My own hand is moving desperately now, chasing the fantasy. I’m biting my lip to keep quiet, my other hand braced against the shower wall, my legs starting to shake. I imagine Leo pushing inside me slowly, his dark eyes locked on mine, both of us gasping at the sensation. I imagine the weight of him, thestretch, the perfect fullness. I imagine his voice rough in my ear saying my name like a prayer?—
The orgasm crashes through me hard enough that I actually whimper, my knees going weak as pleasure rolls through me in waves. I slump against the shower wall, gasping, my heart pounding as the aftershocks slowly fade.
Then reality crashes back in.
I just masturbated thinking about Leo Santoro.
About mykidnapper.
The shame makes my stomach twist. What thefuckis wrong with me? We almost crossed a line tonight—almost kissed in his dining room like he’s not using me as leverage against my father. And instead of being horrified, instead of being grateful that Dante called when he did, I ran straight to the shower to touch myself while fantasizing about what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.
How can I want him this badly? How can Istandhere imagining his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his mouth on mine, when he’s the reason I can't see my mother? When he’s the reason I’m locked in this house? He’s supposed to be myenemy.
But even as the guilt and shame wash over me, I can’t deny the truth.
IwantedLeo to kiss me tonight. I wanted it so badly that when his phone rang I nearly cried from frustration. And now that I’ve had time to think about it and worked through some of this desperate physical need in the shower, I still want it. I wanthim.
I want the Leo Santoro who gently cupped my face, who looked at me like I mattered more than anything else in the world. Theone who brings me coffee made exactly how I like it and asks my opinion about business deals and debates restaurant quality with genuine passion. The one who helped me through a panic attack with such gentle patience that I can still feel the memory of his touch.
I want the man who exists in the spaces between his duties and his grief, the one I’ve gotten to know over three weeks of conversations and arguments. The one who looks at me sometimes like I’m the only person in the world who matters.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate that my body betrays me this way. I hate that I can’t control my own desires. But most of all, I hate that I’ve become the girl who falls for her captor like some fucked-up cliché.
But hating it doesn’t make it go away.
I finish my shower in a daze, dry off mechanically, and pull on my pajamas without really thinking about it. When I climb into bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to process what this means.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to pretending none of this happened. I’ll keep my distance at breakfast and avoid his eyes at dinner anddefinitelywon’t let us get that close again. I’ll remind myself that he’s my kidnapper and I’m his prisoner and there’s no world where this ends well.
Tomorrow I’ll be smart about this.
12
LEO
Something’s wrong with Emma, and it’s pissing me off.
I know something’s wrong the moment I walk into the kitchen for coffee and find her already there, arms crossed, glaring at me like I just kicked her dog. My staff moves around us, talking in hushed voices as they handle the morning routine.
“Morning,” I say cautiously, reaching for the coffee pot.
“Is it?” Emma’s voice drips with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been locked in this house for three weeks with no way to tell if it’s a good morning or a bad morning or just another identical fucking day.”
All work in the kitchen ceases.
I pause mid-pour, eyebrow quirked. “You have windows. You can see outside.”
“Oh, windows!” Emma says, her voice going high and mocking. “How generous of you, Leo. Windows.Reallyliving the dream here.”
The staff continues their freeze for half a heartbeat, then suddenly everyone has somewhere else to be, chairs scraping and footsteps retreating fast. In seconds, the kitchen is empty, the door swinging shut.
I set the coffee pot down harder than necessary. “What is your problem this morning?”
“Myproblem?” Emma laughs, but there’s no humor in it, her face pinched. “Where do I even start?” She starts to list things off on her fingers. “Maybe with the fact that I’m still here. Maybe with the fact that you still haven’t told me when—or if—you’re planning to let me go. Maybe with the fact that I’ve been playing house with my kidnapper for three weeks and I don’t even know what the fuck we’re doing anymore.”
“We’re—” I start, but she cuts me off.