Page 7 of Taken By the Kingpin
His arm is braced over the backs of my knees and… My butt must be about level with his face.
Oh god. No. No.
Book a decent guitar player for my funeral because I’m dying.
I’ve died. I’m dead.
The humiliation of Sebastian having his face right next to my butt as he carries me is the end.
Done.
Blood is rushing to my head and I have to hold myself up by pushing down on his buttocks to prevent myself from passing out. My breasts are hanging down and it must be the angle that makes my nipples feel tight. I barely notice the elevator, and when the doors slide open it isn’t to a corridor like a normal person. No, it’s into an elegant entrance hall as clearly he owns the whole floor. Sebastian doesn’t stop until we’re in a lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the entirety of London.
He drops me onto a sofa and stands back, folding his arms. “Are you going to behave if I untie you?”
I shrug.
It’s petulant, I know, but I have spent five years in an exclusive educational boarding prison—sorry, school—and I had just managed to get out into the real world. Now I’m at square one again.
“Sorry I had to restrain you,” he says softly then pauses. Kneeling before me, he unties my ankles. I consider kicking him, but there’s probably no point. All he’d do is tie me up again.
He frowns when I wince at him moving my foot. They’re sore from dancing all night in those heels. With surprising dexterity, he removes my shoes, hissing as he sees the blisters.
“Those are going in the bin,” he says in a voice like stone, tossing the shoes aside.
I don’t object. Partly because I’m not in a position to argue here. But regardless, they hardly brought me luck, did they?
“I like your new name. Very French.” His thumb slips against my bare leg in a caress so brief I wonder if I’ve imagined it.
“It was nothing to do with you.” Not consciously. The name I chose is a constant reminder of who I’m not. Of how alone I am. Not even a surname in common with anyone.
Then he unties my wrists and my skin tingles wherever his rougher, bigger hands touch mine. I take the opportunity to examine him. There are streaks of silver in his hair now that there weren’t when I knew him before, but otherwise he’s just as I remember. Gorgeous, dark, untouchable. Protective older man vibes.
“How old are you?”
He sits back onto his haunches, forearms on his knees. Steel eyes assess me. “Thirty-nine.”
Too mature to be interested in an eighteen-year-old lost princess. I’m imagining his interest, for sure. A figure of my overactive imagination.
I cannot believe that only yesterday I was furtively browsing the gossip columns and admiring the photos of Sebastian Laurent, wondering what my life would have been like if the stars had aligned differently. If we had met some other time, some other way. Would Sebastian be my husband now? That wasn’t what I wanted five years ago, but tastes mature. Change.
Thenchange backwhen a man kidnaps you.
Mostly.
I rub my wrists where they’re a little sore from the ropes. But despite the pain, I know if I was with Fletcher things would be much worse. “Why did you help me?”
“Curious now, are you?”
“Kidnappy now, are you? One of these things is illegal.” Because saving me from Fletcher and being handsome doesn’t make him the good guy.
He sighs. “Okay. I’ll answer.”
“Truthfully?” I’m suspicious.
“Yes. If you stay here.”
“Just stay. Like a dog or a china doll… Sit around.” I give a growl of exasperation and stand abruptly. I stride to the window and look out over London, the glow of life and excitement. Barred to me, as usual. “That is all I was destined for as the Carter princess, all I’ve been allowed to do for five years, and all you want me to do now.”
