My life is split into two realities. Before Code. And after him.
The first time I saw him, he walked into my father’s bank with the strut of a man who knows exactly what he wants. I saw in him a fearlessness that I desperately wanted, needed, craved as much as my next breath.
Because I was watching him, I knew immediately when he pulled out a gun, aimed it at the ceiling, and fired three shots.
And that is the way I mark my life—before that moment and after it. Before, when I tried to be agreeable, tried to be admired, tried to be pretty, tried to make sure everyone liked me. Tried to shake myself of shame. And after, when all of that fell away. When I just didn’t care anymore.
Before Code. And after him.
I didn’t know then what he would be to me. I didn’t know how he would transform the fabric of my existence. I didn’t know he would move me, reshape me, mold me into someone else, someone I wanted to be.
Afterwards, he would become my lover, my savior, my hope, and my strength.
But, before that, he was my hostage-taker.
I moan against his mouth because Code is just so much. He’s so much of everything—so big, strong, hard, and demanding. His mouth is devouring mine, his lips moving urgently, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth.
I open to him—not just because I know it’s the smartest strategy but because I want to. I want to feel even more of him.
He pushes forward with his weight until I’m on my back on the box, which is kind of uncomfortable and unstable but it only sends the spiraling excitement clouding my mind even higher. I clutch at his broad shoulders and try to hang on.
“Fuck,” he grits out, tearing his mouth away from mine. “What the hell…”
He doesn’t finish the question, and I don’t know what he was really asking. Was he wondering why he was so turned on, when he was being chased on all sides with only a hostage for cover? Or was he wondering why I was turned on, when I should be trying to rip out his throat?
His blue eyes are like fire, and they rake over my face and then lower to my breasts, which feel like they’re straining in my bra, my hard nipples clearly visible through thin fabric of my bra and top. “You are so fucking hot,” he mutters, his eyes moving back up to my face.
He seems to be holding back for some reason—or maybe just taking his time. Either way, I don’t want him to have time to think things through or second-guess himself. I want him to let his cock take control so his mind gets completely turned off.
I’ve seen it happen to guys over and over again. They’re really not that hard to manipulate if they’re suffering from a raging hard-on.
So I arch my back enough to display my breasts better, my breath coming out in fast, little pants. I tell myself it’s part of the strategy, but it’s really not. My whole body is flaming, flushed, embarrassingly aroused. I’ve never felt this way before in my life. Not once.
“What are you…what are you doing?” I asked, making my voice throaty and just a little helpless. It’s not hard to fake. At all.
“Don’t act all innocent. You know exactly what I’m doing. It’s what you want too.” He runs one hand over my breasts, feeling the curve of them, the tightened nipples through my top.
I really am a fucking moron.
She’s quiet. Almost too quiet. Now that I’ve completely screwed myself, I need to come up with a way of keeping her here. Keeping her safe. I know that she’s probably thinking the rent-a-cop is going to be her savior, but she’s wrong. If she leaves here before Deke and the crew are caught, she could be in danger.
And I probably will be dead.
Quietly, I move around. I know this place like the back of my hand, and I know exactly what it is that I’m looking for and where to find it. Moving to the far corner, I find that doorway that we were heading toward earlier. There’s a shelving unit there. I feel around for a minute and find the three things I’m going to need.
She’s going to hate me, and I really can’t blame her. But considering I’ve kidnapped her and fucked her, what’s one more crime to add to the list.
I walk back over and put my hand on her shoulder, and she lets out a little scream. My hand immediately goes over her mouth. “I told you to be fucking quiet,” I hiss in her ear.
“Well you scared me. I never heard you move!” The words are out of her mouth as soon as I remove my hand.
“Listen, Princess, we have a problem.”
“What?” I don’t know if it’s fear or defiance or what, but her snappish tone is a far cry from the way she sounded a few minutes ago.
“When I go to get our food, I have to go alone.”
I laugh bitterly. “There is no fucking way that I’m leaving you down here unattended. Don’t think that I’m not aware that you’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to make a run for it as soon as I go upstairs.”
“I…I wasn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t know where to go.”
“Liar.” And before she can utter another word, I have the duct tape ripping and over her mouth. She goes to stand up but I shove her back down on the box. “We can do this one of two ways, Princess. I can keep you tied up and that tape over your mouth so that you can’t get away…”
Her head shakes furiously from side to side, and I’m close enough that she’s shoving against me in an attempt to get the tape off her mouth.
“Or we have option number two.” I put my hand by the tape. “I can pull this off right now, but then you’re going to have to strip.”
She instantly grows still.
“Those are your options. Bound and gagged or naked. Either one, it makes no difference to me. But I’m hungry and believe it or not, keeping you down here is keeping you safe. You may think that running is going to save you, but it won’t. Deke won’t rest until he finds us both. Think about it.”
She sags in front of me, her head hitting my shoulders. Personally, if I could have had her bound and gagged and naked, I’d be pretty fucking happy. But now is not the time for that.
N.S. Moore has been writing for years, and she loves romance of all varieties—from sweet to very dark. Her first book, Hostage, is a sexy New Adult contemporary romance about two people who find each other in very unlikely circumstances but discover they’re exactly what the other needs.
When she’s not writing, N.S. Moore likes to read, shop, play tennis, and spend time with her family and her dog. She’s currently working on her next book.
She would love to hear from readers. If you’d like to get in touch with her, you can follow her on Facebook or email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.