I watch as Anthony rises and walks to the bookshelf, choosing a paperback and lying down on the sofa. He crosses his ankles and it’s the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen.
It’s fucking unreal that he’s letting me get online.
Something’s up though. And I don’t fucking like it. Everything is a test. Every last fucking thing. My eyes stay on him as I type in my password. My email is slow to open, but it does. I click on my emails one at a time and type my responses, but I keep looking back to Anthony. He simply turns a page, appearing fully engrossed in his reading.
I feel so fucking uneasy. He’s not at all what I expected, and the thought that I’d be able to do this is just...insane. He's fucking insane. Not just mentally unstable, but certifiably insane if he thinks I’m not going to message someone--anyone--that I’ve been taken. I don’t give a fuck that he’s been nice, or that he’s hot, or that this is literally a fucking dark dream come true for me. There’s no way I’m not going to try to get the hell out of here.
I click on a new tab and bring up Facebook. Cheryl’s my personal assistant and my go-to gal for everything. My cursor hovers over the box to message her, but she’s already sent me five messages. The third one was her freaking out that I didn’t respond at all yesterday, but the fourth and fifth are her fixing my shit and wishing me well because she refuses to believe that I’m dead and I better fucking message her back or she’ll find me and kill me. Yeah, that’s Cheryl.
I type in a lame excuse and don’t mention shit. Yet. I want to. Every fucking voice inside of me is screaming to do something and tell someone. But I’d be stupid to think I’d get away with it, right? I watch Anthony for a minute as I copy and paste an email to send to another reader.
What would he do to me if I did? Kill me. The answer is obvious, but he hasn’t hurt me yet. My ass smarts at the thought. It still fucking hurts, although the cream he rubbed in did wonders for the worst of the pain. I don’t know where I am. I’m not sure that there’s any way they’d find me.
Hey, Cheryl. Some psycho took me, I’m not sure where. Could you figure out a way for someone to rescue me?
Yeah...that’s not going to fucking work. My heart races and my fingers itch to type something, anything to help me get the fuck out of here.
I will be good. I will not email the police and post all over social media that I’ve been kidnapped. 'Cause that would be fucking obvious. But I could sure as fuck sneak in some clues.
I type in, Busy with Comfort Food, hoping she’ll catch on. It’s a classic book where the heroine is kidnapped. I hope she understands and catches the subtlety. Maybe she can help me. She can relay information for me, and I can figure out where the fuck I am.
She instantly replies, Whatcha eating?
Jesus, Cheryl. I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. As I consider what to type next, Anthony’s phone pings in his pocket. He takes it out and looks at it and then right at me. My heart stops. But he merely gives me a tight smile and goes back to his book.
I can’t help but think that message was about me. That I’d been caught. My skin prickles with goosebumps and my hands shake. What would he do if he caught me? What good would it do for people to know I’d been taken if they had no way to find me? It takes me a moment, but I’m finally able to type back, Omelets, brb.
No more of that shit. I go back to checking all of my notifications. I post a few memes, along with a fun pic of a hot man with a question for the readers to answer about Linda’s new book release. I download four betas to my Kindle as I message three authors that I’m a day behind. The hours tick by as I make small dents in my work.
I only look up when I see Anthony rise and stretch. I hold my breath and wait for him as he strides toward me.
“I’ll be back, kitten.” He leans down and looks over my computer for only a second and then gives me a smile. I feel that sexual tension between us, the need to lean forward and kiss him.
But instead his brows furrow and he looks back at the screen, reading over the posts in my group. After a moment he breaks the silence. “I wonder what your group would suggest, kitten,” he says, taking a seat next to me. His arm wraps around my waist. Like this is normal, like we’re a couple.
“Ask them this.” It’s a command.
I click the box and prepare to type in a question. My heart beats chaotically in my chest as he tells me what to write. “What would you do if you woke up in a basement and a man gave you two choices: die, or be his?” I type in his words and hover over the submit button. It’s fucking insane that he’s having me ask them. But it’s also a common thing I do. I pose a question by picking a scenario from a common trope to engage them. I already know what most will answer.
I hit enter, and it doesn’t take long for them to start commenting. They love these questions, and frankly, so do I. But not this one. Because this is real.
“Well, your friends have some good ideas as to what you should be doing.” I consider pointing out the comment from a reader about gouging his eyes out, but I don’t.
I read down the list of responses. Nearly forty comments already. Most say the same thing.
Be his!
I choose the second option!
Well, if he’s hot--that’s a no brainer!
All their responses seem so natural online. They're meant for humor, and to be cheeky replies. A week ago, I would have said the same. But it’s not real. You wouldn’t really do that. It’s not that easy. I want to yell at Anthony. I’m pissed that he would do that shit to me, that he would make me feel like I’m the one holding back.
“Given that the choice is to die or to be his, it’s clearly a given.” I read the words flatly. It’s one of the comments, but also the truth. I keep my voice even and my eyes on the screen.
I can feel Anthony’s eyes on me, and I regret opening my mouth at all. I can’t look at him, so I stare at the screen. The comments continue coming in.
Agree to be his...duh! lol
Well I wouldn’t make it easy for him…
Agree! It could be hot as hell ;)
I close the laptop and try to swallow the lump growing in my throat. I can’t read them. I hate the ease at which the replies come in. Normally I love them. I love my group of readers and authors. But right now I can’t stand how easy they make giving in sound. Anthony pulls the laptop from me and cradles me in his lap.
“I just wanted you to see why it was easy to pick you.” His voice is gentle and it vibrates up his chest. I lean deeper into him. “You’re primed to enjoy this because deep down you know how good this can be.”
I shake my head against his broad shoulders. Those are fantasies.
He grips my chin in his hand and leans into me. Our lips are closer than they have ever been before. “Real life and fantasy can blur, kitten. This can be whatever you want it to be.”
My heart aches in my chest. Be his. How easy it seems to give in.
And I do. A piece of my armor cracks enough that I lean into his embrace and brush my lips against his. He doesn’t kiss back, not at first. And it kills something deep down inside of me. Before I can pull away, his hands grip my hips and he pushes me down onto the bed and kisses me with passion. His erection rubs against my clit and he rocks against me as our tongues meet and our kiss turns into something more. I feel my walls falling down around me. It would be so easy to give in to him. To live something I’ve only ever thought would be a dream.