Page 7 of The Wrong Monster

He’s caught me watching him, or at least caught the far-away look I know I get when I’m working out a problem.

I tilt my head.

“You’ve been remarkably calm for someone who’s just realized he handcuffed the wrong woman.”

His laugh is quiet.

“And you’ve been remarkably calm for someone who’s handcuffed.”

“I adapt quickly.”

“I noticed.”

“And you left one hand free.”

A beat of silence stretches between us. It’s as if he’s waiting to see what my next move is. Will I attack him? Will I try to snap my thumb and make a run for it? Will I beg?

He’s waiting as though he’s decided the next move is mine.

Fine.

I like making moves.

Before my sensible brain can file an objection, I lean forward, catch the front of his shirt with my free hand, and pull him down just enough to kiss him.

It’s not as hard and fast as the first few times that instinct ignited. No, this is more intentional, and surprisingly easy. It’s as if we’ve done this dozens of times before.

His arm comes around my waist, circling and holding me close. My hips slot against his thighs, every sensation narrowing down to the recognition of how hard he still is, a throbbing pulse that’s mine if I want it.

He makes a small noise against my mouth, and that’s when I realize I have the upper hand.

I caught him off guard.

Grinning against his lips, my tongue darts out before I push forward, making him take two steps back and straining the metal around my wrist. It’ll be bruised tomorrow; good thing I’m not going straight into work.

With a grunt, he pulls away. The look in his eyes is one of challenge.

“So you want to be in charge?” he asks gruffly.

Instead of answering, I just raise an eyebrow, mirroring his smirk from earlier. His eyes dart down to my bare breasts and before I can react, he’s on his knees again.

That’s twice this man I don’t even know has knelt for me.

He buries his face in my tits, licking and sucking at the undersides until I’m gasping and clutching the back of his head with my free hand. In seconds he’s pulling down my pants and then peeling the thong down my legs as well.

Shower—

It crosses my mind briefly. But then he presses me back by my hips until I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, grips hard, lifts, and tosses me back a foot like I weigh nothing.

The chain on the handcuff rattles. One look tells me that it’s slightly longer than “real” handcuffs. But it doesn’t take away the edge of rebellion or the tantalizing feeling of being restrained.

“Spread your legs.”

It’s a command. I stare at him, knees together, feet on the mattress, completely nude in front of this stranger who is still clothed.

“Strip first.”

His eyes narrow.