Page 5 of Not Just a Trick Play

Huh. So much for taking advantage of my celebrity status as the running back for the New York Titans.

She nibbles at her lower lip, her teeth pulling at the soft skin. Even though it seems the threat level’s been downgraded, she doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to release me. She taps her chin.

Fine. This is gonna take a while. I let out a long sigh. “So, enough about me. You are…?”

CHAPTER THREE

AMELIA

Dreaming.Obviously.

Or else the plane did crash, and I’m sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

I squeeze my lids shut. This must be a dream. To be fair, finding a naked man in what’s supposed to be your home after going twenty-four hours without sleep would leave anyone rather discombobulated.

All right, then. I’ll blink, and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handcuffed will vanish.

Open eyes, and… Nope, still there. All bronze-skinned, brown-hairedman.

Fuzzy fuchsia handcuffs bind his wrists above his head, drawing attention to muscular arms and a broad chest with sharply defined pecs. Farther down, chiseled abs dip into a pronounced “V.” Almost like he’s posing for the cover of a romance novel. A raunchy one.

Thank god, the fellow’s no longer completely exposed, though I did get an eyeful of his privates before throwing the sheet on him.

“Well?”

My eyes snap up, colliding with his green ones. At their wicked gleam, my face heats further. I swing my head away, frantically looking anywhere but at him because ogling is neither polite nor productive.

“Amelia. Amelia Stevens,” I mutter. My name—that’s what he wanted to know, wasn’t it?

This placeseemslike it’s the right flat. It matches the online photos, anyway. Same bed, dresser. Even the same print of a mountain range, the type that comes when you buy the frame.

Everything is pristine, recently cleaned, except for the disaster that is the bed.

Mybed.

The one currently occupied by the dishiest man I’ve seen chained up, as if he’s some kind of pagan sacrifice. Not that I should be noticing his dishiness, given it has no bearing on the situation whatsoever.

“So…think you might let me go sometime, Amelia?”

The way he draws out my name is hypnotic—low, rich, with a hint of command that should have me bolting for the nearest exit. I exhale, long and slow, keeping my gaze fixed north of his shoulders in an attempt to assess things logically. He doesn’tappeardangerous, claims he was duped, but…

“You said you came here willingly?” I ask, while my treacherous eyes devour his lush lashes and impeccably chiseled cheekbones.

Faint light plays along his stubbled jaw, casting him in a rouge-ish glow that screams “swashbuckling pirate” more than “potential felon.” Why I’m focusing on his looks right now is beyond me—unless, perhaps, I’m subconsciously cataloging his features for a police sketch?

“I didn’t think this was some den of depravity. For Christ’s sake, there are landscapes on the wall.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do most dens of depravity you visit have better artwork?” I plant my hands on my hips, trying to appear bigger, more menacing. Gran always said to put people in their place before they put you in yours. “Plus, you were both trespassing.”

He shakes his head. “Kidnapped.”

I point at him. “Complicit.”

“Entrapment.”

He has me there. Whatever his choice of kink, I can’t help the twinge of sympathy at his situation. My worst nightmare. Or maybe my subconscious has a thing for strange men in unexpected places?

Still, just picturing myself bound like he is makes me shudder, even if he knowingly put himself in this predicament. Not entirely surprising, though. He probably never thinks he’ll get into trouble.He’s a little too smooth. A little too charming. I recognize the type. Likely accustomed to snapping his fingers and having women fall in line, and now completely baffled to find the usual power dynamics reversed not once, but twice in one night.

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