Captivated (Stranded)

by Mia West

  A whole library full of them, and him their keeper.

  Chapter 5

  Evan was cleaning the break area in the office when she found him at the end of the day.

  “You’re right,” she said. “That book is something else.”

  Her voice, back to its normal, everyday range now, still got under his skin. “Ohio knows best.”

  “Hmph.” She moved to the sink and began to wash her bowl. “Thanks for bringing my lunch down. Sorry I missed you.”

  He looked up from the toaster oven, but she kept her eyes on her bowl. Was that a blush on her neck? Nervous, Iowa? Somehow, seeing the tables turned on her was…not gratifying, exactly. It actually made him feel closer to her. “No worries. I just dropped it off. Had to get back upstairs to buff the floors.” Sort of true.

  Yes, it was a blush, and now it had company: a sag of relief across her shoulders. So she had wondered all afternoon if he’d heard her.

  Had that thought excited her, even a little?

  “That’s the cleanest toaster oven I’ve ever seen.”

  He finished wiping down the glass door and swept the crumbs from the counter into a trash can. “That’s my job.”

  She scanned the office. “In fact,” she said, “this whole place is extremely clean. Like you’ve scared the dirt away.”

  “You sound like Magda,” he grumbled, uncomfortable being the focus of her attention, but craving it all the same. “She thinks it’s because I’m American.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” Laine said. “I mean, you are, but so am I, and my place was nowhere near this clean. You’re not a vampire are you?”

  He snorted. “Vampire?”

  “Word is they’re compulsive.”

  Great, he thought, let’s add that to the list of psychotic flaws. “Just a product of my dad and my sergeant.” He glanced up at her. “Your blood’s safe with me, Iowa.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, her thumb tapping the strap of her bag. “I’m going to ignore the way you say Iowa, Ohio—”

  “Yeah, that’s a lot better—”

  “—and enlist you for a prank.”

  He straightened to face her. “Prank?”

  “Prank,” she confirmed. “I don’t think Magda and Risa should get off scot-free for this, do you?”

  Her lips curled into a smirk he wanted to map with his tongue. “And what do you propose?”

  She considered the office. “I don’t know. That’s why you’re so important to this mission, Ohio. What are their weaknesses?”

  A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. “Weaknesses? I hope I’m never in your crosshairs.”

  “Oh, you’re easy,” she said, waving away his comment and walking toward Magda’s desk.

  “What? No. You can’t just drop something like that and walk away.”

  She turned back to him, then looked slyly at the kitchenette counter, where the coffee filters were stacked upside down. She peeled one off the top and, watching for his reaction, folded it off-center and set it back down in a random spot between the coffee maker and the sink. Then she stepped away.

  He looked at the filter, its awkward crease, its stupid, useless placement on the counter. When he dragged his eyes back to hers, he hoped he looked bored and not as if every inch of his skin itched. “So?”

  One eyebrow rose above her glasses. “All right. So you’re imperturbable. But surely the ladies have buttons we can push.”

  Eager to get off his own dumb shit and on to someone else’s, he stepped past her. “Magda likes chocolate. I’ve heard her snipe at Risa for sneaking bits from her stash.”

  “Where’s her stash?”

  He opened the deep side drawer of Magda’s desk. Laine leaned over to peer into it, exposing the soft, pale skin behind one ear. What would it feel like under his—

  “Not very well hidden.”

  He jerked his gaze back to the drawer. “It is her desk.”

  “Good point. But I have to admit, I might have swiped some of this chocolate myself.”

  “Iowa: corn and thieves.”

  Her lips fell open in invitation.

  Indignation. Fuck, he was getting his signals crossed.

  “A three-day weekend’s a long time to go without something sweet,” she said.

  If she looked at him like that for three more seconds, he was going to grab her. One…two…

  She turned away. Chose a couple of wrapped candies and closed the drawer. “What about Risa?”

  He pulled himself back, feeling drunk on her presence, and followed her gaze through the office window to the reception desk. What about Risa? “She likes soccer players.”

