Christine Feehan

It was rather ironic that Lazar “Keys” Alexeev had been undercover for three solid months and not one incident had occurred.  There had been no leads to find.  No criminal activity that he could sniff out, and he was excellent at that.  After three months of absolutely nothing, Czar, the president of Torpedo Ink, his motorcycle club, had shut down the mission.
           
It sure as fuck should have ended there, but like an idiot he'd returned to that little nothing town in the middle of nowhere on the pretense of getting his hair cut.  Then he spent time there he shouldn't have because he was breaking every rule Torpedo Ink had.  Now he was paying the consequences.
           
There was nothing like waking up with a blinding headache in a coffin-sized box with holes drilled in it so you knew there was torture coming.  Hands behind his back with idiotic cuffs he was out of in about two point three seconds.  But the best—or worst—was he was lying on top of another body.
           
Female for damned sure.  He'd know a female body if he were half-dead.  His head was pounding like a mother, so it was possible he was close.  He'd been close many, many times, and he was still alive.  Mistake on their part.  Bashing him in the head and throwing him in a box with the intention of torturing him later was just about the fuck-up of all fuck-ups. 
           
He took a breath and let it out slowly almost afraid of checking out the woman lying beneath him.  She was very slight, and that told him who she was.  He'd known her for that first three months and had been coming back for an additional two—so five months.  She wasn't his type at all.  He preferred women with tits and ass and lots of experience.  He didn't give a damn if they were married or not.  They had taken marriage vows they were willing to break so what difference did it make to him?  Pussy was pussy.
           
But there was Lyric Johansen.  She made no sense to him.  None.  Zero.  Nothing about her made sense.  It wasn't that she didn't have a figure, she did, mostly because she had that little tucked-in waist.  The rest of her was tiny.  Dinky.  She wore clothes that completely covered any assets that she had.  She was incredibly strong.  She climbed boulders and did all kinds of backpacking.  Alone.  He'd seen her a few times in clothes she wore to boulder and hike and they showed her shapely legs and toned body.  Mostly she hid from the world in baggy sweaters and far-too-big-jeans.

She wore a cap or scarf over her hair.  That didn't make sense either.  He'd only seen her hair once.  Just once.  He'd gone to her shop early and saw her through the window.  She had the thickest, reddest hair he'd ever seen.  Sheets and sheets of long straight glossy red.  Not orange.  Not blonde-red but a real almost ruby red.  He doubted anyone, not even a brilliant hair stylist like she was, could get that color.  It had to be natural.  From the first time he saw all that red, he'd wanted to drag down her panties and look to see what she was hiding.  But she was everything he didn't want or need.

Now, she was lying so still, he couldn't detect the rise and fall of her chest beneath him.  He knew if she was dead, he was going to go on a killing spree to end all killing sprees.  He swore under his breath and maneuvered his body in the tight space so his hips were cradled in hers, and he could press his ear to her chest. 
“You'd better be alive, Wildfire.  If you're not, this dumb-fuck town is going to be razed to the ground.  Wake the hell up.”

To his relief, he felt the slight lift of her chest beneath his ear.  The relief was ridiculous, completely out of proportion for a man like him.  He didn't care about much other than his club and fellow club members.  Even then, he was more of a lone wolf than anyone realized, even men he considered brothers and closest friends.

Women came too easily to him, and his body was always demanding he indulge.  And he did.  Sometimes several women in a day.  He didn't care about them, and they didn't care about him.  He was good at what he did and there was mutual satisfaction—most of the time.  Truth he never wanted to admit to himself nagged at him—sometimes he was bored out of his mind.  Maybe lately it was more often than he was satisfied.

He didn't understand why he'd come back alone to spend time in the town.  Spend time getting a haircut.  Going to the country bar that made him grit his teeth at the amateurish music that was often more enthusiastic than on key.  But he did know this particular woman was a pain in the ass and he spent far too much time thinking about her.

