Page 13 of Taken in the Tree Farm
The door clicks shut behind us and he locks it.
That sound feels so final. So absolute.
I'm trapped in here with him, and we both know I can't run anymore. My body physically won't let me. My bare feet are raw and bleeding, my lungs burn with every breath, and I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
It’s over.
He's won.
"Easy," he murmurs, his hand rubbing slow circles on my lower back, like he’s trying to sooth me. "You're safe now."
Safe. The word is absurd. I'm not safe. I'm trapped with a man who hunted me through a Christmas tree farm.
His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting my chin so I have to look at him. This close, with the firelight flickering across his features. "Look at me," he says softly.
I'm already looking. I can't seem to look away.
"You're going to be okay," he continues, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not in any way you don't want."
The words should comfort me. They don't. Because the problem isn't that I'm afraid he'll hurt me.
The problem is that I'm afraid of how much Iwanthim to touch me.
"I don't understand," I whisper, my bound hands pressed against his chest. I should be pushing him away. Instead, I'm just... touching him. Feeling the solid warmth of him through his tactical gear. "I don't understand what's happening to me."
"Your body knows what it wants," he says, that dark promise back in his voice. "Even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."
His hand slides from my face down to my throat, fingers wrapping loosely around my neck. Not squeezing, not threatening, just... holding. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, and my breath catches.
He feels it. I know he does, because his lips curve into a knowing smile.
"There it is," he murmurs. "That response you can't hide."
I try to shake my head, to deny it, but his grip on my throat tightens just slightly—not enough to restrict air, just enough to remind me that he's in control.
My core clenches, and heat floods between my thighs.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"You're cold," he says, his free hand moving to the small of my back again. "Shaking. Your lips are almost blue."
It's true. Now that the adrenaline is fading, the cold is catching up with me. My whole body trembles, and not just from fear or arousal. I'm freezing. The wet costume clings to my skin, and my bare feet are going numb again despite the fire.
"We need to get you warm," he says, and then he's moving, guiding me backward toward the massive bed.
Panic flares. "No. No, I?—"
"Relax, sugarplum." His voice is patient, almost amused. "I'm not doing anything yet. You're cold. That takes precedence."
Yet. The word hangs between us, full of promise.
He sits me on the edge of the bed, and the red silk sheets are cool against my skin. I watch, wary and confused, as he moves to a chest at the foot of the bed and pulls out thick blankets.
When he returns, he wraps one around my shoulders. Then another. The soft fabric is warm—pre-heated, I realize, probably kept near the fire for exactly this purpose.
He thought of everything. Planned for every detail.
He kneels in front of me, and the position should make him less threatening. It doesn't. If anything, it makes him more dangerous, because now his face is level with mine, his body positioned between my legs, his hands reaching for my frozen feet.
