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CHAPTER THREE

AMELIA

Dreaming. Obviously.

Or else the plane did crash, and I’m sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

I squeeze my lids shut. This must be a dream. To be fair, finding a naked man in what’s supposed to be your home after going twenty-four hours without sleep would leave anyone rather discombobulated.

All right, then. I’ll blink, and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handcuffed will vanish.

Open eyes, and… Nope, still there. All bronze-skinned, brown-haired man .

Fuzzy fuchsia handcuffs bind his wrists above his head, drawing attention to muscular arms and a broad chest with sharply defined pecs. Farther down, chiseled abs dip into a pronounced “V.” Almost like he’s posing for the cover of a romance novel. A raunchy one.

Thank god, the fellow’s no longer completely exposed, though I did get an eyeful of his privates before throwing the sheet on him.

“Well?”

My eyes snap up, colliding with his green ones. At their wicked gleam, my face heats further. I swing my head away, frantically looking anywhere but at him because ogling is neither polite nor productive.

“Amelia. Amelia Stevens,” I mutter. My name—that’s what he wanted to know, wasn’t it?

This place seems like it’s the right flat. It matches the online photos, anyway. Same bed, dresser. Even the same print of a mountain range, the type that comes when you buy the frame.

Everything is pristine, recently cleaned, except for the disaster that is the bed.

My bed.

The one currently occupied by the dishiest man I’ve seen chained up, as if he’s some kind of pagan sacrifice. Not that I should be noticing his dishiness, given it has no bearing on the situation whatsoever.

“So…think you might let me go sometime, Amelia?”

The way he draws out my name is hypnotic—low, rich, with a hint of command that should have me bolting for the nearest exit. I exhale, long and slow, keeping my gaze fixed north of his shoulders in an attempt to assess things logically. He doesn’t appear dangerous, claims he was duped, but…

“You said you came here willingly?” I ask, while my treacherous eyes devour his lush lashes and impeccably chiseled cheekbones.

Faint light plays along his stubbled jaw, casting him in a rouge-ish glow that screams “swashbuckling pirate” more than “potential felon.” Why I’m focusing on his looks right now is beyond me—unless, perhaps, I’m subconsciously cataloging his features for a police sketch?

“I didn’t think this was some den of depravity. For Christ’s sake, there are landscapes on the wall.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do most dens of depravity you visit have better artwork?” I plant my hands on my hips, trying to appear bigger, more menacing. Gran always said to put people in their place before they put you in yours. “Plus, you were both trespassing.”

He shakes his head. “Kidnapped.”

I point at him. “Complicit.”

“Entrapment.”

He has me there. Whatever his choice of kink, I can’t help the twinge of sympathy at his situation. My worst nightmare. Or maybe my subconscious has a thing for strange men in unexpected places?

Still, just picturing myself bound like he is makes me shudder, even if he knowingly put himself in this predicament. Not entirely surprising, though. He probably never thinks he’ll get into trouble.He’s a little too smooth. A little too charming. I recognize the type. Likely accustomed to snapping his fingers and having women fall in line, and now completely baffled to find the usual power dynamics reversed not once, but twice in one night.

“Look, I gotta piss. You need to let me go unless you want things to get worse for both of us real fast. I was starting to think I needed to make like a Survivor contestant and dislocate a thumb to free myself. Then naturally, my brain cranks up the drama to blockbuster levels, and now I’m in some low-budget remake of Saw and gearing up to chop off a limb.”

Dramatic fellow, isn’t he? Perhaps I should scour the kitchen for a weapon? Sledgehammer? A butcher knife? No, too messy. Then again, I’m no longer at the inn, so it wouldn’t be my problem.

I spear him with a squinty-eyed stare. “Fine.” I clench and release my fists a few times. At this point, I’d say the chances of me getting chopped up into little pieces is about 60/40. “Uh, where’s the key?”

“On the floor.” Jake tips his head to the left of the bed. “There, by the nightstand. I kicked it off by accident when I was trying to get loose. Just grab it, and hand it over.”

