The aroma of coffee woke her up. She blinked, for a moment not remembering where she was. She had fallen asleep on top of Seth’s bed, wearing the clothes he’d given her after she’d taken a shower. Early morning sunlight shone through the window. She blinked and lifted a hand to rub her heavy eyelids, and as memory returned, her stomach turned.

Stacey. Kidnapped. Missing. Dead?

Fear gripped her chest, taking her breath away. Nausea returned. How could she endure this?

Finally, she forced herself to move, focusing on more immediate matters. She had to pee. She rose from the bed, stepped to the door, and opened it. She heard Seth moving around in the kitchen area. Without a word, she turned a right angle and entered the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. Her bra had been removed from the sink and now hung on the shower curtain rod. She stepped to it, touching a cup. It was dry. Had he hung it up after she’d fallen asleep? Heat rushed into her cheeks at the thought of Seth touching her bra, maybe washing it . . . she sniffed the fabric. It smelled of soap. Okay . . . She quickly removed her shirt, settled her bra in place, and then redressed. At least she didn’t have to wear anything over the T-shirt now. She peed, washed her hands, her face, and lifted her head to look into the ancient, scratched mirror. Dark circles were layered under her eyes, and tension in her forehead pulled her eyebrows down. A dull headache started as she stared at herself. Psychosomatic? Probably. Right now, she’d do anything for Xanax, but the relief would only be temporary.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the bathroom and entered the living area of the small cabin. She wouldn’t mention her bra. To her surprise, two steaming mugs of coffee sat on the card table. Seth occupied one of the chairs, once again casual, one arm draped over the back, legs crossed as he stared at her. Despite her efforts, her face flamed with heat. He had to know she’d found her bra. He stared at her chest, prompting a surprising tingle in her nipples, then up at her face. He grinned.

“Sleep well?”

She nodded as she took the empty seat and reached for the mug of coffee he’d made for her and mumbled a soft thank you under her breath. She was raised to be polite, but did she owe anything, any politeness to this man? He was holding her against her will! She should be screaming her head off, fighting him as best she could . . . but maybe after coffee.

She wrapped her hands around the mug and lifted it to her lips, hands trembling slightly. Leftover adrenaline? Or anxiety about what was going to happen next? She took a sip and relished the sensation of the hot, bitter liquid warming her throat and then her stomach. She glanced nervously at Seth, who continued to watch her, expressionless.

“Hungry?” he asked. “I can make some scrambled eggs.”

How oddly domestic. “I want to go home.”

He nodded. “I’m sure you do, but I talked to Levi this morning . . .”

She had slept so heavily she hadn’t heard him leave the cabin? Dammit! She could have escaped! “And?” she asked, sipping coffee.

“To be honest, he’s a bit suspicious.”

The mug froze in front of her mouth, steam warming her lips. “Why?” she blurted.

“Because you’re not really coming across as a victim—”

The mug thumped down onto the card table, a bit of coffee sloshing over the edge, scalding her fingers. She wiped her hand on his sweatpants, not caring if she stained them. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped. “How do you expect me to act?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, but continued, her ire and frustration growing. “How dare you! I was kidnapped by a motorcycle gang! You’re the one who found me. With my hands bound, remember? With a gag over my mouth. What do you mean, I’m not coming across as a victim?” Her heart pounded as anger surged through her.

He let her rant, sipping coffee calmly as if nothing untoward was happening. Finally, he spoke. “At any rate, he’s not sure he wants to let you go.”

“He’s not sure? I want to go home!”

“He’s thinking, and I happen to agree, that if we let you go, the Jokers might just nab you again.”

She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t tell him that that’s exactly what she hoped, but only because she needed to find her sister. Every hour that went by, every day that went by, her sister was getting further away from her. Frustration overran her, and she fought back tears. She was damned if she’d let him see her cry. And then even that failed. Her vision blurred, warm tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sat there, hands balled into fists in her lap, shoulders shaking. She wanted to go home. She wanted to find Stacey safe and sound. She wanted things to go back to the way they used to be. She wanted . . .

She felt a hand on her shoulder, a firm, strong hand. Startled, she stood so abruptly the chair fell over, but before she could rectify that, she felt herself pulled forward, into his hard, strong frame. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, one hand gently pressing her face into the middle of his chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart, felt his warmth, his rock-hard muscles . . . shocked, she nevertheless responded, wrapping her own arms around his waist, every emotion, every iota of fear, every bit of anxiety she felt bubbling upward as she sobbed.

Oh, God. She finally came to her senses and tried to pull from his grasp. He didn’t let her go. She didn’t fight the comforting embrace. And that’s what it was. Comforting. Not threatening, not forceful . . . just . . . comforting. A surge of relief, desperation, and horror swept through her. Here she was allowing this stranger, this man who wouldn’t let her go find her sister, to hold her tightly against him. She felt the hard contours of his body against hers. She should be frightened. She should be disgusted. She should fight.

She didn’t.

He hesitated for just an instant, and a myriad of emotions raced through her. She’d never thought . . . how could she be reacting like this? All she could think of were his bulging biceps, that solid chest, his scent . . . a soapy scent combined with hints of . . . of motorcycle grease . . . a slight tinge of gasoline . . . and his own T-shirt, his scent invading her senses, prompting thoughts of . . . she looked up at him with confusion. The look in his eyes . . . pupils dilated but a frown of consternation on his own brow, his slight frown. Her gaze moved to his mouth, his full lips, the stubble of a day-old beard darkening his cheeks and jaw line. What would that feel like? That stubble rubbing against the soft, tender skin of her cheek—

He shifted again, one arm wrapped gently around her back, the palm of his other hand now shifting, moving forward, coming to rest just below her left breast. Pressed up against his length, she felt every curve, every dip, every muscle . . . her hips pressed closer into his, and her body erupted as if she stood in front of a volcano. Heat enveloped every inch of her body, thrumming with a startling and powerful sense of desire. Was this just adrenaline too? Was this the aftereffect of desperate fear? One gentle gesture, even from a stranger, was enough to block common sense?

She burned with sensations. She looked into his eyes but had no idea what he was thinking . . . all she knew that his pupils were dilated, his mouth hung slightly open, and the pulse in his throat throbbed. Then, he grinned. Not evil or malicious, but a soft, kind grin, one that invited comfort and compassion. Confusion reigned. He was a biker. Bikers weren’t kind. They weren’t compassionate. They didn’t care—

She should protest. She should knee him in the balls. She should wipe that grin off his face . . . but she wanted to kiss him. Suddenly. Those sensuous lips, that look in his eyes . . . She tried to mentally shake the scandalous thoughts from her head but she stood, her body pressed against his, relishing the strength of every ripple of muscle. Her hips betrayed her and pressed harder against the growing bulge in his pants. She felt the hard length of his cock against her hip and upper thigh. She should be ashamed of herself. She should be shocked and appalled, but instead her hands reached for his shoulders. Strong shoulders. Hot . . . her hand jerked away as if she’d been scalded on a stove, but his hand reached up and grabbed it, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. Liquid heat formed deep in her belly, desire getting the best of her, the physical need overcoming the mental protest.

The next second, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom. She should stop this. Now. He lowered her to the bed and hovered over her, straddling her as he lowered his face to hers and gently brushed his lips against hers. Several seconds later, his tongue tracing around the outline of her lips, he prodded her to open her mouth. She acquiesced, allowing his warm tongue to invade her mouth. Her breasts pressed against his chest as his tongue teased hers, circling, suckling, dipping deep and then out, nibbling at her lower lip. As if they belonged to someone else, she watched as her own hands lifted and pulled at the bottom edge of his T-shirt, guiding it upward, pulling it over his head. She stared at his naked, broad chest, her breath coming in sharp gasps now. She pulled him closer, wanting to feel his hot flesh against hers, her hard nipples pressing into that firm chest of his.

Shameless, she let herself go. Surrendered to the sensations rushing through her. For the moment, no fear, no worries. Just sensation. Purely physical. God, she needed a release. His mouth found her nipples through her T-shirt, and she moaned. His hands shoved the T-shirt up around the base of her neck, then followed suit with her bra. She hissed as his lips found her nipple and sucked. He made a low, throaty sound, and she couldn’t prevent the moan that escaped from her own throat. Her hands were everywhere, stroking his back, sliding down along his narrow hips, stroking the long, hard length of his erection through his jeans.

“Touch me,” she murmured. He did, but not before he unzipped his pants and freed his dick, long and hard and throbbing and engorged, reddish-purple with desire. She reached for the waistband of the sweatpants and easily slid them down. They lay belly to belly, their hands exploring, his leaving a trail of heat behind. His thumb stroked a nipple. Her hand cupped his hard balls. His fingers squeezed and twirled her nipples, and she grabbed the silky length of his cock and stroked, faster and harder. She lifted her chest, inviting him to suckle her nipples, and he obliged. Her hips ground against his, her hand trapped between them as she gently yet firmly stroked his shaft.

His hands strayed to her pussy, stroking, his fingers spreading her lips and dipping inside, soon slick with her moisture. Hot liquid oozed from the tip of his cock, and he gasped and threw his head back. Together, they used their hands and fingers and lips to propel them both onward, no hesitance, nothing but feeling and sensations. She felt his abdominal muscles clench and marveled that his cock could grow even harder. She stroked. He thrust his fingers deep inside her while his thumb massaged, twirling over her clit, making her hips rock upward, harder and faster.

“Nikki . . .”

The only sound in the room now was their harsh breathing. Their skin slick with sweat and her heart pounding with desire. She felt herself losing control, something that had never happened to her before. She was always in control, even during sex. But not now, not when she felt her internal muscles throbbing in a unique rhythm, pulsing, begging for release. She tipped over the edge, the contractions filling her with white-hot pleasure, her mouth open, crying out in ecstasy as she continued to pump his dick. Moments later, he allowed himself relief and he came, his seed spurting hot and sticky onto her belly and slowly dripping sideways along her waist. She disappeared into the sensations of the moment, her heart pounding, her pulse racing, her body thrumming with her climax.

By the time the waves of her orgasm ended, both of them covered in sweat, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, his chest heaving in time with hers. They both lay that way for several moments, her ears buzzing, her body alive and sensitive to the feel of his arm pressed against her side. Then she opened her eyes and found herself staring up at the ceiling. She remembered where she was. She remembered why she was here. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. She had never experienced anything like it. He’d taken her on a journey that left her speechless, and he hadn’t even been inside her. What would that feel like? How much greater pleasure would she feel when—

No. She froze, her body heat ebbing as a cold sensation replaced it. She turned toward him, saw him staring up at the ceiling as well, refusing to look at her. What was he thinking? The same thoughts as she? That this had been a huge mistake, the result of . . . of what? Shame flooded through her even as she told herself she was human. That Seth had showed her kindness, and compassion . . . but how could she? How could she have allowed her captor her body like this? If he’d wanted to truly fuck her, she would have let him. What the hell was the matter with her? Why—

He shifted on the bed, turning sideways, head resting against his hand, elbow crooked against the bed. He watched her for several moments, a slight frown marring his brow. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She turned to him and met his gaze. What did she see there? Tenderness or regret? Was she okay? She didn’t know. How to respond to that question? She looked at the ceiling and felt a myriad of emotions. Regret coupled with . . . with what? Appreciation? Was what they had done normal? Or was she just a shameless slut—

“I took advantage—”

“No,” she said. “I allowed it.” She turned to look at him again. “Believe me when I say that if I . . . if I had truly objected, your dick would have been ripped off and tossed into the corner of the room.”

For some reason, her words provoked a chuckle. He was even more handsome when he smiled. That simple smile, that flash of teeth . . . it changed him. Her heart skipped a beat. No, this couldn’t happen. She couldn’t grow fond of her captor. She was no Stockholm victim. She was Nikki . . . she needed to focus. To find her sister.

“This won’t happen again,” she said, her voice soft and firm.

He sighed as he sat up and turned to look down at her over his shoulder. “Don’t count on it.”