Page 23 of Hunted Temptation
BODEN: GETTING WITH LUCILLE AND NADINE. YOU HEADING BACK?
DRIVING, YEAH. WE SHOULD BE HOME IN A FEW DAYS.
HALE: YOU GOT A MOUSE IN YOUR POCKET? WE?
I snort. The sound causes Elodie to jump slightly. She’s still standing in the doorway of the bathroom. My lips twitch into a smirk as I flick my gaze back to the phone.
BRINGING THE DAUGHTER BACK WITH ME.
BODEN: YOU FELL, TOO, HUH? ONLY TWO LEFT ON THE CREW WHO ARE SINGLE.
HALE: AND STAYING THAT WAY.
I DIDN’T FALL. SHE NEEDED HELP.
BODEN: OKAY. SURE.
HALE: RIGHT. SEE YOU WHEN YOU GET BACK.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I try to shake the conversation out of my mind. I haven’t fallen for her… is the biggest lie I’ve ever tried to sell.
I already fell—hard. I just have to try not to act on it or let her know.
ELODIE
Vaughn takes a step toward me,then another. I’m not sure what I expect from him, but it’s not for him to stop just a few feet away, dip his chin, and give me a panty-melting smile as he wraps his fingers around my bare waist.
I had the foresight to put my favorite comfortable outfit in my bag, a pair of rose-pink bike shorts with a matching thick-strapped tight tank that stops just below my ribs, leaving a strip of a few inches along my midsection. That strip is exactly where his hand is, where I can feel his warmth touch me.
My god.
Hot.
“I’m gonna rinse off, then I’ll order us some food.”
I start to tell him that I’m not hungry, but my lips can’t form words, and my throat is completely frozen. So, instead of saying anything, I just stare at him and make some kind of noise in the back of my throat.
He winks before slipping past me and stepping into the warm bathroom. My nipples tighten as a thrill of desire slides up and then runs back down my spine. Moving farther into the hotel room, I turn my head, looking at him from over my shoulder, when he calls out my name.
“Vaughn?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else.
“Don’t answer the door. Stay right here.”
I know it’s for safety reasons, but I can’t get past the way he orders me. It’s commanding and sexy. I think I might just follow all of his demands. I know it’s probably some kind of savior complex thing. I think I read in school once about Stockholm Syndrome.
Maybe that’s all I’m feeling, and it’s not real.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I place my hands in my lap and twist my fingers, watching, unable to look anywhere else. I wait for him to come out of the shower, and what feels like seconds later, the bathroom door swings open.
I jump slightly, and my head lifts as my gaze instantly connects to his. Then, in the next moment, my mouth goes dry. Bone dry. He is standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist and droplets of water on his tattooed chest.
On his chest, he’s got VI-II-MMXII in dark ink, 2012. I stand and slowly walk toward him. It doesn’t take me long to get there, to close the distance between us. His breathing comes out in heavy pants as he watches me.
He dips his chin slightly, his eyes searching mine. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We stare at one another wordlessly. Lifting my hand slowly, tentatively, I extend my index finger and trace the numbers on his pec.
Finally able to speak, I ask, “2012?” It doesn’t come out nice or pretty. It comes out gravelly and rough. It doesn’t even sound like my own words, like my own voice.
“The year I got my freedom,” he announces.
