Page 55 of The Captive
Phenomenal, mind-altering sex that had left me trembling and disoriented, but sex, nonetheless. A physical release after days of tension and trauma. Nothing more.
So why couldn't I stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me afterward? The way his arms had tightened around me as we'd drifted to sleep, as if he couldn't bear to let me go? The way he'd whispered my name like a prayer, like salvation, like damnation all at once?
We'd spent most of the day together, liaising with Coyne and discussing Beatrice's possible whereabouts, analysing her financial records for any hint of where she might have fled. The work had been oddly comfortable—neither of us mentioning what had happened the night before, yet constantly aware of it in the electricity that sparked whenever our hands brushed, in the lingering glances across the table.
I'd caught him staring at my mouth more than once, his eyes darkening with remembered pleasure. Every accidental touch sent fire racing through my veins, triggered memories of his hands on my body, inside me, making me wet even as we discussed security protocols and money trails.
Then a call had come, and Alexander had left abruptly, his expression stoic as he strapped his gun to his hip.
"Stay here," he'd ordered, not quite meeting my gaze. "Security is on high alert. I'll be back tonight."
Before I could argue, he was gone, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts and my treacherous body for company.
Now, hours later, I paced the length of my borrowed bedroom, restless energy coursing through me. The house was too quiet, the only sounds the occasional creak of old wood and the distant murmur of the men changing shifts outside.
Alexander still wasn't back.
I told myself I didn't care. That his absence was a relief—a chance to clear my head, to remember who I was and what I was supposed to be doing here. I shouldn’t pine for this man. I shouldn’t worry about whether he was safe, whether he'd return with new bruises or bullet wounds.
Yet, I found myself straining to hear the sound of his car in the driveway, the heavy tread of his footsteps on the stairs. Was he thinking of me, or was he as haunted by what we'd done as I was?
To distract myself, I retrieved the printed information we'd been reviewing, spreading the papers across the bed as I searched for patterns we might have missed. Beatrice was clever—methodical in her madness. She wouldn't have fled without a well-established escape route and a secure location to disappear to.
The files blurred before my eyes as fatigue set in. I was halfway to sleep when I heard it—the distant sound of a car engine, followed by the low murmur of voices. I moved to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains.
Alexander emerged from a sleek black car, his shoulders tense as he spoke with one of the security guards. Even from this distance, I could see the exhaustion in the set of his body, the weary way he ran a hand through his hair. There was blood on his shirt—by the way he moved, not his own, I guessed with a rush of relief that was both confusing and intense.
I pressed my thighs together, surprised by the immediate response of my body to the mere sight of him—powerful, lethal, wearing proof of violence.
There had to be something wrong with me.
I retreated from the window, gathering the scattered paperwork into a neat stack before slipping back into bed. When his footsteps finally sounded in the hallway, echoing, I held my breath, half expecting—half hoping—he would stop at my door.
He didn't.
The soft click of his bedroom door closing sent an irrational pang of disappointment through me, followed by a wave of molten heat as I imagined him stripping off that bloodied shirt, revealing the muscled torso I'd explored with hands and mouth just hours before.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, cursing myself for caring. For wanting. My hand drifted unconsciously to my breast, fingers teasing my nipple through the thin fabric of my robe, remembering how Alexander's mouth had felt there … the exquisite pleasure-pain when he'd used his teeth.
An hour passed, then another. Sleep eluded me, my body humming with restless energy that had nothing to do with what faced us and everything to do with the man sleeping down the hall.
This was scary territory for me. Alexander Moore was not mine to want—not in the light of day, not in the reality where we were never supposed to have a connection. Whatever had happened between us had to be temporary insanity, a momentary alliance born of shared trauma and proximity.
I needed to remember that.
Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me as he moved inside me, as if I were something delicate and fierce all at once. The way his voice had roughened when he said my name. His hands had been both gentle and possessive, reverent and demanding.
How he'd filled me so completely, so much that I'd forgotten everything—my name, my purpose, my very identity—replaced by pure sensation and need.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I was on my feet, moving silently out of the room and into the hallway. The house was dark and still, only the faint glow of security lights outside illuminating my path. I paused outside his door, heart hammering against my ribs, wetness gathering between my thighs at the mere thought of what I was about to do.
This was madness. I should turn around, go back to my room, forget this insanity.
Instead, I turned the handle, easing the door open without a sound.
Moonlight spilled through partially opened curtains, casting silver shadows across the room. Alexander lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, chest rising and falling in the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the nightstand—his nightcap after what had clearly been a violent evening. He hadn’t even finished that. What had he done that had him so exhausted?
I moved closer, drawn by some force I couldn't name. The sheets had slipped to his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the constellation of scars that mapped a violent life. He looked younger in sleep, the perpetual vigilance erased from his features, yet still so dangerously beautiful the sight made my breath catch.
