Page 195 of Fixation
My heart swells at his furrowed brow. At his intense concentration, how he’s focused on me.
This thing we have is unorthodox.
Him, kidnapping me for no fucking reason. Me, loving it.
“We’ll be having guests soon,” he says.
“Guests?”
My question prompts him to raise his head and look at me. The corner of his lips tips up. “Yes.”
“Who?” The indignation in my voice is because I don’t want guests. I want him.
His games. His sickness.
He sees right through me. Which is why he’s ignoring me. He’s playing into it, being stoic and silent while working on my other ankle.
Desire pools between my legs as I plan out our fake fight.
When I’m ready to start our games, that’s when I kick him as hard as I can.
Anderson wasn’t injured in the accident like I was. Hasn’t slept for an eternity like me, either.
His instincts are sharper, his grip stronger. He catches my foot before it hits his chest. A broad chest that’s covered in a crisp button-down white shirt.
“Argh!” I give the other foot a try.
With his free hand, he grabs that one too, raising it to his mouth. He swipes his tongue over one ankle, then the other.
Slow, sensual, commanding.
Chill runs up my spine. The obscenity of the act silences me.
I’m wet for it. “You didn’t have to lock me up.”
“Well aware.”
I brace myself for more fake fighting. My skin tightens. My need for him is as intense as the look he’s giving me.
Is he going to sayRed?
“Our guests, Miss Arlington.” No, noRed. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. “Will be your lawyer and mine. And detectives Rockdale and Englewood.”
His voice is as detached as it’s ever been. He lifts my legs higher, then his sinful lips lock around one of my heels and suck. Release.
I moan and clutch the soft sheets of his hospital bed. My nipples poke through one of Anderson’s gray T-shirts. My pussy, I realize too late, is exposed to him. I’ve got no panties on.
“They waited a day.” He kisses my other heel. My toes curl. “I couldn’t hold this interview off any longer. I’m sorry.”
“Why am I here?” He’s immune to my growls. To my bared teeth. And I enjoy fighting him. I wiggle my toes. Press up on my hands. But the way he’s holding me, like some kind of mermaid…I’m trapped. “Why am I a prisoner?”
“A patient.” His scoff is severe. It’s a part of our game.
Relieved tears sting my eyes. He’s as invested in this roleplay as I am. “Why?”
“You’re mine.” He runs a long finger over the arch of my foot, and I whimper, clenching my thighs. “You’ve been bad.”
“How?”
