Willing Prey By Allie Oleander - 35

When we get home from the auction I make a beeline for the shower, letting the hot water wash the residual ick from my interaction with Keith down the drain. I need to talk it out with Shane and process the ordeal. I feel optimistic until I step into the bedroom and see the hard, blank expression on his face. He’s changed into plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt and is propped up against the headboard.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, trying not to sound as worried as I am.

His eyes roam my body, as if he’s committing me to memory. “We need to talk about tonight. What happened was completely unacceptable.”

What. The. Hell.

My knee-jerk response is to say, Fuck you too , and walk out. But after the last several months with him, I’m learning Shane-speak doesn’t always land right the first time. Or the second. I flick the little bug of insecurity who’s screaming, This is it; you knew it was too good to be true , out of my brain, even though it’s hard. So hard.

Does he think I was going to cheat on him?

I sound too calm, scary calm. “Okay, I need you to keep talking, because right now, I’m freaking out.” Moving to the bed, I sit cross-legged. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth, disgust at the idea of what I’m about to mention. “Do you think I was going to cheat on you with Keith? I wasn’t, I wouldn’t ever, I swear. He grabbed me in this weird hug, and I was trying to get away for real, not get away like a game.”

Panic is trying to creep in, tears lurking in the back of my throat because what if he won’t believe me? Another part of me wants to fling up my hands and storm out, because the idea that Shane would doubt me at all hurts.

Hold it together.

This is where we find out what—if anything—we learned from our post-contract miscommunication. Can Shane spit out his feelings? Can I stay put in the face of potential rejection?

I wait.

“What? No. Never.” The horror on his face seems genuine. “Not for a second. Come here.” He pats the bed beside him, and I crawl closer.

Lying with my head on his chest feels good, and I try to calm my racing heart. I don’t know where this is going, but I feel better discussing it like this.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he bites out. “I did.”

Hold on.

“What did you do?” My brain is sorting through maps, trying to figure out how his traveled to this conclusion, because it makes no sense.

“I let you go off alone, I didn’t find you quickly enough, and after all of it, I let him leave on his own two feet, not inside a body bag.” He ticks off his perceived wrongdoings on his fingers. “I’m supposed to protect you; that’s my job. What kind of a man am I if I let some asshole get you alone in a room and don’t do anything to him? Margot did more than I did.”

My chest aches as I realize how deep the roots of his guilt grow. Shane still doesn’t share much about his childhood. As bits and pieces have slipped out over the weeks, I’ve put together a murky picture, one I sense doesn’t come close to capturing how cruelly his father tried to shape him into his unhealthy idea of masculinity. It’s Caine who’s given me the most insight, through morbid jokes that ring a little too true, and how tightly he hugged me when he found out that Shane and I were dating with no financial transactions involved.

After releasing me and realizing Shane was out of earshot, he muttered, “I know it seems like he has the emotional range of a rock, but there are a lot of feelings at the center of his doom-and-gloom Tootsie Pop. Since Joel gave him hell if he showed them, Shane buried those suckers deep. Now when they make it to the surface, they’re like feelings zombies. They look almost like the original, but they’re sort of fucked up.”

At the time, I’d felt awkward and uncertain how to respond to the information. Right now, I’m grateful to have it. Pressing up on an arm so I can see Shane’s face, I realize his head is tilted back on the pillow. He’s staring at the ceiling. It’s emo but also endearing.

“First, I go where I want. Unless you put me on a leash, I’m not going to be at your heels twenty-four seven.” My voice is the slightest bit playful.

That makes him look at me.

Knew the leash comment would do it.

“Second, how can you find me if you don’t know I’m missing? Third, I told you not to fight Keith, and I’m glad you listened.” Dragging my fingers across the fabric of his T-shirt, I watch his face. “If you’d hit him, I’d be bailing you out right now, and this is much more fun.”

He scoffs.

“Margot looked like she needed to punch someone,” I continue. “Honestly, she was the best person to do it. He would have sued you or called the cops on Caine.” I almost make a joke that Keith might have gotten turned on if I hit him, but decide it will only make Shane more certain that he should have fought Keith. “And you do protect me.” Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I try not to get emotional. “I’ve been scared that you’d think I went in there with him on purpose, or not trust me when I said I was trying to get away. But you didn’t. It makes me feel safe to know you give me the benefit of the doubt, that you would believe me.”

He swallows, the movement making his Adam’s apple bob. “I will always give you the benefit of the doubt.”

When he turns to look at me, his dark eyes are earnest, making mine watery. “Sometimes I worry you’re going to get tired of waiting for me to get better at being your partner and leave. And I can’t let that happen, because I promise you I am going to be so good at it.”

My heart’s a lump in my throat. “You’re so good at it now.”