“Wake up, baby.”  He moved again so his face could be directly over hers.  It was hot as hell in that box.  He didn't like that she'd been out so long.

He could feel the movement of the truck and knew they were on an unpaved road.  It was extremely bumpy, throwing the damn wooden coffin all over the back of the truck.  That hurt his head and likely would hurt Lyrics if she ever woke the hell up.  He was a man known for being calm in all situations.  He could explode into action when needed, but he did so thinking clearly and sanely.  If Lyric didn't wake up soon and let him know she wasn't a vegetable, he wasn't going to be so calm.

He bit at her chin.  “Come on, baby, open your eyes.”

Why the hell had she come running out of her shop to save him?  She didn't show the least good sense.  There were five of them, big mothers, armed and showing they were willing to kill him.  Hell, they'd hit his head from behind with what felt like a baseball bat.  Once he was on the ground, they kicked and punched him as viciously as he'd ever been attacked—and sadly to admit, it had happened often when he was younger.

The idiotic woman, not more than five feet nothing, had come to his rescue when she saw him being attacked.  He remembered the determination on her face, the fire in her eyes.  He hadn't considered that she had all that passion stored in her, but he should have known with her fiery hair and the hobbies she chose to pursue.  She might appear quiet, but after seeing her play the part of warrior woman, he was more intrigued than ever.

And she'd saved his life.  He had no doubt in his mind that the five men attacking him planned to kill him.  She'd left the safety of her shop and waded in like an avenging angel, hitting the nearest man with a blow dryer.  A fucking blow dryer.  They'd overpowered her, hit her in the head, and he saw her go down before one of them kicked him in the head and it was light's out.  He had no idea how long he'd been out but he couldn't map out the road the way he normally would have.  He wasn't too worried.  Once they made their escape, he would find the way home.

He needed to ascertain just how injured she was.  He didn't understand why they hit her so damned hard.  She'd gone flying.  They were going to pay for that.  He was used to the members of Torpedo Ink having his back.  They'd been doing so since they were all little kids raised in the hellhole in Russia, but other than those men and women, no one had ever stood up for him.  It was unexpected.  And puzzling.  Worse, it fucked with his brain when he needed to be clear-headed and thinking about survival.  His own survival, not some dinky woman whose fault it was he was there in the first place.

“Wake up, Lyric,” he poured command into his voice.  He was good at that.  Very few dared to defy him, men or women.  Deliberately, he feathered his lips across hers in a whispering, light rub, catching her faint breath in his mouth.  For some reason, his entire body tightened.  Hardened.  Demanded.

What the fuck was wrong with him?  Now he was so hard up he was going after a woman who was half dead?  In a coffin?  A flimsy one, but still, a coffin.  And Lyric of all women.  He tried to remember when he'd been with a woman last.  It couldn't have been more than a few hours earlier, yet he was as hard as a rock at the first touch of her full, pouty mouth. 
Pouty.  He despised that kind of woman.  Manipulative.  Emotional.  Whiny.  Okay, he hadn't heard Lyric ever be any of those things, but those full, pouty lips gave her away.  He had fantasized far too often about those lips wrapped around his cock.  Which was insane.  He was far too experienced to think she'd know what she was doing.  He'd have to give her instructions.  Tedious.  But if he was being truthful with himself, he'd dreamt of her until he'd left Caspar, his hometown, and took the ride to her nowhere burg all the while telling himself she wasn't the kind of woman he would ever go for.

For one thing, it was obvious she was innocent.  He wasn't about to waste his time on some untutored pussy that he'd have to expend energy trying to teach.  Worse, she'd fall apart after and expect him to stick around.  Innocents were off the table.  He didn't have much of a code when it came to sex, but that was sacred.  He'd never once broken that rule, nor was he ever tempted to—unless it was now.  With her.  And he had no idea why.  She was worse than a pain in the ass.

Damn it.  Why wasn't she waking up?  The asshole who hit her from behind had used some weapon Keys hadn't seen from his position on the ground but probably a baseball bat, just like the one used on him.  He'd hit her hard.  He smelled blood.  “Come on, woman, wake the hell up.”

