels warm and nurtured. All the time I was furious with the world, it was reading the secrets of my heart like fortune cookie papers and stashing them away for safekeeping.
“Nothing makes me happier than taking care of you.” He frames my face with his hands and kisses me and the envious feeling dissipates like dew under the sunlight of his attention.
Downstairs, we walk through the lobby where last night he caught me, dragged me to floor, held me down, and tore an orgasm from me.
After everything that has happened already this morning, I blush even as I can’t help but look at the room with my professional eyes. It’s a beautiful space, but too cool and a little lifeless. It needs a mirror on each side, flowers on that table and a modern landscape on the wall behind the stairs to bring the outside in. If you put a banana tree in a ceramic pot to the left at the bottom of stairs, or maybe a lemon, you’d see it as you came through the door—I turn, thinking through the visual path, to find Grant looking at me with indulgent amusement.
Ah. Right. I’m being weird.
“Does it meet your exacting standards?” he asks mildly.
“No.” Obviously, yes. Except it makes my fingers itch to sketch then acquire the few details that would make it welcoming and not just impressive.
“What would you change?” He sinks his hands into his pockets and though I shake my head, he silently outwaits me.
“You need…” I tap my finger on my chin. “Paintings to start with.”
He nods and makes an affirmative sound.
And that apparently is all the encouragement I need, because I’m off. Pointing at spaces and saying what I’d add. It’s probably a ten-minute rant, but he doesn’t seem to tune out, or tell me I’m ridiculous or boring. He just listens, the light of a smile in his eyes.
“And that’s about it,” I finish eventually, running out of steam like a wind-up toy. I’m a smidge embarrassed. I shouldn’t have rattled on from a polite question and a tiny bit of encouragement.
“You have a day to alter everything in this house to your taste. Since it is so clearly lacking,” he adds drolly.
Only one day. That’s our deal. It’s too easy to forget and think this is more than a fun diversion for a rich man. I don’t want this to end at midnight, but what chance is there of a billionaire kingpin wanting me?
Young. Inexperienced. Not even rich compared to him. So naive I didn’t realise my brother was tapping my phone. What do I have to offer a man like Grant Lambeth?
Nothing.
And that thought makes a thread of genuine fear go through me for the first time since my kidnap.
