Conscience - Cecilia London Page 0,33

request otherwise.”

“I just might,” she said. “Maybe even tonight.”

“Good girls deserve only the best,” Jack murmured. He started kissing his way down her body, reaching the apex of her thighs. “Especially the ones who agree to marry me.”

She sank back into the pillow. “Contain yourself, darling. The girls might still be awake.”

He pulled his head up. “I like when you call me that. You haven’t done it in a while.”

Caroline frowned at him. “I said it with the understanding that you were going to get me off with that tongue trick you have.”

“I can use my tongue.” He slid a finger inside her. “Or I can use my hand. I know which option you prefer.”

Jack loved it when her breath was hot and heavy in his ear as she begged him for more. More friction, more fingers, more everything. And he was always happy to oblige.

“You have big hands,” she whispered.

He pressed two fingers inside her. “You like them.”

“I-” She moaned softly. “Please don’t stop.”

He started stroking her clit with his thumb. “I’m never going to stop. You like it too damn much.”

Caroline writhed against him, whispering his name against her lips when he weaved his fingers through her hair and tugged. She wrapped one arm around his shoulders and he leaned in for a deep kiss to muffle her cries as he finally pushed her over the edge. He pulled away slowly, sweeping her hair out of her face.

She embraced him again, curling up against his chest. “I love you.”

“I know.” He massaged her still trembling thighs. “Can we have sex now?”

Poor guy. It had been a long month. Caroline rolled over on her back and dutifully spread her legs. “Absolutely.”

Chapter Nine

The Fed

Her face was wet. Why was her face wet?

Caroline opened her eyes. She’d been crying. And she was on the floor. The cold concrete floor.

Oh, fuck them. Fuck them so hard.

She pushed herself up. Every movement was agonizing. Jesus, had they beaten the crap out of her after they’d knocked her out? Maybe just tossed her in her cell like a bag of potatoes? Anything was possible.

She was momentarily distracted by the image of them trying to carry or even drag her down the hall. Even if she'd lost weight, she was deceptively built and anything but dainty. Did the FBI agents do it, or was Fischer assigned that unfortunate task? Hopefully he threw his back out in the process. Too bad she hadn’t witnessed it.

The lights were off. Of course. She tentatively reached out, fearful of any creepy crawlies she might find. She’d die on the spot if there were rats or bugs skittering all over the place. She trailed her fingers along the floor, finding the metal bed frame. At least now she had a rough idea of where she was.

She crawled onto the bare mattress. No pillow. Not anymore. If she kept messing around with them she’d probably end up sleeping on the floor every night. Could she call it sleeping when the method of putting her to bed consisted of being knocked unconscious?

She wiped the tears from her eyes. She had to stop dreaming about them. About him. About the way it felt when he held her close, when he moved inside her, when he whispered her name and told her how much he loved her. It made the separation that much more agonizing. But she still felt…lighter somehow. The memories made her happy. Blissfully happy.

Maybe thinking about him wasn’t the worst idea. Especially when faced with the alternative. She tried not to remember the scowl on Bradbury’s face right before he kicked her in the head. Although maybe she should. Focus on the details. On every agent and guard she encountered. Their expressions, their tics, their identifying characteristics. Because when she got out of here, she was going to make sure that someone knew who the hell they were.

You think you’re getting out? Really?

Caroline shook her head. Pollyanna was at war with the forces of reality. And she didn’t like it. Maybe she could think of something positive instead.

They’re not going to kill you. They’re just going to do unspeakably horrible things to you.

Oh yeah. That train of thought was much better. Sometimes she wished her inner monologue would shut the fuck up.

She was lucky Bradbury hadn’t accidentally killed her with that blow to the temple. She knew how shit worked. A kid could die instantly getting nailed by an errant pitch at a baseball game. She’d heard about something like that

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