Keys was born in hell and lived there for years, but he had been given gifts that he'd taken the time to develop.  He could play any instrument and had an ear for perfectly pitched music. Truth be told, that was what landed him here.  Lyric laughed often with her customers and with him.  Her laughter was sweet most of the time, but when she laughed at—or—with him, she had the absolutely purest notes he'd ever heard.  He found himself wanting that laughter just for himself—and she gave it to him.

 He had a major infinity with wood.  Any wood.  He touched it and read its history.  He worked with wood, building beautiful things.  Just touching wood could bring peace to him, just as his musical instruments did.  This coffin…not so peaceful.

Lyric and he weren't the only ones who had been inside that box, but the others weren't alive anymore.  They'd been tortured and then died in the makeshift coffin.  The wood itself was on the flimsy side.  Whoever had constructed the box had done so with haste and no pride in their work.  That was good for him.

“All right baby, I'm telling you to wake the hell up.”  Because he wasn't a man who felt fear.  He'd lived through too much.  He was a trained assassin and had been since he was a child.  He had nothing to live for, therefore he didn't fear death.  But he did fear for her.  The pain-in-his-ass-woman who he couldn't stay away from when there was absolutely no sane reason to keep her in his life.

“Your fault we're in this predicament, darlin', so open your eyes.”  He dipped his head and locked his teeth on her full lower lip.  That damned lip he'd spent far too much time fantasizing about.  He bit down and tugged gently before feathering his lips over hers again, just to catch her breath in his mouth.

She groaned.  Tried to turn her head, but he wanted to see her eyes.  Assess the damage.

“Look at me, Wildfire.  Open your eyes and look at me.”

“Not yet.  I can't feel my arms.  At all.  I'm afraid to look.”

“Open your eyes.  You were hit in the head, and you've been out for a while.  I need to know how hurt you are.”

“Suffice it to say my head exploded and my brains have leaked out.”  She murmured the words, a whisper of sound that sent a ripple of heat through him.  That voice.  When she was unguarded, like now, her tone played over his every nerve ending.

“Good to know you'll rely on my judgment since you're admitting you have no brain at the moment.”

Her lips did that now-familiar moue he found himself looking for when he was with her.  That dimple that made him want to trace it with his tongue.  Lately, that had been often—too often.  He'd broken every rule his club had to visit her, and he still didn't have a clue why.

“Why are you on top of me?  I can barely breathe.  Get off.  I can't breathe and I can't feel my arms.  They're trapped under me.  With your weight on top of me, I can't move them.”  Her eyes remained tightly closed as if she knew better than to examine the world around her.

“You can breathe, and you're unable to move your arms because they've gone to sleep.”

The coffin slid to the left and then pitched to the right, hitting the side of the truck's bed, shaking them both up.  The road was even rougher than before.  And steep.  He felt her breath catch in her throat.

“That hurt you?” He detested that he couldn't examine the wound on the back of her head.

“My head really does feel like it exploded.  And I'm hot.  I hate my arms are trapped and you have to get off of me.”  She whispered it to him like she was embarrassed.  “I know this sounds silly, but I have horrible claustrophobia.  I don't like the feeling that I can't move.”

That wasn't great news.  “I'll get us out of here.”

“Where are we?”

“At the moment we're prisoners, and we're being hauled up the mountain, presumably into the forest where I believe our captors think they're going to have fun torturing us.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.  “I can't say as I'm looking forward to that.”

Okay.  He didn't do cute.  He didn't have chest pains just looking at a woman's expression.  He sure as hell didn't get all protective.  He was feeling…murderous.

“I'll keep us alive.  Just don't try your wildcat-on-fire, girlie attack.  Let me handle it.”

She drew an outraged breath.  “I saved your life.”

“Jury's out on that, darlin'.  Open your eyes.  Look at me.”  He needed to see for himself just how injured she was.

“I think I'm afraid to.”

