Luke was horrible at doing nothing.

If there was one thing about prison, even a prison as nice as a mansion with private rooms, it was that enforced idleness left one with nothing to do but exercise. There were no weights, no treadmills, no fancy machines, but there were push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks—even if the ceilings were a bit low for that—and the room with the ceiling fan was a different matter entirely. In a pinch, he could do a chin up on the lintel between rooms, but only by holding on with his fingertips. Lately he’d found himself embracing that challenge more and more, liking the sheer physicality of it.

Still, it was better than nothing. When they took him, someone had to go his place and grab his things. It was a small amount to be sure, the place was a cover address and he hadn’t taken all that much clothing with him, but the sweats were essential. He suspected they hadn’t done it to make things easier for him. They were simply trying to make it look like he’d moved on, should anyone miss him. He figured he should be thankful they hadn’t tossed his clothes outright, not that he’d owned much worth saving.

He couldn’t jog, though he’d tried to get them to let him go running, promising to return right away, but that hadn’t gone over very well. He was stuck with what he could accomplish in the room. He’d tried to work out in the front part of the room, the ‘sitting area’, but between the ceiling fan and the position of the furniture it was easier to work out in the broad space between the bed and the window.

He pushed through another set of push-ups. Damn Randy. He was more interested in getting Benny Bianchi behind bars than pulling his so-called friend out of the fire.

He took his anger and frustration out on the carpet. He’d started with crunches and moved on to push-ups. He’d slacked off the calisthenics for too long, but the days of confinement had allowed him the chance to build up, albeit slowly. Today, in his anger and frustration, he pushed past the 90 mark and finally stopped, gasping and groaning at one hundred. His stomach hurt. It hurt a lot. He wondered if he’d pulled something, and determined that he didn’t really care.

Then there was dinner. Rather, there was the absence of dinner. Not being allowed to leave the room his food was brought to him on a tray, with little domes over the plates. Dinner today was a dirty plate, an empty coffee cup, and a glass filled with a foul-smelling liquid he didn’t want to investigate further. Samuel had brought him the tray with a menacing grin. So he wasn’t allowed food. Or Samuel had eaten it instead. It could have been worse. He might have tried serving up poison. Or something tainted with the intent of making him foully sick.

This at least was straightforward, even if cruel.

He’d flushed the liquid and placed the tray at the door. In the meantime, he drank his fill from the bathroom sink and worked on another round of push-ups instead. If his outrage at Randy prompted him to exceed his former limit of crunches, then thoughts of Dani fueled his push-ups to new levels. The way she’d behaved when he tried to pull her to one side, the way she’d clawed and fought him. She was a pain in the ass.

But worse—that damn red dress. She had to have known the effect that dress would have, not only on him but on the entire cadre of bully-boys who lined up to gawk and stare and drool. She had great legs, a good figure, and that... thing left nothing to the imagination. Whether she realized it or not, it had had an effect on him too, a nasty one, making it impossible for him to concentrate on getting them the hell out of here.

He slammed out the first ten pushups before he realized he’d done them. He’d tried to tell her that they were being monitored, that he needed the damned stick, that they might be able to break free. But he needed that stick and she didn’t seem to get the importance of that. And in the meantime, he couldn’t even leave the room like an adult, and she’d put her knee in his balls for his trouble.

Screw her. And damn himself for stashing the stick. Did Bennie’s crew even know it existed? Dani’s brother sure did. That idiot had to know. Shit! What the hell had he done? He’d hidden the stick and now he had to get it. Who could he trust to go and grab it? Unfortunately, there was no one. Dani was the closest thing he had to an ally right now, and he had to admit he couldn’t even trust her right now.

He pushed through another thirty push-ups. His anger carrying him through, his frustration making him ignore his fatigued muscles. Now the bunch of bozos knew he could fight. He’d taken out Samuel. It was a ticking time bomb before the idiot got him back or they ganged up on him. Luke didn’t know if he was the toughest or the wimpiest guy in the group, but Samuel was the one sent to guard him. He’d hit the dumbass hard, hopefully giving the man a concussion. Now they were extra careful around him, two guards if he left his room, none of them close enough to reach, but not too far to shoot him if he ran. And they liked to carry their freakin’ pistols.

He’d worked up a good sweat by now, fueled by anger and rage, when he heard a voice behind him. He leapt to his feet, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

Dani. Same dress. This time, the hem that was scandalously short was riding on her cocked hip as she leaned on the doorjamb, and the high-heeled shoes so casually dangling from her fingers gave her the look of a walk-of-shame. She was sex incarnate, lust made flesh. Her long, lean legs and trim waist and the way she smiled all ran from his eyes to his waist and then further down. Why couldn’t the woman just wear a pair of jeans? He had a feeling they’d be hot on her as well.

“What are you doing here?” He snarled the words, hating her for being there. Hating her for looking at him that way. Hating himself for responding. It was no use. In his jeans he could pretend the dress meant nothing to him. In sweat pants, the truth was more evident.

“I can tell you’re happy I’m here,” she said, her smile pure evil and mischief.

It was no use pretending he didn’t want her. Or she him. All that was left was to close the distance and do something about it. In two steps he had her in his arms, pressing her against him, her mouth meeting his hard enough to mash lips painfully against teeth until they found the way they fit. A hand found the hem of that dress. In one move he pulled it off over her head.

This whole thing was a bad idea.

She fought back by tearing down the sweatpants.

Definitely a very bad idea.

***

IF THERE HAD BEEN ANY doubt that he wanted her, it was erased in a single movement. In a heartbeat she was naked, in his arms, then on the bed, sprawled beneath him. Somewhere in there, she’d pushed down his pants, groping for him, finding that her own need matched his. There was a certain amount of too many days of pent-up frustration in that touch, and she grabbed a little harder than necessary. He gasped, bending low over her, his mouth capturing a nipple and teasing it with his tongue.

Dani gasped as he bit down. Her back arched and she clung to him, her fingernails leaving deep welts across his shoulders. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough, and suddenly she wanted to experience all of him. She needed to touch, to taste...

Pushing against his chest, she was surprised that he went down so easily; one moment above her, the next sprawled next to her on the bed. It was her turn to rise, forcing his sweatpants further down his legs, freeing him to her view. He swelled beneath her gaze, such utter perfection that she couldn’t resist. She took him into her mouth, her tongue caressing and licking, impatient to experience all of him.

“I’ll help you get out,” she murmured as she freed him more fully from his boxers. She left a kiss on his inner thigh, a lick along the length. “You need to be a little louder—the guard is probably listening.” She swallowed him again and this time he didn’t simply catch his breath; he let out a satisfied moan that could easily be heard through the door. She grabbed his testicles and played with them, pulling the loose skin and running her thumb over it as she placed the tip of his penis into her mouth and let her tongue run over the spongy head, savoring the flavor, thinking that if they weren’t prisoners, if there weren’t armed men who would kill him in an instant if they only knew what he was... if all that wasn’t a thing... this wouldn’t be a bad way to spend an evening.

Regardless of what he thought of her, his body was a pleasure. Touching him left her breathless. Kissing him took her to new heights. She acknowledged it here, that she was fully, irrevocably in love with this man. It was just her luck that he hated her guts.

His body, though... regardless of what was in his heart... right now that belonged to her.

If this is all I get, then so be it.

She took him in deeply and pulled back, letting her teeth rake over him, pulling the skin of the head with her and sucking as hard as she could just before letting him go. He tasted wonderful, the way she remembered. She reveled in the feel of him against teeth and tongue. Hands came around to cup his buttocks, to pull him closer. He moved easily with her, moaning with maybe a little more exuberance than necessary for the sake of the listener at the door. She stifled a laugh, and he made a startled sound. She wondered how that must feel and allowed herself to laugh again, forgetting plans and listeners and everything else as she gave herself fully to this new experiment.