Yeah. That sounds simple. Not. I edge closer to the spot he indicated, but the key isn’t immediately visible, so I drop to my hands and knees and scrounge around. Finally, a glint of steel. It’s tiny.

I pick it up and slowly stand, using those few seconds to collect myself.

My heart thuds in my ears as I approach the head of the bed, the thin key pinched so tight between my thumb and forefinger that I’ll probably be left with a permanent indentation.

Once there, I lean over, bending at my waist. Then, my hips. But even fully stretched out, my fingers only brush Jake’s biceps. He’s cuffed to the headboard’s center post.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip. “Uh. I need to come closer.”

Somehow, he’s able to shrug lying down. “By all means.”

I prop one knee on the mattress and strain for his hands. As soon as I drop the key into his fingers, I’m scrambling off the bed.

He fumbles with it, trying and failing to get it into the keyhole. He drops it. “Fuck.”

Green eyes beseech. “Amelia, my hands are all cramped up. I can barely feel my fingers. Can you…?”

Is he seriously asking me to do this?

And do I dare?

I eye him again. Might as well, what’s another rash decision in a series of them? That way I can look back on today and collectively write it off, rather than singling out moments for eternal self-reproach. I’m all for streamlining my stupidity. Besides, if I’m embracing this whole new “Era of Amelia”— where I take control of my destiny, outcomes be damned—means this choice lands me dead in a ditch, so be it. Perhaps we’ll refer to this move as “brave” or “brazen.”

It’s decidedly more dignified than “bloody-hell-what-were-you-thinking.”

Armed with this new life motto, I gulp down my nerves, and climb back on the bed again, strangely vulnerable in my bare feet as I inch forward to reach for the key, somewhere between his hands.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a leap into the abyss if I’d had more experience. But given that I’d only ever been with Ben, this is uncharted territory. How difficult could it be, though? Women do this all the time, don’t they? Well, some women, I suppose.

Just mount the hot, sexy bloke already. It’s like riding a horse. Except, I’ve never actually ridden a horse. Or a motorcycle. Or a llama, come to think of it. And when I last checked, none of those had that smoldering green gaze and abs that could double as a washboard.

I shut my eyes and go for it. I sling one leg over his torso to straddle him. The combination of warm skin and hard muscle underneath me is a shock. He’s so broad, I feel the stretch in my thighs as I hover above him. There’s the slightest tremble—one not entirely due to the strain.

I scoot upward, my knees on either side of his ribs, and lean forward, attempting to keep as respectable a distance between us as possible, all while trying not to dislodge the cheeky bit of pink fluff that’s made a home on his right nipple.

A heady blend of cedar and musk wraps around me, sending a jolt of awareness that hits like a double-decker bus, conjuring images of brawny Scotsmen tossing cabers at Highland games, kilts swirling in the brisk mountain air. I flush at the thought, and hope he remains oblivious.

My eyes slide down, just a smidge, only to crash into his. His nostrils flare. I swallow past the knot in my throat, struggling to ignore the simmering tension.

Amelia, pull yourself together.

What kind of horrid woman gets all hot and bothered over a stranger in restraints?

Yet, here I am, reevaluating my already dubious life choices because it seems the only way I can snag a beau is if he’s literally bound before me.

It’s mad.

The whole situation is mad. Mad that I’m perched here, with a huge hulk of man under me. And he is a huge, hulking bit of man.

“How does one even get themselves into this type of predicament?” I mutter, still reeling at this display of questionable decision-making skills.

The question’s more for me, but Jake answers. “What can I say? I like it when a powerful woman takes control.”

A zing zaps up my spine. Control? Me? I’m about as in control as a kite in a hurricane. The idea that I could tie someone up is laughable.

“How lovely for you.” I mean, how else does one respond?

The inside of my knee brushes his forearm. I brace a hand beside his temple. I’m practically sitting on his face. Bollocks. What’s he thinking? What do I smell like? I’m probably rank and reek of Flight BA1516.

He clears his throat. But I focus my attention above his head, looking for the key he dropped, desperately trying to ignore the heat radiating off his body.

