“Well?” he asks.

“Where did the scars come from?”

“I was stabbed.” He doesn’t ponder on whether he’s going to answer me; he just comes right out and says it.

“Did you nearly die?”

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

I let my hands fall from his shoulders and find the scars again, one, two, three of them. They feel jagged and terrible under my fingers. “What happened to the person who did this to you?” I almost don’t want to ask. Mystery Man’s been unnervingly candid since we began this bizarre interaction five minutes ago, and I’m afraid his answer will finally put the fear of God into me.

“He got what was coming to him,” he says softly. The bed sheets rustle when he moves, his stomach muscles contracting under my hands; when he touches my hair, tangling his fingers into it, I’m still trying to decide whether he means he killed whoever did that to him.

“I’m very particular about what I want. You need to do what I ask you without question and this will go nicely for both of us, okay?” he breathes.

A shot of adrenaline finally lights up my nerve endings—the appropriate reaction to my situation. What the hell have I gotten myself into here? Valium or no Valium, I know that sounded like a threat. I’m in way over my head, but there’s little I can do about it. Besides, Alexis. Always Alexis. “I can do that,” I whisper.

“Good. Lie on your back.”

I let go of him and suddenly I feel like I’m afloat in the middle of an ocean, drowning, with no way of saving myself. The sensible, smart part of my brain that still clings onto a vague sense of self-preservation is screaming that I should probably get the hell out of here, and for the first time the wrath of Eli almost isn’t enough to keep me pinned to the bed. But the thought of finding Alexis is. My muscles are jumping, ready to explode into action, when the guy gently takes hold of my right ankle.

“Did you touch yourself today?”

What the?! “Do…do you mean—”

“Have you made yourself come today? Have you played with your pussy?”

My cheeks heat up to an uncomfortable temperature. No one has ever asked me that before. “No. No, I—I haven’t,” I stammer.

“Good. Then you’ll taste so much sweeter.” Instead of hooking his fingers under the waistband of my panties and pulling them down, he draws them to one side. My legs lock up when I feel his hot breath skimming over my exposed flesh. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with my hands. This is untrodden ground for me in a very big way. When a guy gives you head, it’s usually because he’s done something very, very bad and needs to make up for it, or at least that’s what Pippa, my only friend in the world, says. I’ve never had a boyfriend to treat me badly in the first place, so I’ve never experienced it myself.

“Do you want me to lick you?” His voice is even deeper now, laden with the promise of sex.

“I want whatever you want,” I gasp. That’s what he’s paying for, after all. That’s what’s going to help me get Lex back. He grips me hard around the top of my leg, squeezing until I cry out.

“That’s not the game we’re playing, here. Own me, or I’ll own you. And trust me…you don’t want that.”

Shit. “Y—yes, I want you to lick me.”

He makes a satisfied grunt and immediately moves, pushing his way between my legs. When his tongue darts out and laps at me, my leg muscles tense up. It feels hot and…and good. What the holy hell? I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Embarrassment prickles at my cheeks. What sort of person am I, enjoying a complete stranger giving me head? And under these circumstances? I can’t help it, though. My whole body feels like it’s being caressed.

His tongue moves expertly, applying a subtle pressure to my clit, stroking up and down in a rhythmic pattern that sends wave after wave of heat crashing through me. I’m just letting go, letting the tension in my arms and legs relax, when he stops lapping and sucks.

“Fuck!”

He doesn’t stop. He growls when I push back against him, rocking into his mouth shamelessly. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It feels…incredible. I’m panting and moaning like an animal when he pulls away, running his hands from the very tops of my knees, down the insides of my thighs to my panties. He rips them off in one swift motion.

“How badly do you want me to fuck you?”

I’m not here because I want to fuck him, but it is my job to make him think I do; yet the lines between acting and the truth are so blurred when I murmur, “Really bad. I want you really bad.”

“Spread your legs,” he commands. I spread them, wondering what’s coming next. The room is like a black void, so dark I can’t even make out the shadow of him as he moves quickly around the bed. I hear a zip being undone and then the rattle of metal, like a buckle being undone. Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I wait for him to do whatever he’s about to do, worryingly piqued with curiosity. He restrains my left leg first, strapping something wide and tight around it and then affixing it to the bed. My right leg is next, and then he carefully does the same to my wrists. I’m star-fished on the bed and completely vulnerable. His restraints aren’t the kind for show; they’re the kind made to stop people from getting away, and I’m sure as hell not going anywhere. Six months ago, I might have said a prayer. Now I just whimper, half out of fear and half out of anticipation.