hell—there was nothing really good about it anyway—but I don’t want my dad to worry.
“You aren’t hatching an escape plan, are you?” Code asks out of the blue.
I glance over, and for some reason the sight of him in the pale light from the dashboard startles me by how attractive he is. I really shouldn’t be so attracted to him. He’s rough and big and pushy and dangerous, but my body clenches briefly at the sight of him, even just sitting behind the wheel of a cheap, ugly car.
“No,” I tell him. “I was just thinking about…” I trail off, since it’s really none of his business what I’m thinking.
“You were thinking about what?”
“About what I’d be doing if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
“What would you be doing?”
“I don’t know. Homework, maybe. I’ve got a research essay due next week in my history class that I might be working on. Or maybe hanging out on Facebook or something.”
There isn’t much traffic, so he doesn’t have to focus on the road very much. His eyes shift back to my face, and then lower to my body. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I start to answer, but then stop myself. He sounds like he’s entitled to an answer, like I have to tell him details of my personal life.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice a little more guttural.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I want to know who else you’re giving your hot little pussy to.”
That pussy—hot or not—clenches hard in excitement at the dirty words. “I didn’t give it to you.”
His brow lowers. “Don’t you dare act like I forced you into anything. You came on to me. You wanted it bad.”
I did want it bad—from him, from Code, from my hostage-taker. What exactly does that say about me? “Well, I never would have fucked you if you hadn’t kidnapped me to begin with. You’re not my type at all.” It’s important to me that he knows this—that he doesn’t think I’m some spineless girl who swoons when he cocks an eyebrow at me.
Although part of me is afraid that might be true.
“That doesn’t fucking surprise me. I know your type.”
“What type of guy do you think I like?”
“You like those rich pretty boys who have to make up for their inadequacies with expensive toys.”
So, yeah, he’s hit on my type pretty damned well. It perfectly describes most of the guys I’ve gone out with in my life. What I say is, “You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Don’t fool yourself about that, princess. I know you. You have a rich daddy who has given you anything you ever wanted, but nothing has ever satisfied you. You look little and delicate, like you need a man to take care of you, but inside you’re secretly wanting a man to not treat you like your made of glass. You want a man who sees how hot and wild you really are beneath your pretty-princess looks.”
His voice gets thicker as he continues talking, and soon I’m flushing red-hot. Because he’s right about me. I’ve never known it about myself before, but the two days I’ve spent with him have revealed that the person I pretended to be before isn’t really who I am.
I guess I’m not sure who I really am.
“Tell me I’m right,” he demands.
“You’re not right.” I’m saying this purely out of stubbornness. “That’s not me at all.”
“Yes, it is. You’re blushing because you know I’m right. You want a man who won’t be fooled by the way you look. I’ll show you.”
He reaches over with one arm and strokes my cheek. His touch is so gentle and feels so good that I gasp and lean into his hand. Then, while I’m distracted, he lowers his hand so it skims over my breasts, caressing and then tweaking one nipple hard.
I give a little cry of surprise and pleasure at the jolt of sensation. So I’m still distracted when his hand moves further down, pushing up my skirt so he can reach my pussy.
His eyes move from my body to the road and back as he fingers me, discovering that I’m hot and wet, just from him
“You aren’t hatching an escape plan, are you?” Code asks out of the blue.
I glance over, and for some reason the sight of him in the pale light from the dashboard startles me by how attractive he is. I really shouldn’t be so attracted to him. He’s rough and big and pushy and dangerous, but my body clenches briefly at the sight of him, even just sitting behind the wheel of a cheap, ugly car.
“No,” I tell him. “I was just thinking about…” I trail off, since it’s really none of his business what I’m thinking.
“You were thinking about what?”
“About what I’d be doing if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
“What would you be doing?”
“I don’t know. Homework, maybe. I’ve got a research essay due next week in my history class that I might be working on. Or maybe hanging out on Facebook or something.”
There isn’t much traffic, so he doesn’t have to focus on the road very much. His eyes shift back to my face, and then lower to my body. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I start to answer, but then stop myself. He sounds like he’s entitled to an answer, like I have to tell him details of my personal life.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice a little more guttural.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I want to know who else you’re giving your hot little pussy to.”
That pussy—hot or not—clenches hard in excitement at the dirty words. “I didn’t give it to you.”
His brow lowers. “Don’t you dare act like I forced you into anything. You came on to me. You wanted it bad.”
I did want it bad—from him, from Code, from my hostage-taker. What exactly does that say about me? “Well, I never would have fucked you if you hadn’t kidnapped me to begin with. You’re not my type at all.” It’s important to me that he knows this—that he doesn’t think I’m some spineless girl who swoons when he cocks an eyebrow at me.
Although part of me is afraid that might be true.
“That doesn’t fucking surprise me. I know your type.”
“What type of guy do you think I like?”
“You like those rich pretty boys who have to make up for their inadequacies with expensive toys.”
So, yeah, he’s hit on my type pretty damned well. It perfectly describes most of the guys I’ve gone out with in my life. What I say is, “You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Don’t fool yourself about that, princess. I know you. You have a rich daddy who has given you anything you ever wanted, but nothing has ever satisfied you. You look little and delicate, like you need a man to take care of you, but inside you’re secretly wanting a man to not treat you like your made of glass. You want a man who sees how hot and wild you really are beneath your pretty-princess looks.”
His voice gets thicker as he continues talking, and soon I’m flushing red-hot. Because he’s right about me. I’ve never known it about myself before, but the two days I’ve spent with him have revealed that the person I pretended to be before isn’t really who I am.
I guess I’m not sure who I really am.
“Tell me I’m right,” he demands.
“You’re not right.” I’m saying this purely out of stubbornness. “That’s not me at all.”
“Yes, it is. You’re blushing because you know I’m right. You want a man who won’t be fooled by the way you look. I’ll show you.”
He reaches over with one arm and strokes my cheek. His touch is so gentle and feels so good that I gasp and lean into his hand. Then, while I’m distracted, he lowers his hand so it skims over my breasts, caressing and then tweaking one nipple hard.
I give a little cry of surprise and pleasure at the jolt of sensation. So I’m still distracted when his hand moves further down, pushing up my skirt so he can reach my pussy.
His eyes move from my body to the road and back as he fingers me, discovering that I’m hot and wet, just from him
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