Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(7)

And he quirks his lips.

Oh God.

I turn away, a deer caught in the headlights, determined not to lose control of the moment. “But without the dirty double meaning, please. No bananas…” If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right? “No doughnuts, or…you know. Got it? I mean it.” Then I just laugh. It’s my nervousness and the craziness of it all. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that.”

This breaks the tension. Guys are snickering and smiling. A few make wisecracks—nothing too outrageous, because Dixon is on alert now, but it’s as if we’re all laughing together. As if we’re being real with each other. Humans, not numbers. And suddenly, I feel good. I didn’t want to be here, still don’t, but since I have to, this isn’t so bad. As long as I ignore the concrete walls closing in on me and the metal bars on the windows. And Grayson.

I’ll give you twenty minutes.” There’s a shuffle of papers. At the end of the twenty minutes, I’ll have them expand on the item they feel the most energy around. That will be the next assignment.

I look over at Grayson, who’s been observing all of this with an expression that’s unreadable, but I can’t help but think that he’s annoyed. As if I’ve done something he doesn’t like, or maybe he prefers me flustered and out of control. I set the papers aside on the media table, steel myself, and walk to him.

“Can I have my…” I point to my sweater on the back of the chair.

He twists his big body and grabs it off. My belly tightens deep down as I look at my soft sweater lying across his rough, corded hand. He’s taken my refuge, my seat, my sense of control. He looks at me like he sees me. Oh, it’s good he’s chained up—it really is.

He holds it out to me on a finger, closer. “I don’t bite,” he says. “Much.”

I snort and grab it. My finger brushes his and sparks enough electricity to jolt my heart out of my chest.

He sits back, watching me pull my sweater on. It feels strangely intimate, dressing while he watches, and makes me thankful for Dixon’s presence, distracted as he is. And for the other guys, busily scribbling away, whispering when they think I’m not looking. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be alone with this guy. He scares me in a way that’s different than a dark-alley scare. An alley I’d know how to handle. Him? Not so much.

I grab my briefcase and set it on the corner of his desk, rooting around for the papers I passed out on the first day. My gaze isn’t meeting his, but that’s only because I can’t find what I need. My voice comes out low so as not to disturb the rest of the class. “So you’re interested in creative writing?”

His voice is quiet. Rough. Slightly mocking. “Yes, I am, Ms. Winslow.”

My cheeks heat again. If it weren’t for the menace glittering in his eyes, he’d be beautiful.

“Here’s the class schedule. You’ve missed two assignments, but it’s no more than a few paragraphs of writing.” I explain the assignments—the meaningful event and the non-meaningful event. “We’ll be doing exercises for a few weeks and then choose one exercise to polish. Toward the end we’ll create a journal to be published online and in print, full of our vignettes.”

His lips quirk at the word vignette. I wonder suddenly what level of education he’s had. Being that he’s a latecomer, they didn’t supply me with his background info like I got with the other guys. Does he ping on the word because he doesn’t know it? Or maybe he does know, and he finds it pretentious.

Who cares? I’m the teacher here. I’m in charge. I set the briefcase on the desk like a wall between us.





Chapter Five




Grayson


She stands there behind her fortress of a briefcase. Books, briefcases, glasses—it all just makes me think about exposing her, stripping her, making her helpless. She’d hate it and love it—I know that for a fact. It’s like I know her even though I never saw her before this week.

My mind goes to the glasses. How well can she see without them? I’m hoping not well at all, because it would be hot if I took them away. Hot for me and also for her.

And then there are blindfolds.

Snap out of it. I’m here to be the perfect student. I should be focusing on her silly assignment, listing objects.

She’s digging in her briefcase for something. “…since you don’t have one of your own.”

She pulls out a clothbound notebook, worn on the edges. I watch her page through, dark brows furrowed. She has an old-fashioned look, features carved with a delicate instrument, perfectly polished, eyes big and soft. I can imagine her in a black-and-white photo standing in front of some old-timey farm, pitchfork in hand, with that prim look. Prim in a way that gets me all kinds of hot.

Her lips are moist, or at least the top one is because she sucks it in when she’s nervous, and I want more than anything to suck it in myself and maybe even bite it. And to take those glasses away. Every house I’ve ever robbed, every establishment, it’s the same story—you identify the first line of defense and take it away. That’s how you get control. For her, it’s those glasses.

She’s ripping pages out of her notebook, and now I feel shitty because it’s obviously her writing book and she’s clearing it for me to use. What’s in there that she doesn’t want me to see? She pushes it across the desk, open to the next blank page.