Page 6 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Look, I gotta piss. You need to let me go unless you want things to get worse for both of us real fast. I was starting to think I needed to make like aSurvivorcontestant and dislocate a thumb to free myself. Then naturally, my brain cranks up the drama to blockbuster levels, and now I’m in some low-budget remake ofSawand gearing up to chop off a limb.”

Dramatic fellow, isn’t he? Perhaps I should scour the kitchen for a weapon? Sledgehammer? A butcher knife? No, too messy. Then again, I’m no longer at the inn, so it wouldn’t be my problem.

I spear him with a squinty-eyed stare. “Fine.” I clench and release my fists a few times. At this point, I’d say the chancesof me getting chopped up into little pieces is about 60/40. “Uh, where’s the key?”

“On the floor.” Jake tips his head to the left of the bed. “There, by the nightstand. I kicked it off by accident when I was trying to get loose. Just grab it, and hand it over.”

Yeah. That sounds simple. Not. I edge closer to the spot he indicated, but the key isn’t immediately visible, so I drop to my hands and knees and scrounge around. Finally, a glint of steel. It’s tiny.

I pick it up and slowly stand, using those few seconds to collect myself.

My heart thuds in my ears as I approach the head of the bed, the thin key pinched so tight between my thumb and forefinger that I’ll probably be left with a permanent indentation.

Once there, I lean over, bending at my waist. Then, my hips. But even fully stretched out, my fingers only brush Jake’s biceps. He’s cuffed to the headboard’s center post.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip. “Uh. I need to come closer.”

Somehow, he’s able to shrug lying down. “By all means.”

I prop one knee on the mattress and strain for his hands. As soon as I drop the key into his fingers, I’m scrambling off the bed.

He fumbles with it, trying and failing to get it into the keyhole. He drops it. “Fuck.”

Green eyes beseech. “Amelia, my hands are all cramped up. I can barely feel my fingers. Can you…?”

Is he seriously asking me to do this?

And do I dare?

I eye him again. Might as well, what’s another rash decision in a series of them? That way I can look back on today and collectively write it off, rather than singling out moments for eternal self-reproach. I’m all for streamlining my stupidity. Besides, if I’m embracing this whole new “Era of Amelia”—where I take control of my destiny, outcomes be damned—means this choice lands me dead in a ditch, so be it. Perhaps we’ll refer to this move as “brave” or “brazen.”

It’s decidedly more dignified than “bloody-hell-what-were-you-thinking.”

Armed with this new life motto, I gulp down my nerves, and climb back on the bed again, strangely vulnerable in my bare feet as I inch forward to reach for the key, somewhere between his hands.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a leap into the abyss if I’d had more experience. But given that I’d only ever been with Ben, this is uncharted territory. How difficult could it be, though? Women do this all the time, don’t they? Well, some women, I suppose.

Just mount the hot, sexy bloke already. It’s like riding a horse. Except, I’ve never actually ridden a horse. Or a motorcycle. Or a llama, come to think of it. And when I last checked, none of those had that smoldering green gaze and abs that could double as a washboard.

I shut my eyes and go for it. I sling one leg over his torso to straddle him. The combination of warm skin and hard muscle underneath me is a shock. He’s so broad, I feel the stretch in my thighs as I hover above him. There’s the slightest tremble—one not entirely due to the strain.

I scoot upward, my knees on either side of his ribs, and lean forward, attempting to keep as respectable a distance between us as possible, all while trying not to dislodge the cheeky bit of pink fluff that’s made a home on his right nipple.

A heady blend of cedar and musk wraps around me, sending a jolt of awareness that hits like a double-decker bus, conjuring images of brawny Scotsmen tossing cabers at Highland games, kilts swirling in the brisk mountain air. I flush at the thought, and hope he remains oblivious.

My eyes slide down, just a smidge, only to crash into his. His nostrils flare. I swallow past the knot in my throat, struggling to ignore the simmering tension.

Amelia, pull yourself together.

What kind of horrid woman gets all hot and bothered over a stranger in restraints?

Yet, here I am, reevaluating my already dubious life choices because it seems the only way I can snag a beau is if he’s literally bound before me.

It’s mad.

The whole situation is mad. Mad that I’m perched here, with a huge hulk of man under me. And heisa huge, hulking bit of man.

“How does one even get themselves into this type of predicament?” I mutter, still reeling at this display of questionable decision-making skills.

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