  “Soccer players,” Laine said under her breath. She crossed her arms. “We could doctor some photos of her favorite players, but the internet…?”

  “Goes out with the phone lines.”

  Her lips pursed. “That decides it, then.”

  “What?”

  “We need to have sex all over their desks.”

  Evan choked on his next breath.

  She looked at him and grinned. “Just kidding,” she said and held up the chocolates. “We’re going to make them think we screwed on their desks.”

  “With chocolate,” he managed.

  “Here,” she said, sliding Magda’s paperwork to one end of her desk, her keyboard to the other. “We don’t want to actually damage anything. But yes, chocolate.” She unwrapped a piece. “Hold out your hands.”

  He did, not a thought about it.

  “Oh, wait.” She set the chocolate candy on the desk. Next thing he knew, Laine was unbuttoning his right cuff and rolling up his sleeve. “Let’s not ruin your shirt.”

  Her fingertips felt cool through his shirt as she tuck-tuck-tucked it. Before she could reach for his left arm, he undid the cuff himself and rolled up the sleeve.

  “Hands.”

  He held out his right hand. She placed the bare chocolate in it and swept his left hand up in hers. She pushed his palms together, trapping the chocolate between them. “Melt it,” she said.

  Long after she took her hands away to unwrap her own candy, the cool, dry sensation of her bare fingers remained on the skin of his good hand. Soon she stood before him, her hands rolling a chocolate between them.

  “We look like were praying,” she said.

  “I am, kind of.”

  “Oh?”

  Avoiding her eyes, he studied his hands. The chocolate had melted, coating his palms and fingers until nothing solid remained. Just like the floor under his feet.

  Laine held up her hands. “Ready?”

  Hell yes.

  Hell no.

  Fuck.

  With a foot, she rolled Magda’s chair away. Then she sat on the desk, scooting her ass back until the bend of her knees stopped her. Carefully, she pressed one chocolaty hand to the back of Magda’s monitor, conscientiously avoiding the vents. Her other hand settled flat on the desktop beside her, inches from her skirt.

  “Step up,” she said, and he wondered if she meant the double meaning.

  Willing his dick to stay the fuck down, he stepped between her knees.

  “Closer.”

  He shuffled until his thighs touched the edge of the desk. She shifted, and the movement caused her knees to squeeze his legs. She was going to kill him.

  “Now lean over me and put your hands on the desk. Press them nice and flat. We want a good print.”

  Slowly, he leaned forward. She moved to give him a little room but she could only go so far. Orange blossoms bloomed under his nose and mingled with melted chocolate, and he had the insane thought that if he ducked his head into the V of her blouse, right there where the curve of her breast rose toward him, that that’s what she would taste like. His dick swelled with painful speed. He shifted, trying to avoid her and her clothes, to keep his balance. He managed to get one hand down, and then everything went to shit. That hand slipped, causing him to lurch into her. His other hand skidded slickly off th
e desk as her legs closed around his. The pressure pulled him into her, and his next breath, stuttered nose to nose, found them pressed together from tits to cock.

  A cock that was not staying the fuck down.

  Her mouth opened on a gasp. He was too close, her eyes said, his creepy face was too close, and his damned dick—

  “Sorry,” he said and pulled away, struggling to straighten and keep his hands free of her.

  She came up on elbows first and looked over her shoulder at the big smears of chocolate his hands had made on the desktop. When she turned back to him, she had recovered admirably. “Looks…vigorous.”

  He rubbed his sticky hands together, wanting to run but unable to move.

  “Hey.” Her voice sounded muffled, like right after his accident.

  He noted somewhere distant in his mind that the backs of his hands looked the same in chocolate.

  “Evan?”

  A note in her tone drew his attention from his hands. He wanted to show her how alike they were right now, but when he looked up, she looked kind of sad. He shouldn’t bother her with his shit.

  She sat with her hands on her thighs, palms up. She slid off the desk and moved close, her hands held low and wide. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.”

  Because he had made a massive cock-up of the whole thing. With his cock grinding into her, massively unwanted and uncalled for.