“I—”

“Hold on,” I scold, forcing playfulness back into my voice. “I’m not done. Press pause on your brain, and look at what’s happening. You’re talking about your feelings, and things are going pretty well. I think we need to appreciate this moment.”

“I suppose.” A hint of a smile teases the edge of his mouth. “What about you? Don’t you get some credit for not grabbing your tent and hitting the road after I came in a little hot?”

I stretch my arm and awkwardly pat my own back. “Don’t worry, I’m very proud of myself. You said, ‘We need to talk,’ in your business voice and I barely panicked. Though I did wonder if you were going to pull a contract out of the nightstand.” Arching an eyebrow, I stare him down. “Sometimes I think you secretly want one.”

He stares right back, a look in his eyes I can’t identify. “Sometimes I think I do. Just to make sure you can’t run if I scare you.”

My curiosity is piqued. “How would you scare me?”

He ponders. “Do you swear that I don’t need a contract before I admit this?”

“Yes.”

When his eyes narrow, I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s about to test me. Or if maybe he has an unshared kink he wants to explore. Whatever it is, I’m game.

Clearing his throat, he says, “So if I tell you that I love you, you wouldn’t freak out?”

Oh my god. I’m melting, turning into a puddle of a person. “Wouldn’t freak out.”

“What if I told you that I feel ridiculous for ever thinking thirty days with you would be enough? That thirty years won’t be enough? That I know they’re going to go by too fast, and I’ll be asking you for thirty more?”

I can only nod. “That would be okay.”

He crushes me to his chest, talking into the top of my head. “Good.” Words rumble from his chest into mine. “Because I love you. I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.”

My cheeks are wet, my voice watery. “I love you too.”

“Does the magnitude of your love for me terrify you?” His teasing, petulant tone makes me sniffle a laugh.

“Even more than ticks,” I manage.

Rough hands steer my face gently to his. “Good.”

Then his lips are on mine. This kiss is nothing like the one in the conference room; it’s tender and sweet, making my head spin with love instead of lust. Equally satisfying, but in a different way.

A few minutes later, when we’re cuddled in our blissful post-confession moment, Shane stiffens. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

“No more contracts,” I mumble into his chest. “You can’t make me.” His seriousness doesn’t worry me. I’m too cozy to care.

He mutters something under his breath, and I tickle his ribs. “What was that?”

A smirk, and that damn dimple taunts me when I stretch to see his face.

“Nothing. Just that one way or another, I will legally bind you to me.”

Fidgeting with my left hand, he moves my fingers until it looks like I’m shooting him the bird, but with my ring finger. Holy hell. The butterflies in my stomach run wild, roused by the flush of heat spreading through me.

Don’t get carried away.

Literally just said I love you for the first time.

My pussy missed the take it slow memo. She’s ready to put a cock ring on his dick and call it a day. Is monogamy kink a thing? Marriage kink? If so, I think I have it.

Making my voice drier than another, less rational part of my body, I ask, “Is that a threat? It sounds like a threat.”

My head is back on his chest. His laugh jostles me. “More of a promise.”

“Hmmm,” I tease. “If you say so.”

“Focus, please. We need to talk about your torture shorts.” Shane reaches over me to the nightstand and holds up my shapewear. The slippery brown fabric is stained with dried arousal—very gross—and he’s gripping them a bit aggressively.

Torture shorts?

He shakes them. “Do I not tell you enough how gorgeous you are? Why the fuck are you wearing these? Your ass is fantastic, your thighs are incredible—”

Equal parts embarrassed and flattered, I cut him off. “Okay, okay. Thank you. I wear them because they make the dress look smooth, hide cellulite, that kind of thing.”

“Cellulite.” His face is blank.

How did we go from I love you to me explaining what cellulite is?

Thanks to budget cuts, I teach health along with PE, so at least I’m ready with the scientific explanation.

“You know, the dents and textured skin on my thighs and ass? When muscle fibers—”

He waves me away. “I know what it is. Why would you hide it?”

Really?

“Sometimes I feel self-con—”

“Ridiculous. The only reason you should hide it is so that I’m not thinking about licking it.” He’s on another level, but it’s making me smile. “These look painful.”

“They’re fine. Tight but soft. Like a compression sleeve, but for my ass.”

“They offend me.” His grumble tickles my neck. “I was ready to chew through them earlier.”

“Thank you for your restraint.” Controlling myself is the true torture here. I’m shaking with silent laughter. If I encourage this behavior, I’ll never be able to own a piece of shapewear again. And regardless of Shane’s threats of destruction, I plan on continuing to wear it.

“I can’t believe you put these on your body.” It’s the disgust in his voice that bests me. A giggle breaks loose, then it’s a full-on laughter avalanche. I can’t stop. Tears stream down my cheeks, and if my face wasn’t red before, it is now. Feeling Shane’s chest shift against mine as he laughs only intensifies my giggle fit.

