He handed over the dress, but clamped a hand over her wrist. “Be careful with it,” he said seriously, his eyes boring into her. “It’s your wedding dress, angel. Gotta be pretty for our big day.”
Her mouth fell open. Both because of the idiotic flow of words coming out of his mouth and because his head was bobbing around big time while he spoke, as though there were some kind of song going on that only he could hear. Or maybe only she could hear? She wanted to sway with him and maybe touch his head and see if the tiny shaved hairs would feel as soft as she thought they might.
Holy shit! Get it together Riley! No touching the kidnapping asshole who you intend to let Soloman kill at the first opportunity. She turned her back on Shank, drew the zipper down the side of the dress and stepped into it. Yanking it up, because she didn’t particularly give a shit about being careful with the fabric, despite what the eager groom said, she pulled it on. It was a scoop-necked, sleeveless dress that fit a little tight in the bust when she pulled the zipper up the side. It had a satin underlay with a jagged, lacy overlay that landed in different lengths between her knees and her calves. She might have thought it was cool if she wasn’t massively pissed off at the situation and on her way to being high on ecstasy or whatever Shank had given her.
“Pants off,” Shank grunted, taking her arm and turning her roughly around to inspect her.
“Fuck you!” she snapped hoarsely, losing her temper and stomping her bare foot in the hot dirt beside the car.
His face swam in front of her. The grinning skull tattooed over his mouth looked more frightening than the first time she met him when he cornered her in the dark as she was leaving work. He’d threatened to slit her throat if she didn't immediately take him to her garage and hand over his car.
Shank bent down in front of her, reached under her skirt, took hold of the loose waist of her sweatpants and wrenched them down her legs. She stumbled and would have fallen, but he leaned her against his warm, broad shoulder. She braced her hand against his back while he forced her to step out of her pants. He looked up at her and slid his hand back up her leg, curving it around her bare thigh. His fingers bit deep into the smooth, round globe of her ass. She froze against him, desperately hoping his exploration would go no further.
“Fuck,” he grunted. “No panties.”
She deeply regretted her choice not to wear underwear that morning. If she got out of this alive, she was never again skipping underwear in case she got kidnapped out of her own home again. Holy crap, was that a tattoo of a sea turtle on his shoulder? Did Cilia know? Cilia would probably kill Shank for her before Soloman could do the job. Riley reached out to smack the offensive little jerk, but it started running around Shank’s body. She chased after it with her fingers.
“Okay, angel-face, I think those pills are working,” Shank said with a grin when she crawled over his shoulder and shoved her arm down his back, mumbling about a tattoo, while threatening to send her mother after him.
He stood with her over his shoulder and smoothed the floating material of the dress over her thighs. Leaving the scraps of her discarded clothes in the dirt, he opened the passenger side of his car and dumped her in the back seat. They took off toward the border with an extremely high Riley in the backseat. One moment she couldn't keep her hands to herself and would run them over his head and shoulders, drawing groans of appreciation from him, and then she’d remember where she was and that she was a victim and start freaking out.
They made it across the border with very little difficulty. Shank had bribed his usual border guard and given him a heads up. Riley slumped sleepily in her seat during the extremely brief interview. She didn’t have to say a word. Then they were in Tijuana, Mexico and Shank pulled up to the first church he saw.
Riley’s eyes went wide and met Shank’s in the rearview mirror. His shone with a maniacal, possessive fever. She shrank back into the leather seat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
His.
She finally belonged to him.
Riley Anne Alvarez.
It was too bad she had fought so hard. Even after he shoved more angel dust down his angel’s throat in the church parking lot. He’d had to slap her a little until she was able to focus and answer the priest’s questions at the correct time. The old man had looked concerned, until Shank’d shoved a gun in his face. Then he’d been happy enough to finish the ceremony, take the wad of bills from the groom and usher the couple quickly out.
Riley lolled in his arms. He sat with her on the curb next to the church. She was in his lap with her head hanging off his elbow. He loved watching her sleep. No one could touch his angel in terms of beauty. Those lips and cheeks. She was one of a kind and she was all his.
He wanted to fuck her bad. His dick was poking up at her where he sat on the pavement. But he wanted her awake and in a bed. It would be easy enough to put her in the backseat of the car, flip up her dress and fuck her raw. She wasn’t even wearing panties. And he could tell from the way she touched him earlier that she wanted him too. But his Angel deserved better than that. And she would get better. As soon as he got them out of this hot as fuck city where Soloman fucking Hart could still possibly find them.
He hefted her up in his arms and carried her back to the Charger. Draping her over one arm, he opened the trunk. Unfortunately, she’d have to go back in. He needed his full focus on the road if he was going to get them to safety where they could start off their marriage properly. He had to think and she distracted him. She had from the moment she’d put her pretty, sticky little fingers on his car.
He grinned as he slammed the trunk down on his sleeping beauty, tucking her safely away. He would unwrap her later in the safety of a hotel room, far away from the border.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Help!” Riley screamed into the stifling blackness, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She knew she should preserve the precious fluid, but it wouldn’t matter if she was going to die anyway. She’d been hallucinating and cooking for what felt like ages in the hot, dark trunk. She banged on the lid and yelled until she was exhausted and weak once more. She took another desperate gulp of water and pinched herself in an attempt to keep her eyes open. She knew she couldn’t pass out again. She might not wake up.