  Totally wilted now, he noted.

  He gave her a nod and swallowed, unable to speak around the annoying knot that had gathered in his throat.

  But she moved closer and ducked her chin, and knocking over the last brick holding him up, she placed a soft kiss on his shoulder.

  He stared at his shirt there, expecting the fabric to melt away.

  “I thought it would be funny. That it would serve her right. But you know what?”

  He gathered some courage and met her gaze. “What?”

  “I’m not sorry she did it,” Laine said. And she just stared at him for a long time.

  Me neither, he wanted to say, but it was awful feeling exposed like this. He hadn’t had such a strong desire to shield himself since his first patrol.

  “I’ll clean it up if you want.”

  He looked over her shoulder at the desk and wondered what it would have looked like if they really had screwed on the desk. More chocolate on the edges, he thought. They both would have needed to hold the fuck on to something. “No, leave it.” Could she tell what he was thinking? Act normal, dumbass. “If I change my mind, I’ll clean it up,” he said. “It is kind of funny.”

  Laine smiled up at him. “You’re a good sport.”

  They washed their hands, taking turns at the small sink.

  “So what’s on the menu tonight, chef?”

  “Anything but chocolate,” he said and felt some of his tension ease when she reached out and touched his back. He hoped it was commiseration and not pity.

  “Do you have any pasta?”

  “Spaghetti, I think.”

  “How about I cook for you tonight?” she asked. “Earn my keep.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.” She turned toward the door. “Do you like garlic?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods?”

  She smiled at his lame joke. “Garlic then. Definitely not a vampire.” She winked at him before she turned away.

  He started to follow, feeling dazed, like some love-struck cartoon schmuck with stars and hearts and tweeting birds circling his head, but then something across the room caught his eye. The infuriating stray coffee filter. With a few steps and a quick swipe, he turned it over and mashed it onto its brothers next to the coffee machine.

  “I saw that,” Laine called as she left the office.

  “Whatever, Iowa,” he muttered.

  Her throaty chuckle echoed through the lobby.

  Chapter 6

  Laine woke to a moonlit ceiling.

  The attic lay quiet, with a breath of air moving across her cheek. The cooling system, she guessed, thankful that it didn’t shut down for the weekend with everything else. Slipping her hands under her pillow, she watched the shapes of the windows move almost imperceptibly across the wall.

  At dinner, she had fought the urge to apologize again for the prank. She had known Evan would only wave it off. She had decided to clean up the mess the next day. The job would probably fall to Evan eventually anyway, and that wouldn’t be fair, not when it had been her terrible idea.

  Not such a terrible idea, her mind insisted, backed up by her body, which remembered the weight of him, the press of his erection against her. Her legs had circled him on reflex, to catch herself, to catch him, but when she’d felt his hard length trapped between them, her legs had stayed put. They might even have hugged him closer.

  She arched her back now and pressed her wrist against her mound, trying to recreate the sensation. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it was him. But not quite. There had been so much more to it, not just an isolated cock. His chest expanding into hers, his breath puffing against her lips, his eyes…

  His eyes, full of panic.

  She had so wanted to take his face in her hands, but he had shoved himself away. She’d tried to make light of it, and then apologize, but it wasn’t until they had reached his apartment that he had begun to relax. Thinking it best to steer clear of sex talk, she’d gotten him talking about where he’d grown up. When she learned he had two brothers, she had homed in on that and kept him talking about them, and by the time dinner was ready, he had let her back in a bit, trading jabs about the merits of a childhood in Ohio versus Iowa. (Ohio, hands down. Of course.) When she’d set a mountain of spaghetti in front of him, he had demolished it.

  Now she lay in the dark, wondering what he was doing behind the closet door. Maybe only sleeping. After all that pasta, he was probably comatose. And dealing with her crazy would wear anyone out. But she did wonder, as she slid her forearm against her belly, if before he fell asleep, he might, possibly, have remembered the feel of her breasts under him, of her heels against the backs of his thighs.

