Page 29 of Pose for Me
I tick up an eyebrow. “You come from money and chose civil service?”
Surprisingly, his face shutters, and he clenches his jaw. “I don’t come from money.”
Even though he’s showing me that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, I don’t care. I’m too curious to let the conversation go. “So, you don’t come from old money like your parents? How does that make sense?”
He glares at me through the bars. “I’m adopted.” Then he clamps his mouth shut as if to say he’s done with the topic.
I ask more questions, trying to pry into his life, but Lane refuses to answer.
I didn’t suspect he was adopted. As orphans, we may have more in common than I thought. Though I had a hand in making me and Jacob orphans, so maybe not that much in common.
The hint of hurt and vulnerability in his voice wasn’t lost on me, either. What happened to his birth parents? Did they hurt him? Is he still having an identity crisis as an adopted child, wondering why he was left behind?
While I want to know the answer to all those questions, I’m curious about something else. “If I weren’t ‘The Poser,’” I makeair quotes around the stupid nickname, “would you have wanted to get to know me?”
“Yes,” Lane answers immediately. “There was…a connection. Did you feel it?”
I stand and stride to the bars, gripping them tight as I look down at Lane. “I did. What’s to say that we can’t continue on that path?”
Lane’s face hardens, and he stands as well, walking over to the bars and stopping a few inches shy of touching them. He’s so close that I feel the heat of his chest against the backs of my fingers. “We can’t have shit, Ryell. You fucking kill people. You ruin lives, ruin families. I’m fucking disgusted with myself for even believing we could have?—”
Reaching through the bars, I grab Lane by the back of the neck and pull him flush against them. He gasps and struggles for a moment, then stops and glares at me. “I’ll tell you right now, Lane,” I almost purr. “I’ll get you to come around. Because there’s something about you that I like. When I like something, I’ll fucking have it.”
“I’m not a fucking toy, Ryell. You can’t just have me because you want me. You’re an evil prick.”
I grin widely. “Yeah, my evil prick had you screaming my name.”
He growls, though I can feel him shudder with arousal. My grin morphs into a smug smile.
“You don’t have to admit it, Lane,” I tell him, moving closer to his lips as much as the bars allow, “but Iwillhave you again.”
“Over my dead fucking body, Ryell.”
Twitching an eyebrow up and smiling at him, I say, “Kinky. But I like you alive and squirming under me.”
There’s no hiding the lust in his eyes, no hiding that he wants me, regardless of what he thinks about me.
Leaning forward, I steal a kiss, tasting the uncertainty and arousal on his lips. He jerks back, even though his eyes flash with lust.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Agent. We’ll talk more.” Then I remove my hand from his neck and walk out, feeling his eyes on me as I go.
Twelve
Lane
My lipsstill burn from the press of Ryell’s kiss. I shouldn’t have let him do that. I should have reached through those bars to fucking strangle him. But for some reason, I’m under his spell that has me losing all my fucking senses when he gets too close. Instead of telling him to fuck off and trying to maim him for abducting me, I fucking let him kiss me.
I growl in frustration as I reach under my pillow and take out the sketch. I’m careful to angle my body toward the camera so he can see that I’m admiring his work. Maybe that will help him…I don’t know…feel sorry for me so he’ll let me go?
Scoffing, I shake my head. Not fucking likely. Ryell won’t let me go. He’ll keep me, draw me, then kill me, arranging my body for my co-workers to find. I shudder at the thought and push it as far from my mind as I can.
I look down at the sketch, really taking it in without the lens of trying to trick Ryell into freeing me. I hate that it’s so fucking good. I hate that he drew me so well, like he knows my body better than I do. I fucking hate it as much as I love it.
If I were a better man, a man that upholds the badge, one that’s not blinded by two explosive orgasms, one that’s not drawn to a fucking serial killer, I’d ball this shit up and toss itout of the cell and fucking end my life rather than let this fucking psychopath fuck with me.
But instead, I’m allowing it. Because I fucking enjoy the damn attention. I’m fucking pitiful.
One thing I can glean about Ryell from this sketch and all the others I’ve seen is that he’s patient. He likes perfection. He’ll wait until what he wants is perfect, then he’ll pounce. That’s a good thing for me, in a way. It’ll keep me alive until I can figure out how to pick the locks of these cuffs and find an exit.