My breasts sway over him because I’m the silly woman who took off her bra in the loo. Then again, I didn’t think I’d be in a face-to-chest situation tonight. His breath snakes up my skin, warm and with a hint of tequila. The good kind.

My nipples pebble. He can tell. Or maybe not? I’m not exactly busty (though not from lack of trying). I did the whole “I must, I must, I must increase my bust” chicken dance with the rest of the girls in fourth form.

I spot the key, lodged between his well-defined forearms, lightly dusted with hair. His hands are large, with slight calluses on his fingers, their nails clipped neat and tidy. The hefty watch below the left cuff looks almost ironic in its current place.

“So, you just arrived, you said?”

“Hmm?” I grab the key and wedge the bit of steel into the metal slot.

“First time in New York?” His words vibrate against the inside of my knees.

“Yes. You?” I manage, voice an octave higher than normal.

“Lived here my entire life,” he replies. “Now your turn.”

“What about me?”

“Far from home?”

“Not far enough,” I mutter. But before he can query me further, I add, “Shh…let me work.”

But the silence is worse. It makes me conscious of every straining muscle, every tightening cord. “Umm… So, is this a nice neighborhood?” I want to slap myself.

The chest beneath me rumbles, and I have to clutch at Jake’s shoulders to keep my balance, my legs inadvertently clenching around him. The cheeky sod is laughing. Arse. I shoot him a glare, but he grins up at me.

“Nice enough. At least I thought so until tonight. There are better.”

“Times Square?” I venture.

Jake snorts. “Nope. Not unless you have an Elmo fetish.”

I shake my head, biting back a laugh. Leaning in close to get a closer look at the handcuffs, something tickles my arm—a bit of stray pink fuzz from the cuffs. I jolt, and the key almost slips from my grasp.

In a clumsy ballet, I thrust a hand out, barely managing to keep our faces from crashing together. Our foreheads are nearly touching, his lips an inch from mine. They part slightly. The heat in his eyes sends my pulse skipping. I vault upright again before I succumb to some foolish notion. Like kissing him.

“Sorry. Bad balance,” I mumble, resolutely keeping my gaze off him. He totally knows what I was thinking. Oh, if only the ground would swallow me up. Right this very moment. Please.

“You okay over there?”

“Yes. Fine. Absolutely.” I chirp, my voice about as steady as a three-legged table. I go back to the handcuffs, finally getting the key in the lock and giving it a twist.

It jams; I tug. Bollocks. It’s stuck.

Twisting harder, my legs instinctively squeeze him. He inhales sharply, his ribs rising beneath me, nearly toppling me again.

I’m about to leap off when his hand finds my wrist and encircles it. A smart woman would scream bloody murder.

It’s official. I am not smart.

Not that his grip is threatening. Quite the opposite—oddly comforting, in fact, sending an unexpected warmth spiraling through me. I find myself leaning inexplicably closer. Goodness, I must be truly starved for affection to seek solace in a man shackled to my bed.

After a reassuring squeeze, he releases me. “Hey. It’s cool. Just try again,” he murmurs, his voice deep, soothing. I swallow past the knot in my throat and respond with a tiny nod.

On my next attempt, there’s the blessed click of the catch releasing. One of the rings pops open. I carefully draw it off his wrist, wincing as chafed, scratched skin is revealed. I hurriedly unlock his other hand.

The moment he’s free, I leap off him and watch as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and rises in one fluid motion, nothing suggesting that he’d been supine for hours. He’s enormous, far more imposing than I’d anticipated. What in the name of sinful temptations possessed me to release him?

He pivots, giving me his back, but not before I catch another glimpse of his front and a healthy dose of tight, perfectly sculpted arse.

He snatches a pair of underpants and his jeans off the ground and dashes outside for the loo, tossing a “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back” over his shoulder.

Logic dictates I run, sprint for safety with Olympic-level speed. But, oh no, not me. I'm rooted to the spot, utterly bewitched by a man who's as magnetic as he might be mad.

It's as if my sense of self-preservation went on holiday, leaving me to stew in a simmering cauldron of what will surely be scorching regret.