  Air moved across her temple again, more of a breeze this time, and then…laughter.

  Laine abandoned her attempts at fantasy and sat up to find that the kitchen window stood open.

  She padded to it. She could see the sidewalk across the street, but the angle was too steep to see the near walk or the laughing couple, wherever they were. The window opened onto a narrow metal balcony and stairs. Ascending stairs.

  Was he up there now?

  She was on the balcony with one foot on a riser when she realized she had forgotten to put on her skirt. She wore only her blouse and panties. Well, she only wanted to have a peek. If he was there, she would come right back down so she wouldn’t embarrass him.

  The punched metal of the stairs scraped the soles of her feet as she climbed them. She was practically at the rooftop already, having started in the attic, and so the city unfolded quickly below her. Not the blaze of all-night light that Paris was reported to be, but golden with street lamps all the same. She could make out the tall spires of Sagrada Familia. The chaotic maze of city streets was balanced by the dark, calm presence of the harbor.

  When she gained the rooftop, she tried to scan its flat surface, but a large metal cube stood in her way, part of the air conditioning system. She stepped off the stairs onto the rough sandpaper texture of the roof. Holding on to the structure blocking her view, she crept around it. And there, in the center of the rooftop, stood Evan.

  Naked.

  Make that naked and wet.

  He stood in some kind of low pool beneath a tall, flared tank. The tank looked like a funnel, and she realized that was exactly what it was: a rainwater collection tank. Evan was bathing in the pool at its base.

  She stood silently for several minutes, watching him. The moon gave off just enough light to highlight the contours of his body, which was…
<
br />   She gulped air.

  Gorgeous. That damn uniform really had some explaining to do for hiding this body from her. Muscular thighs, flat belly, flexing arms, broad shoulders, and every bit of him now streaked with rivulets of rainwater. Laine’s mouth twinged with thirst. She lifted a hand to her throat, and the movement caught his eye.

  He froze, the cloth in his hand dripping its water back into the pool. He couldn’t bolt, she didn’t think, if the only access was behind her. At any rate, he didn’t move. She waited for him to tell her to go away. But he didn’t do that either. So she stepped toward him.

  He straightened when he realized she was approaching, and squeezed the rest of the water out of the cloth. It hit the surface of the pool with a sloosh that gave voice to the slippery-sliding sensation in Laine’s belly. He watched her, his gaze so intense she let hers drop to the small pile of clothing several feet from the pool. A t-shirt and shorts, she thought. So he did own other clothes. Beside them lay his towel and a bottle of something.

  When she reached the pool, she raised her eyes to his. They struck her with an expression she couldn’t read. Fear? Anger? Want?

  That last one, she hoped.

  His hand flexed on the cloth, and she realized he hadn’t moved to cover his cock. It rested against his sac, dark against darker hair. Her nails bit into her palms.

  Slowly, she held out her hand toward his washcloth. “May I?”

  He looked down at it as though he wasn’t sure how it had come to be in his hand. He gave it to her. Leaning down, she dipped it into the water again, trying not to gawk at his crotch, as tempting as it was. When she straightened, she held his gaze and stepped into the pool.

  A harsh breath gusted out of him, as if the splash of her foot had proven to him she wasn’t a figment. She slowed her movements, willing him not to retreat. Inching closer, she placed one hand on his arm and raised the cloth to his chest. When she touched him with it, he flinched but otherwise stood still.

  Up close, his pupils seemed to have consumed his irises. They bore into her. They begged her.

  And so she washed him. Drawing circles with the cloth, she focused on the unscarred side of his body first, hoping to either relax or arouse him enough that he wouldn’t protest when she reached his other side. He let her stroke the cloth over his skin, though he watched intently. Again and again, she dipped the cloth and pressed it to him, marveling at the firm give of the muscle beneath his skin. He was pale, causing the hair on his chest to stand out, as well as the thicker hair that began at his navel and descended to his cock. Her fingers itched to touch it—all of it—and his cock stood at half attention now. But it still seemed wary, so she moved around to wash his back.