Her moronic husband (did Shank really force her to marry him?!) was going to accidentally murder her before he got them to where they were going. She moaned and clutched her aching stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. Maybe longer. Fuck, she had no idea how much time had passed since Shank had blown the shit out of her and Soloman’s kitchen and stolen her right out of the house. She didn’t know how much more punishment her body could withstand.
“Please… Soloman… find me,” she sobbed into the darkness trying to ignore the streaks of colour dancing before her eyes and the terrible stabs of pain that attacked her lungs with every breath she took.
Then she saw him. Reaching for her through the fog of red and black and pain. The tattoos on his hands stood out stark against his swarthy skin, safe and true as he cradled her against his chest. Her breathing eased as his masculine scent enveloped her, washing away the hot, sweaty trunk smell.
“Soloman,” she cried, tears leaking from her lashes. She rolled onto her back, with her arms outstretched and drifted into the sweet chaos of her drug fuelled mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Soloman checked his phone for what felt like the thousandth time. Hell, it probably was the thousandth time. He knew there was nothing. He had the volume turned high. He would've heard immediately if info guy had sent another satellite image of the speeding Charger or a text with directions. He glanced over at Roman's phone. Nothing.
He clenched his fist and checked the urge to punch the dashboard. It wasn't the Mustang's fault they were an hour behind Manuel. He fucking refused to imagine the things a man like that could do to his woman in that time. It made his guts burn with an unholy, vengeful fire.
He'd nearly m
urdered the priest in Tijuana when he'd described the fucked-up wedding ceremony Manuel had forced on Riley. It was everything Roman could do to peel Soloman off the man and away from the church before he burned a holy place to its sacred ground. How could a man of the cloth let his beautiful, sweet girl be treated in such an evil way?
She's been drugged.
Pain cut through him as he wondered what she'd been forced to take. The priest tried to describe her symptoms but he wasn't an expert on drugs and he was terrified of Soloman's chilling fury. He prayed that whatever the fucker had forced on his gorgeous girl would not cause permanent damage. Or, god forbid, kill her.
His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down.
Xsource: Checked into a motel in Rancho el Coyote. 1 hour SE of your position.
A map and satellite image of what looked like a run down log cabin style motel came through via text immediately after. There was a Charger parked out front of one of the rooms. Soloman handed the phone to Roman wordlessly who grunted his acknowledgment and nosed the speedometer higher. Manuel could do a lot of damage in one hour.
Xsource: Careful boss. He has contacts in the area. If they know you coming in hot, they be gunning.
Soloman’s eyes shifted to the passing scenery, taking in the relentless desert as it flew by. Roman’s car ate up the worn road as though it meant nothing. Their information guy didn’t need to worry about the person that signed his paycheck. He would set this desert on fire of that’s what it took to get her back.
Hang on, gorgeous girl, I'm coming for you.
CHAPTER THIRTY
She slept like an angel.
Her body was spread out in the trunk like an angel with her arms stretched wide like wings. Even her chest barely moved with her breaths. So ethereal. So beautiful.
Shank reached in and lifted her easily from the trunk. She remained limp in his arms. He was sorry to see tear tracks down her cheeks. She must have been sad to wake up in the trunk. He had heard her screams, which is how he knew she was better off in there. He couldn’t have her distracting him while he was driving.
She just needed more angel dust. Then she could belong to him like she was always meant to. He should have taken her years ago, before that fucking mobster came sniffing around. Instead, he’d gone back to his gang and given them the years they’d demanded. Bided his time until he was free. Until his angel called him home.
He watched the swell of her breasts as they moved slowly and pressed against the frayed fabric of her wedding dress. He frowned. The fabric was torn along the edge, as though she had clawed at it. He would have to teach her to take better care of her things.
He planned on giving her the world. They would honeymoon in Mexico. He would take her to his boyhood home and introduce her to his family. They would eat good food, party and make love. They would drive to the ocean and have sex on the beach in the hot sand, like couples did in movies.
He just needed to settle his girl down. Show her how good things would be between them. He lifted her head with his elbow and kissed her lips. He frowned. They were dry and hot against his. But fuck, they felt good. He wanted more. He would get her inside and wake her up. Then they could start their life together.
Just him and his angel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"Wake up, Riley.”
She knew those words. That was what Soloman had said to her before he left for the club to deal with a problem. Right before the explosion. Right before Shank dragged her out of the house, across the sunbaked land, across the border and into a church. Or maybe that stuff didn’t happen? Maybe it was a bad dream and her lover was calling her back to reality so he could demand she acquiesce to another bout of lovemaking.
She needed to wake up and tell him to fuck off. She was too sore. He’d ridden her too hard the night before. Everything ached. He loved to impress his dominance on every part of her. But it wasn't like him to push her this much, to drive her to the brink of exhaustion.
