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.
Amazon US
Giveaway
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Excerpt from Hostage
If it were me, I’d
dump the hostage and then make a run for the Mexican border. But I figure maybe
he thinks I’m the only leverage he has if he gets trapped.
Then he grabs me and
pulls me to his side, keeping his arm around me. Maybe to someone else, it
looks like we’re in a romantic clench, but his arm is so hard around my ribs
that it almost hurts.
I know my own
strength, and it’s nothing compared to how strong this guy is. There’s no way
I’m going to be able to pull away from him.
“Walk,” he grits out,
forcing both of us forward.
So we walk that way.
Right along a pleasant, downtown street. Like we’re so in love we can barely
keep our hands off each other.
Or like one of us has
been taken hostage.
It’s all pretty
surreal, when I think about it. Mostly, I’m too scared to do much thinking.
No one seems to be
paying attention to us. I hear a lot of sirens, so I assume help has arrived at
the bank. It would nice if help could arrive for me too.
We turn a corner, and
I see a couple of uniformed police officers walking toward us. I can’t believe
my luck. If I can get their attention, maybe they can shoot this guy and I can
get free.
There’s not much I
can do except say something, so I open my mouth to call for help.
I just start to make
a sound when the guy pushes me back against an SUV parked on the curb and
covers my mouth with his.
It hurts. He moves so
abruptly and so roughly that it hurts when my shoulder blades hit the hard
metal of the car. I can’t even breathe because his mouth is over mine. I can’t
move because his lean, strong body is holding mine trapped.
My heart, my pulse,
my vision is all pulsing with fear, surprise, and helplessness. My body is hot
and cold at the same time. My arms are trapped between our bodies, but I can
use my fingers and I claw at his shirt.
Then suddenly I can
breathe. He’s torn our lips apart, although his face is still directly in front
of mine and his body still pushing into mine. “Little bitch,” he mutters, his
eyes flashing anger. “Don’t even think of doing something like that again.”
I open my mouth, and
I’m not sure if it’s to scream or to snap back a reply. It doesn’t matter
because his mouth has claimed mine again.
It’s not even really
a kiss. It’s hard, punishing. And his hand slides down my bare thigh and pulls
my leg up, like he’s really into the kiss. He’s mad at me, so I can’t imagine
that he really is. He’s probably just putting on a show for the cops, who must
be walking by us right about now.
I’m pretty well
experienced with kisses, but this kiss isn’t anything like I’ve had before. My
stepfather would kiss me when he came to my bed at night. They were always
light and gentle—some sort of brutal mockery of tenderness. Guys always kiss me
before they fuck me—usually kind of sloppy and like they want to get them over
with so they can get to the main course.
I’ve never been
kissed hard and rough and punishing like this.
I don’t like it. At
all. I hate this guy like nothing else for the way he’s treating me.
And I hate him even
more because my body is reacting.
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
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 nsmooreauthor@gmail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment