Page 11 of Love Fire

The easy way he pulls me out sends a shot of lust between my legs. His nostrils flare, the movement is slight, but enough to let me know he knows. That just pisses me off.

I put on my haughtiest tone. “Such a gentleman.”

Again nothing. He places his hand on my back pressing me forward. This place is as big as my own home and it screams luxury. The lawn was immaculate, blossoming in a cascade of colors that brightened up the gothic century columns of the home behind it. The door and windows were large and arching- I’d hate to have to be the person who cleans them- with ornate trimmings around the edges. Twenty-eight windows, that's how many I counted.

I whip my face to him. “A bit hard to afford all this on an agent's salary.” When he doesn't speak I push harder. “ Dipping your toes where they don't belong I see,” I taunt.

“Fauquier,” he says roughly, leading me around the front steps to the far corner of the house.

Well, this isn't good. If he doesn't want to bring me through the front door then I think it's safe to guess that this guy is winging it.

“What?” I say trying to stay engaged in the conversation while my eyes frantically search for an escape route.

We head towards a wall of thick ivy leaves and it's not until we're close that I can see a dark blue door tucked away behind. Holding me by my cuffs he uses his free hand to rip the curling, twisted veins off of the door. I discreetly move my wrist, testing the limits of these cuffs.

“My last name, it’s Fauquier.”

The panic must be more severe than my brain is allowing me to process because for a moment there I think I just heard Brent tell me that he's from the richest family in all of the state. Not just any rich family, the Fauquiers, they’re practically dragon royalty in these parts.

And I just got caught selling their dead buddies scales.

The hinges cry out as Brent opens the door with a hard jerk. Our eyes meet and I harden my gaze hoping he doesn't see my guilt. If he thought kidnapping me was going to get him anywhere he’s wrong.

There is a small rush of air and his arm is around me, gripping my cuffed hands as he leans over me. My face is hot and I fight the pleasure flicking at the edges of my anger. I’m caught in his dark gaze unable to move as I wait to see what he’ll do next.

“I would say you're not going to like what happens next,” he says, making a show of sniffing the air. “But I think we both know I’d be lying.”

Fuck. Him.

I swallow the embarrassment rising in my throat, even as the mental images of Brent cuffing me to a bed sends a wave of need between my thighs. I really shouldn't be this turned on. But damn a girl can dream. It was almost unfair.

Ignoring the heat from his grip I give him a hard stare. “I thought you were taking me to your creepy basement. But if you're going to-”

I’m cut off as he jerks me forward, guiding me down the staircase.

“Hey! I’m not a dog asshole.” I snap, carefully descending into the darkness.

He snorts. “No, you're just a drug dealer.”

I say nothing.

His words cut deep. I know I’m a shit person, a predator cornering the weak and using their desperation to my advantage. It doesn't matter why I do it, I still do. That's why I have to get away. So I can finally be worthy of the thanks I get at the rehab center.

But one problem at a time.

My feet hit what feels like a stone floor and I walk forward a few steps before a blinding yellow light fills the damp space. I look around, thinking of all the time that’s passed. I have to get out of here before my father thinks I’m plotting with the dragons.

The basement is bare bones. Cement all around, one pathetically small high window at the far left corner, a plain wooden chair, and a bed in the center. It’s too quiet, I turn to face him not wanting him out of my sight for even a moment. He’s watching me, the intensity of his stare makes me shift from one foot to the other. This feels like the calm before the storm.

He stalks toward me, his movement slow and methodical as he advances. On instinct, I step back for every step forward he takes, maintaining the distance between us until my back hits the thick post of the bed. He invades my space, yanking my hands to the side before securing them to a thick metal chain.

I yank at my hands in disbelief. “What do you think you're doing?” I yell.

The anger rolling off of him makes me take a step back. The floor squeaks underneath my weight and I glance down, noticing a small black handle half hidden by the bed. A growl erupts and suddenly his big thick fingers are curling underneath my chin and lifting my head.

“I'm going to ask you some questions, the longer it takes for you to answer the longer we’ll be down here,” he growls, his voice so low his chest vibrates with the timber.

I try to jerk my chin away but he only tightens his hold. I’m trapped, at the mercy of my enemy, and all I can think about is how good his hands feel. Am I this touch deprived? I pull at the wells of my anger and go into bitch mode.

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