Warning: Graphic sex and violence. Age 18+ only
It is recommended to read after Deliver, but it can be read as a stand-alone.
Her life is like a prison cell.
A self-made, to-hell-with-the-free-world existence that locks from the inside.
Stop judging. Her agoraphobia doesn’t define her. It simply keeps her safe.
He belongs in a prison cell.
The 6x8, make-me-your-bitch variety that locks from the outside.
But he’s free. To hunt. To take. To break.
And he just found a sexy new toy.
Capturing her is the easy part. Her fucked-up mind, however, makes him question everything he does next.
But he’s a determined bastard. If all goes his way, this will hurt like hell.
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“Are you going to cut me up in little pieces?”
A cold smile tipped his lips as he chuckled. Then his expression sobered. “Walk to the kitchen.”
Fucking psychopath. He stood right in the doorway, taking up the whole damned hall. At over six feet tall with a muscled body cut from stone, he could squash her without breaking a sweat. She didn't want to go near him. He was terrifying. But being forced outside was worse. She straightened her back and headed toward him.
As she slid by, his arm caught her waist and yanked her back against his chest. She slapped at his hand, bucking against him, and his arm clenched tighter. His erection jabbed against her backside, his breath hot at her ear. “Fighting and squirming only turns me on. Don't stop.”
She immediately stilled. God, he wasn't lying. His dick was undeniably more pronounced against her back. Feeling him like that, so close, so huge and hard, rushed heat between her legs and prickles over her skin. Why, oh why was she responding this way? She hated and wanted it, and mother of all fucks, she couldn't have been more completely and totally out of her mind.
She drew a ragged breath. Think, think, think. But his intention blatantly rubbed against her, scattering her thoughts. “You're going to rape me, aren't you?”
His torso moved up and down with his breath. “I thought you wanted to be fuck buddies. Don't make it weird.”
He stalked toward her, mirroring the tilt of her head, knees and shoulders loose, and his gaze holding her prisoner. A breath away, he paused, soaking in the subtleties of her tipped-up chin, parting lips, and glossy but resolute eyes.
With the next breath, he launched, hands on her jaw, fingers spread around the back of her head.
His elbows dropped, shoulders raised, and he yanked her to him, lifting her on tiptoes, guiding her mouth, taking it. His grip twisted through her hair as he drew in her upper lip and shoved her against the fridge, following her with the weight of his body.
The kiss went fucking wild, their lips mashing in a frantic battle. His tongue plunged her mouth, attacking, thrusting in and out, possessing her movements, owning her. Breath for breath, lick after lick, he ate at her mouth, tasting, devouring.
He dropped his hands to her breasts, squeezing ruthlessly as he rolled his cock against her cunt.
His tongue tingled, his skin burned, and his head swam. God, she was a drug, and he was so fucking high.
She gripped his biceps, bit at his lips, and threw her arms over his shoulders, her fingers scratching the fuck out his back. He shuddered, loving it, but he was in control.
Reaching back, he grabbed her wrists and slammed them above her head. Their bodies ground together, his forearms pressing hers to the fridge, their tongues dancing and clashing. Chest-to-chest, hips fused together, he flexed his ass, dry humping her like a horny teenager.
Jesus, fuck, he didn't care. He wanted her.
He leaned back to study her face and found strong smoldering eyes, sharp breaths, and swollen wet lips. Whatever she saw in his expression made her mouth chase his and her fingers curl around his hands. They kissed endlessly, fueling the fire and pushing his control long past the point of discomfort before pulling back and starting all over again.
When he broke the kiss with a hand on her jaw, they panted as one, mouths open and so close their bottom lips brushed. She peered at him through lowered lashes, and he stared back in awe. What trembled between them wasn't an if? Or even a how hard? Those were foregone. The question they shared was simple.
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Pam Godwin, lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.
Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.