(Highest Ranking #76 in Romance)
Chiara is a journalist. A good one. For the world to know that, all she needs is a scoop. Her instincts tell her that the Riders of Tyr have a few stories to offer to the public and she decides to expose them. Will h...
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Ironhand
The night is deep but I still can't get any sleep. My captive's resolve is still strong and if she is going to try something it's going to be tonight. I need to be vigilant, let her try then crash her hopes. A few more times and she will submit to her fate. She'll submit to me and my will. Fuck.
I am talking about treating her like a prisoner and yet the thought of her submissive to me makes me hot, boiling. No use denying it. Not that my cock growing hard in my jeans would let me think otherwise.
I hit the countertop with enough force to make it creak and the pain is enough to distract me for a while. I need to stay focused. This woman in there is an enemy of the club, so no! It doesn't matter how hot she looks or how she mysteriously makes me protective of her.
My thoughts are distracted by a loud bang on the wall. Chiara...no, the captive...is up as well. She may try to pull something. She may also think that the truck is somewhere near and that she can get to it. I grin.
Even if she knew where it was, it would take her a while to reach there. That's the reason I picked this spot. It takes me at least a couple of hours to get here which means it could take anybody else half a day looking for the place.
I gulp at thinking about the way to the cabin. She was dropped dead by exhaustion and after-adrenaline rush. It was better that way but that meant I had to carry her. So, I did. I took her in my arms and carried her, bridal-style, all through the dark woods up to here. In her sleep, she leaned against me and I tried to ignore how that felt. Gagged and tied up, she was breathtaking to look upon.
"Girard!" she demands.
I scowl. She knows my surname. I haven't so much as talked to her and even if I did, I am sure I wouldn't give her my name, date of birth and all the details of my life along with it but she has read my file no doubt. Not much of a read but I feel exposed.
I absently run my fingers over the scratches she left on my face and loosen my shoulders. I go straight to the bedroom and pause at the door. I take one deep breath and open the door. She is still exactly where I left her but I scan the area just as well. I went through everything and there is nothing she can use. It wasn't much trouble. The room is mostly bare anyway.
"I need to go to the bathroom," she demands my attention.
I turn my eyes to her and I see she is taking me all in, her eyes going down my naked torso, lingering on the top of my jeans, on the buttons I have unbuttoned. Goddamn it, it has never felt good to have a woman ogling me. It always bothers me or at best leaves me indifferent. But having her looking at me like that...Get a freaking grip! I order myself and move to her with threatening strides.
It does the trick cause I see her cower against the bedpost. There a stupid voice in my head that tells me to cut the tough act and treat her like a human being but I don't let it get too loud. I take the keys out of my pocket and unlock her handcuffs. She grabs her wrist and massages it and I flinch when I see the inflamed flesh. Nevertheless, I push her to her feet and point at the door that leads to the bathroom. There's nothing there and the small window is jammed so I let her have her privacy.
After a few moments, she comes out and her look is that of fear mixed with disappointment. She was expecting to find something useful there. I beckon at the bed and she freezes. I lower my head and look at her menacingly. She doesn't even blink. Ballsy, I decide but I don't let that stop me from grabbing her and push her on the bed.
"Don't!" she pleads. "You can't keep me here. Let me go! Let me go! Don't," she squirms on the bed to sit up. "You will not get away with it, Girard."
My concentration and my determination take a good, full hit and I look away to gather my good senses. She is still in that damn dress that got pulled up as I threw her on the bed and I didn't just get a glimpse of her long, lithe legs but her black panties at the end of them.
"I know nothing," she tries again. "There will be people looking for me. I am a reporter and people will notice."
I say nothing just take her arm and secure one side of the handcuff around her wrist and the other on the bedpost. This time in a place that would be more comfortable for her. I do that intentionally and I glance at her sideways to make sure she didn't catch up on it. She did, damn it! She looks down at her arm now at an angle that would allow her to sleep and keep the damage to a minimum and then she looks up at me.
She is close, too close, closer than she should be. I smell her fear coming out of her pores. I know that smell, it's usually the one people tend to have around me. Even the few rotters I have led to my room smelled that way. But there is more underneath. There's a rosy smell, deep and sweet, that fills me to the brim and makes my insides roil violently. I step away from the bed and walk out urgently.
