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I know what Stockholm Syndrome is. Some prisoners develop feelings for their kidnappers. How fast can that happen, and can it happen if the prisoner is aware of the phenomenon?

My hand slips down my underwear, over my nub, my folds, caressing as the memory slams into the now and it’s like I’m reliving it all over again. Only this time, he doesn’t stop, and neither do I.

In the fantasy, I don’t just nervously kiss the base of his huge, hard manhood. I suck the tip, swirl my tongue around him, causing him to groan as if I hold all the power. Then I climb into his lap and guide my slick sex onto his tip.

I imagine sitting heavily on him. As my fingers press against my clit and I grit my teeth together to stop from waking Meatball, it’s like it’s really happening.

He grabs my ass and moans like he’s never seen or touched a more attractive woman. Whatever else is true, I know he’s not faking that. His attraction toward me isn’t a tool of manipulation. When he looks at me, it’s with pure, animalistic hunger.

The orgasm makes my entire body tremble, my legs twisting in the sheets, sweat beading all over me as a tsunami of release floods my mind and makes me feel lightheaded.

When it’s over, I sit up, gasping. Meatball leaps down from the closet and stares at me with accusation on his scrunched-up face.

“I know. That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

Meatball purrs and seems to shake his head. Sometimes, I’m certain he can understand me. He doesn’t believe that was a onetime thing.

Perhaps he already knows the truth I’m trying to avoid.

Already, I want to do it again.

CHAPTER 9

DOM

Her braid brushes my chest as she leans in, warm breath against my neck. We’re tangled in the sheets. She tastes like salt and heat, like danger I want more of. My hands are on her hips, hers in my hair, pulling just hard enough. Her eyes–those bright golden eyes–pin me down harder than her body does.

I growl at something low. She laughs. It’s the sound I’d kill to keep hearing. She shifts, and I follow, every inch of her under my hands, under control.

Then the bed tilts.

Her braid turns to rope. Her mouth is gone. Sirens scream. The air goes tight.

I’m not in a bed.

I’m in the surf.

Wet sand grits between my teeth. My weapon’s jammed. Someone’s shouting “clear left” but no one's watching the right. I try to call out, but my comm’s dead. My pulse hammers. Mylungs can’t get enough air. I drag myself behind a cover that doesn’t exist and see Johnson drop. Chest shot. No time to help.

The woman – my Keepsake – is standing in the open.

I try to run to her. Legs don’t work. Something pins me down.

She lifts a hand again, fingers curling slowly.

Then everything explodes.

Smoke. Fire. Screaming.

I jolt awake, soaked in sweat, fists clenched, the taste of her still on my mouth. Or maybe it’s blood.“Evie!”

It takes me a second to realize it was a nightmare. It’s been several months since my last one, and that wasn’t as vivid as this. Climbing from bed, I’m relieved to realize it’s morning, at least. The canyon looks peaceful and isolated from my bedroom window, as if me, Evie, and Meatball are the only ones left on this entire planet.

The illusion is shattered when I check my cellphone: several texts from my CFO, reminding me of an important meeting we have today. I shower and get dressed, then head down to the panic room to check on Keepsake.

I should probably stop using that nickname. I shouldn’t let myself become comfortable with the idea of having her here all the time, like she’s my personal plaything.

Part of me hungers for that. Having Evie as mine. Her curves, her sass, her talent, here for me anytime I desire her. Which is all the damn time.