“How did we go from I love you to torture shorts?” I ask when I can speak normally.

“First, I had to make sure you know I love you. Then once that was sorted, I needed to make sure you realize how beautiful you are.”

And we’re back to sweet.

Beneath my ear, his heartbeat is steady, even. Mine’s running wild. From laughing and the surge of love I feel for this overthinking, shapewear-hating man. It’s unfair. I can’t be the only one with an elevated heart rate.

Cotton smooths beneath my palm as I ease my hand toward the waistband of his pajama pants. The slightest hitch in his breathing makes me smile.

There we go.

When I reach the meeting of his shirt and pants, I slide my hand under his shirt. His stomach muscles tense beneath my fingertips as I drag them through the soft trail of hair that disappears into his pants.

Temptation is strong, the desire to slip my hand into his pants rushing against the dam of my self-control. Teasing will only make it better, but it’s hard to be patient when I know what’s waiting for me: The heat when I wrap my hand around him. How feeling him stiffen and grow will send that jolt of pride through me. The one that always makes me want to say, Look, look at what I can do to you , as if I’ve cracked some magic code instead of triggering a biological instinct. That first teasing dewdrop of arousal that makes me crave more. I want all of that, and I want it right now.

But I wait, gently running my fingers back and forth along his waistband, enjoying the shiver of his abdomen beneath my touch. His heartbeat is picking up, the steady thump, thump, thump, becoming a thumpthumpthump. That isn’t good enough. I want it racing, my head rising and falling with his chest as he breathes harder and harder. Shifting his hips, he moves enough for the bulge in his pants to become noticeable. There’s a subtlety to the movement, as if he thinks I don’t realize he’s hard, and he’s trying to inform me politely.

Precious.

Another little hip wiggle. It’s the equivalent of his cock giving me a wave. A friendly, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m hard, right here, just saying, flag-down. I ignore it. Back and forth, I trace patterns on his skin, asking inane questions about work and pointless things that neither of us care about. His answers are distracted. Both of us are focused on my fingers, specifically the distance between them and his cock.

Trust me, I want to touch it as much as you want me to.

Tenting his pajama pants, his cock is the elephant in the room. Trying not to think about it means it’s the only thing in my head. Is arousal leaking from the tip yet? A drop ready to be caught by my tongue? I can practically taste him.

There’s a racehorse in his chest now, runaway and unstoppable. Another slight shimmy of his hips.

“Do I need to move?” I ask innocently. “So you can get comfortable? Should we talk about the shorts more?”

“I’m comfortable.” Ground through gritted teeth, his statement isn’t very believable. But clearly, he’s figured out what I’m doing and wants to play too. For the first time since I started this, I reach beneath his waistband, flicking the elastic of his boxer briefs.

“Good.” Another flick of the elastic. “Because I’m very comfortable.”

Lifting the waistband, like I might be sliding my hand beneath, makes his whole body tighten. Whatever this game is, I’m totally winning.

Unable to resist, I steal a peek at his cock.

Damnit.

Looking was a mistake because I don’t just want to look. I want to touch and squeeze and stroke and lick. But I also want to make him suffer. Just the teensiest bit.

“You know, you can touch it if you want to.”

“I will.” I ease the waistband back to his skin, even though part of me is annoyed at depriving myself of the view. “Later, though.”

His incredulous noise, strangled and sputtering, makes me laugh. Again, he tenses beneath me, but this time it isn’t arousal or anticipation. It’s the tight, thrumming tension of a predator poised to strike.

Uh—

Shane rolls us before I get to the oh , pinning me under him.

“No. No later—you started this, you’re going to finish it.” Dark and intense, his gaze is hungry. “Now.”

“Can I pee first?” I blink up at him, trying not to look like I’m planning something.

“I suppose.” He rolls onto his side, freeing me.

“Thank you,” I say primly. Slipping off the bed, I move like I’m heading to the bathroom. Once I’m out of easy grabbing distance, I turn to look at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you fuck me.”

Amusement crosses his face. “Thank you, I think?”

I whirl and bolt for the bedroom door.

“Damnit, Claire,” Shane barks from the bed. The sound of his feet hitting the hardwood floor sends a rush of delight skittering through my bones.

“If you can catch me,” I shriek over my shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time. Racing through the foyer and out the front door, I’m focused on the tree line on the far side of the lawn. Damp grass clings to the soles of my feet, the night air cool on my face. Behind me, I hear Shane closing in. Ahead, the forest waits, darkness stretching between the trees. Shane’s breath is at my back. I cross the tree line as he lunges for me. Predators wait in the void, occupying the spaces moonlight can’t reach. In the heartbeat before the hunt turns into the fight, one thought fills my mind:

There better be room for two more.