I am enjoying my vacation.
Which is a weird thing to say, considering I’m living with my kidnapper.
But not having a job? No subordinates to boss around? No father to impress?
Sounds like heaven to me.
Except for the blood tests, I’m a freeloader—and I love it.
Honestly? I don’t even want to go outside.
The only thing that could make this better would be Emiliano leaving. Definitely.
As much as I enjoy using him as a human napkin at night and having someone else pay for my food, I can’t forget the tiny little detail that brought us together: my d—n kidnapping.
He bothers me. A lot. Especially the way he keeps trying to make me comfortable. And the worst part? It’s kind of working.
Stockholm Syndrome, and I’m not even in Sweden. Lame.
Take tonight, for example.
He just sat on the couch with me.
Watching a movie.
Like we do this all the time.
Like we’re... whatever the hell this is.
And the way he kept scooting closer and closer, like I wouldn’t notice? Please. I’m a politician. I notice everything.
It bugged me. I had this weird lump in my throat. Because tell me why I was staring at this insane man—a true psychopath with bottled pieces of other people in the basement—and thinking I was kind of into him?
Sure, it’s been a while since I got some action, but to be this desperate?
He isn’t ugly. His hair is dark and kind of wavy. Too long for someone like him.
Usually it’s tied back, but tonight it was loose. It’s weird, seeing him so... innocently sensual.
I noticed his lips.
When I kissed him.
More accurately, when I pecked him. They were this strange in-between: not totally dry, not moisturized either.
I always thought he was huge—like built like a tank.
But since we started sleeping in the same bed, I realized he’s actually a bit shorter than me.
Two inches maybe.
It’s the aura of absolute madness that makes him seem bigger.
He has scars next to his eyes. Exactly where my petals are.
Maybe it was a past lover who cut him out of revenge. Or maybe one of the people now in jars under the floorboards.
I don’t know.
I gulped. I couldn’t focus on the movie anymore. Not with him snoring like he’s doing it on purpose.
Talk about manners.
I wonder what a real kiss with him would be like.
Is that too insane to think?
Yes.
I should get a grip.
But I’m unsettled, and how is this any different than a hookup?
Except we’ll both still be here in the morning. No cab rides home. No ghosting.
Just me, him, and this warped domestic fantasy we’re pretending isn’t happening.
But he’s asleep, and I just need one kiss to get it off my mind.
It’s not like I actually want to sleep with him.
Probably.
I mean, he’s a surgeon. He knows anatomy. He might hit the right spots.
And wouldn’t it be hot to see the cracks?
That last moment before his composure crumbles—just for me?
Is that too insane to think?
Also yes.
Whatever. It was just imagination practice. Not real.
Even though this would be the perfect moment.
Since he somehow blocked my pheromones.
But who does that with their kidnappers?
Not me. For sure.
His snoring is annoying. Maybe if I kiss him, he’ll stop.
It’s science. Probably.
If I wake him, we’ll argue. And he never sleeps this deeply.
I’m not cruel enough to ruin a perfectly good nap.
Right. So... just one kiss.
Please don’t wake up.
I tower over him.
Ugh. It should be illegal to be this hot and this insane.
I press my lips against his.
Gentle. Barely there. But it’s not enough.
I want more.
He always eats the burned pancakes I make him for breakfast. Even when he sees me spit on them.
So really, he could have it from the source. No pancakes harmed in the process.
I lick his lips, slow and deliberate. I can feel the faint cracks there, like he forgets to drink water or just doesn’t care.
I want to bite down on them. Make them bleed.
My palms cup his face, steadying him as I shift, trying to get comfortable.
I’m in his lap now. And I’m excited.
Aroused. Sitting on the man who drugged me, cut me open, and starved me like a lab rat a week ago.
And I want more.
His mouth parts slightly, breath shallow. I slip my tongue in.
He tastes like... roses? Rose jam, to be exact.
Seriously?
I expected something cold. Mint, maybe. Or cigars and disdain.
But this? It’s annoyingly sweet. Mockingly delicate.
I wrap my hands around his throat.
I don’t squeeze. Not really.
But I want to.
I want to choke him with my mouth. Watch him suffocate beneath me, twitch and claw and beg—and still want me.
But I don’t want to wake him.
I cannot begin to imagine the unholy level of smugness this narcissistic prude would have if he knew what I was doing right now.
He’s already unbearable. No need to feed the ego more than absolutely necessary.
I let my lips wander. The base of his neck, the earlobe, the mouth again.
This is what rock bottom tastes like. Apparently it’s rose jam.
His breath seems shaky. I can’t help but smile. This is pay off.
"Luther?"
A voice I recognize.
Standing in the doorframe, looking heartbroken was Killian.
He witnessed the whole thing.
I feel two hands holding me in place. With a bit too much force than necessary.
"And it was just getting good"
Emiliano was awake the whole time.