She moaned helplessly and tried to open her eyes. It was so hard. Alarm filled her. The sound that emerged from her lips was barely a frail imitation of the vibrant voice she was used to. He shifted her in his arms and pressed something against her mouth, encouraging her to drink. She swallowed willingly. She loved Soloman, she would do as he asked.
Cool, sweet liquid filled her swollen, torn throat. She moaned in satisfaction and quickly took more sips of what she now recognized as fresh water. Then it hit her stomach. All at once it went from cool to burning, twisting heat. She struggled to rise in his arms, but was too weak. She moaned in distress as her stomach heaved and the water bubbled up her throat. It spilled from her lips and soaked into the front of her dress. She supposed she should be happy the only thing in her stomach was water. Her eyes finally opened as tears of pain leaked out.
The face hovering over hers was not Soloman’s. It was pockmarked and tattooed with a skull that gave him a permanent grin. She shuddered, the tears flowing freely from her eyes. She knew she was unbearably weak and getting weaker with each mile that passed. She knew that she was probably going to die. Not because Shank wanted her dead. He was staring down at her with a mixture of lust and psychotic adoration. No. In his driving need to keep her, he was going to accidentally kill her.
“More water,” he mumbled. “You’ll be fine, my angel.”
She tried to shake her head, but he lifted the glass to her lips and tipped it, forcing more water into her mouth. Her stomach cramped instantly, before the water even went down her throat. She tried to spit it out. He clamped his hand hard over her mouth and nose, smashing her lips against her teeth. Her eyes widened in fearful surprise.
“Swallow it,” he said gently, rocking her in his lap, despite his vicious actions. She struggled to breath but was too weak to do anything except swallow the water. He continued to hold his hand clamped over her face, watching her dark velvet eyes grow wide with panic. Once he was certain she wouldn’t immediately spit up the water he eased his hand away.
Riley sucked air in and sobbed weakly against his chest while he rocked her back and forth and brushed hair back from her face. She wanted to scream at him and shove him away. Tell him he was the most disgusting human being she’d ever met. She wanted to scratch his eyes out and punch him in the dick. She wanted to steal his car and then fuck it up beyond all repair. Even though it was a beautiful car, there were too many bad memories in that fucking trunk for it to be salvageable now. She was going to throw the wedding dress in what was left of that bitch when she was done fucking it up and then she was lighting the whole thing on fire.
“More pills, Angel mine,” he commanded, leaning back with her still in his lap. He dug around in his pocket and pulled a couple of tablets out.
“No… no…” she cried weakly against him, her voice barely registering. She tried to push him away, but her hand only landed limply against his T-shirt and slid down his chest.
“Yes, baby. It’s time for us to be man and wife. This’ll help you feel better,” he said gently, pressing his lips against her cheek and then licking her.
She shuddered and turned her face away. He took advantage by licking her ear and then her neck. She wanted so badly to fight him, but her limbs would not obey the vicious thoughts floating through her mind. Maybe she should just accept the pills? If this was going to happen anyway, maybe it would be easier to just float into oblivion. She couldn't accept his touch any other way.
He placed the pills in her mouth. She let him. He trickled water past her lips, washing them down her throat. She let him. She closed her eyes, shutting out the look of burning possession in his eyes. It was never a look that should be his. It belonged on another. She understood that now.
Riley was never a prize to be won, she was her own woman. She knew what she wanted in life and went after it. That was why she never allowed herself to fall in love before. Until she stole the Koenigsegg. And went for a ride with a man that knew what he wanted. She finally allowed her heart to ge
t swept away. She was no man's possession. But she was in possession of his heart, as he held hers. She smiled happily as she remembered their dance. Sometimes brutal, always exciting.
She felt the soft touch of a finger on her lips, tracing her smile. She knew it wasn’t Soloman. She knew it was a man intent on stealing her smiles for himself. She didn't care. She was going to float away in the arms of her lover and hopefully never return. She felt something shift underneath her. Her head dropped back and her arms and legs dangled as she sailed slowly through the air.
Riley laughed. The sensation was so similar to floating she almost thought maybe she had died and was in the process of drifting away in the arms of the Reaper. She forced her eyes open and saw that Shank was carrying her around the side of the bed. They must have been sitting on the end. The room spun dizzily around her, lights flashing in a crazy kaleidoscope of colours before her eyes. She reached out to touch one of the fuzzy lights, but it danced away from her.
Then she was being lowered. Panic consumed her. Was she being put back into the trunk? She would almost certainly die this time! Strength she didn’t know she had surged through her and she pushed herself up on the bed, crying out in fear.
“No, angel, lay back down,” Shank insisted, pushing her forcefully down by the shoulders. He kneeled on the bed between her legs.
“P-please… don’t... make me…” she begged breathlessly, trying to force the words out of oxygen starved lungs and past parched lips.
She fought against him with everything she had, but her body was just too weak. Her fingers scrambled helplessly along his tanned arms and her limbs flailed sluggishly against the mattress. The room whirled in her vision, stopped, and then whirled off in another direction while flashes of lights sparked and streaked, sometimes sharp, sometimes fuzzy. She knew it was the drugs.
Driven by Desire Page 18
