Page 8 of Hostage with Benefits'

“You can say stop at any time. You can change your mind. You can?—”

“Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to fuck me?”

Something flashed in his eyes—irritation, amusement, desire, all tangled together. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, so gently it was barely a kiss at all.

I’d expected force and demand. This tenderness caught me off guard more than any aggression could have. He kissed me like I was made of glass, like I might shatter if he pressed too hard.

When he pulled back, his expression had softened. He brushed a strand of hair from my face.

“Is this how you treat all your hostages?” I asked, because silence felt dangerous.

“Only the ones that get on my nerves.” His hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled my hand out of my jeans.

With his other hand, he cupped my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.

And it was nice, objectively. He clearly knew what he was doing. But after the day I’d had of being kidnapped, confronting my uselessfather, having my life turned inside out, this careful treatment felt inadequate.

I reached up, took his hand from my face, and placed it firmly on my breast, pressing his fingers until he got the message and squeezed.

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Not as fragile as you look, are you?”

“Nope. Never have been.”

His expression shifted, and his grip tightened. I arched into it, encouraging him to continue. His other hand slid under my shirt, but he was still too cautious.

I rose and tugged at his belt. “Too many clothes.”

He helped me undress him, revealing scars scattered across tanned skin and muscles built for function rather than show. I ran my fingers over a puckered mark near his shoulder that could only have been a bullet wound.

He undressed me with the same deliberate care that was starting to drive me insane, his eyes darkening further as each piece of clothing fell away. When I was naked beneath him, he paused, looking down at me so intensely that under any other circumstance, I would have been self-conscious, but somehow right now, I wasn’t.

His hands explored me slowly, mapping each curve and hollow with maddening thoroughness. It felt good, of course it did, but I was wound too tight for this gentle exploration. I needed release, catharsis, something to break the tension that had been building since he’d thrown me over his shoulder hours ago.

I guided his hand between my legs, showing him how I liked to be touched. He was a quick learner, his fingers finding a rhythm that had me gasping, slipping in and out, making obscene wet sounds and flicking my clit with his thumb. But each time I approached the edge, he’d slow down, draw back, keeping me suspended in pleasure without release.

“Please,” I finally said, frustration making my voice rough.

“Please what, Natalia?” His accent thickened when he was aroused, rolling my name on his tongue just so.

“Harder,” I said, then when he still held back: “Stop treating me like I’ll break and fuck me.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my neck where his lips pressed into my skin a second later. “You Americans, always in such a hurry.”

“This American is going to lose her mind if you don’t—” I guided his other hand to my ass, making him grab it roughly. “Like that. God, just—fuck me like you hate me.”

He went still. For a moment, I thought I’d gone too far, crossed some invisible line. Then he pulled back to look at me, his expression suddenly intense in a very serious way.

“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

“It’s just an expression?—”

“But if that’s what my hostage needs,” he cut me off, his voice dropping to a register that made my pulse jump, “then that’s what she’ll get.”

The shift was immediate and electric. His fingers dug into my skin. His mouth found mine in a kiss that was all demand and hunger. He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured into my ear. “To be taken like this?”

“Yes,” I gasped as his teeth grazed my neck.

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