He didn’t give her long to play, pulling out and reaching for her. He slid her across the bed, trapping her legs in his hands. Apparently he thought it was his turn, for he spread her wide and dove between her legs. The shock of his tongue on her sex sent a charge through her. Her squeal was genuine. And loud.

He parted her folds for better access and his tongue shot unerringly to her clit, teasing it and playing with it. All thoughts of anything left her head completely as he returned her gesture by letting his teeth scrape her sex. He nibbled the lips and then shot his tongue, quicksilver, into her hot core.

“How?” His tongue delved into her deeply. Her mind had gone sluggish. The world became a small thing, focused on her sex, on his tongue. She couldn’t track what he was saying, what he meant. She knew it was important somehow, he’d asked her question, but his tongue was in her and he had her bud in his teeth, and she reached down and took his head in her hand, pressing him to her sex.

He spun free as motion was building in her and she remembered it was Luke, Luke, the man she loved, the man she hated... no, that wasn’t right, he hated her. But he was naked and beautiful as he reared up, still throbbing from the exercise. He pulled her legs in the air and opened her to his view, and she reached for him again as he plunged into her hard.

The sensation of being taken, the suddenness of the thrust, the force of it pushed a muted scream from her throat. He buried himself in her, his hand reaching for her throat. She grabbed his hair hard and pulled, the other hand grabbing his skin, somewhere, anywhere, holding on as he pressed into her again and again.

He leaned over, the motion and the power betraying his passion. He could keep cool around her in public, but not here, not now. In bed his passion showed through the façade, each thrust and groan, the stolen kisses between his assault on her sex betrayed his feelings: deep and passionate feelings—for her.

Her body read the signs, her heart raced with his, but her mind shut down. She was there to talk to him, yes, but it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. All that mattered was his length, warm and firm inside of her, stretching her, filling her.

She wrapped her legs around him and began to lift herself against him. He was taking her, she was taking him. She rose, arched and grabbed the blanket, tearing it off the bed and putting it around her until she was cocooned in the softness, his hard body on hers, in hers, the comforter surrounding them both.

He pulled out and spun her around. She lay half on the bed, half off, and his hand came down on her butt cheek with a sharp sting. She felt outrage and a little shock that he’d spanked her, but the warmth of it quickly flooded her senses, and when he entered her again it was fuller, more enticing.

He took her from behind; she writhed on the mattress, pinned by his hands on her hips, skewered by his manhood. He thrust again and again, her climax slowly building; she could feel his sudden throb, the pulse of his building right alongside hers.

She stood, breaking it off, and spun. He looked at her in shock, his penis glistening wet and hard in front of her, and she wrapped a leg around him and pushed. He fell onto the floor and she was on him in a moment, before he could recover.

She straddled him, riding him like a cowgirl. Her breasts bounced as she moved over him, hips rising and falling in an urgent rhythm. He lay beneath her, not passive, rising with her movements. She heard their flesh slap, the soft squelch of liquid arousal that left a pungent odor hanging over the room, intermingling with the smell of sweat, of passion. He groped for her breasts and she grabbed his hands, holding them in hers, and used that leverage to move up and down.

It was bliss, riding him, feeling him fill her as she let her body fall, moaning at the absolute ecstasy of it. All too soon he sat up, still in her, and rolled them both over till they lay facing each other, her leg over his. He moved into her again and they thrust together, against each other, toward each other. He sought her warmth, she rode his hardness.

He drove into her deep and cried out as he came. Her orgasm replied with a shrill shudder that left her shaking, echoing his. She wrapped herself around him and trembled and spasmed, and when she came the guard and the gardener outside, and the neighbors all applauded.

She fell beside him, spent and sated. The blanket slid down, a soft avalanche of down that felt suddenly too cloying, too hot.

Her head fell against his, sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Breathing hard, she whispered, “I have a plan.”