My life is split into two realities. Before Code. And after him.
The first time I saw him, he walked into my father’s bank with the strut of a man who knows exactly what he wants. I saw in him a fearlessness that I desperately wanted, needed, craved as much as my next breath.
Because I was watching him, I knew immediately when he pulled out a gun, aimed it at the ceiling, and fired three shots.
And that is the way I mark my life—before that moment and after it. Before, when I tried to be agreeable, tried to be admired, tried to be pretty, tried to make sure everyone liked me. Tried to shake myself of shame. And after, when all of that fell away. When I just didn’t care anymore.
Before Code. And after him.
I didn’t know then what he would be to me. I didn’t know how he would transform the fabric of my existence. I didn’t know he would move me, reshape me, mold me into someone else, someone I wanted to be.
Afterwards, he would become my lover, my savior, my hope, and my strength.
But, before that, he was my hostage-taker.
I moan against his mouth because Code is just so much. He’s so much of everything—so big, strong, hard, and demanding. His mouth is devouring mine, his lips moving urgently, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth.
I open to him—not just because I know it’s the smartest strategy but because I want to. I want to feel even more of him.
He pushes forward with his weight until I’m on my back on the box, which is kind of uncomfortable and unstable but it only sends the spiraling excitement clouding my mind even higher. I clutch at his broad shoulders and try to hang on.
“Fuck,” he grits out, tearing his mouth away from mine. “What the hell…”
He doesn’t finish the question, and I don’t know what he was really asking. Was he wondering why he was so turned on, when he was being chased on all sides with only a hostage for cover? Or was he wondering why I was turned on, when I should be trying to rip out his throat?
His blue eyes are like fire, and they rake over my face and then lower to my breasts, which feel like they’re straining in my bra, my hard nipples clearly visible through thin fabric of my bra and top. “You are so fucking hot,” he mutters, his eyes moving back up to my face.
He seems to be holding back for some reason—or maybe just taking his time. Either way, I don’t want him to have time to think things through or second-guess himself. I want him to let his cock take control so his mind gets completely turned off.
I’ve seen it happen to guys over and over again. They’re really not that hard to manipulate if they’re suffering from a raging hard-on.
So I arch my back enough to display my breasts better, my breath coming out in fast, little pants. I tell myself it’s part of the strategy, but it’s really not. My whole body is flaming, flushed, embarrassingly aroused. I’ve never felt this way before in my life. Not once.
“What are you…what are you doing?” I asked, making my voice throaty and just a little helpless. It’s not hard to fake. At all.
“Don’t act all innocent. You know exactly what I’m doing. It’s what you want too.” He runs one hand over my breasts, feeling the curve of them, the tightened nipples through my top.
N.S. Moore has been writing for years, and she loves romance of all varieties—from sweet to very dark. Her first book, Hostage, is a sexy New Adult contemporary romance about two people who find each other in very unlikely circumstances but discover they’re exactly what the other needs.
When she’s not writing, N.S. Moore likes to read, shop, play tennis, and spend time with her family and her dog. She’s currently working on her next book.
She would love to hear from readers. If you’d like to get in touch with her, you can follow her on Facebook or email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.