“You're not afraid of hanging off the side of mountains or backpacking trails alone in the wilderness.  You just took on five assholes intending to kill me, and you did it with a fuckin' blow dryer.  I'll need to talk to you about that once we're out of this mess.  Blow dryers aren't the best weapons.”

“Are you seriously trying to give me a lecture right now?”

“Someone needs to take you in hand.  You're totally out of control.  I call you wildfire for very good reasons.  Now open your fuckin' eyes and look at me.”

 Why was he always on the verge of shaking her?  What happened to his calm?  He didn't care about anything, so why was she able to rile him the way she did?
She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter.  “I really don't want to see our prison.”

“I think you're afraid of facing me.  It's been obvious since the first time I met you that you can barely keep your hands off me.”  Deliberately he taunted her.

 The ridiculously long lashes fluttered.  He hadn't noticed those lashes at first because they were as fiery as her hair, but up close they were thick and long and turned up at the ends.

“You could be the biggest liar in the world.  Or maybe you believe the crap you tell yourself.  Just because you're a hound dog doesn't mean every woman in the world finds you attractive.”

“Hound dog?” He feathered his lips over hers, a deliberate enticement.  “I can't help it if women throw themselves at me, Wildfire.”

“You call me the most ridiculous names,” she murmured, not protesting his intimacy.  “I'm not in the least bit attracted to you.  You're arrogant and self-serving.  Sometimes I wonder if you're human.”

“You are a terrible liar, Lyric.”  He poured superior male amusement into his voice.  “I know when a woman wants me.”

The lashes fluttered again, and then he was looking into her stunning eyes.  Drowning in a sea of emerald green.  She did what she always did when he was being outrageous, she looked as if she was fighting laughter.  He loved that particular look because she normally didn't look directly at anyone.  He'd discovered it wasn't just him she avoided looking at, she did that to everyone, particularly men.  Still, she always greeted him as if he was special to her.  As if he meant something.  He'd come to depend on that particular way she had of welcoming him.  And her perfect laughter was for him alone.

“I'll just bet you do.  Where are we?  And I mean it, get off me…” her voice trailed off as her gaze shifted from his face to the very close walls of their prison.  Her entire body froze, tensed.  A shudder went through her.

Keys felt the wave of utter terror emanating from her.  Felt it.  Her horror was so overwhelming it filled the small space, consuming them both.  Something that deep-seated couldn't be feigned.  She wasn't making a bid for sympathy.  She didn't have a small fear of closed-in places, it was enormous.  The fear on her face was all too real.

“We're in a coffin.”  She whispered it, the horror in her voice penetrating.

“Babe, we're fine.  Take a breath.”  He had been in tight places many, many times in his life, and he'd never had such a raw, visceral reaction as he did then.  It wasn't his fear.  His terror—it was hers and he felt desperation setting in.  She was panic-stricken enough for both of them.

“Just breathe.  There isn't a reason for panic.  Air is coming into the box through cracks and drilled holes.  We're fine.  Breathe, Wildfire.  Take a breath.”

Sweat broke out on her forehead.  Dotted her throat.  “I can't.” She choked.  Coughed.  “I can't breathe.  I can't.”  Her body heaved, trying to buck him off.

There was nowhere for him to go, not even room enough to slide to one side.  Still, he tried to get as much of his weight as possible from her slender form.  If he tried lifting his body, he struck his head on the lid of the box.  His head already hurt like a mother.  He eased back down, distributing his weight as evenly as possible.

It didn't matter, she was gone.  Completely lost to him, desperately thrashing, which was nearly impossible when his body pinned hers in the close confines and her arms and hands were trapped under her.  She'd lost feeling in them and that had to add to her terror of the situation.  Her eyes were all over the place, and then her mouth opened to scream.

“Don't you dare,” he hissed.  He bent his head to hers, his mouth covering hers in an attempt to swallow her horror.  He didn't know if anyone was riding in the bed of the trunk, but he didn't need their enemies to know they were awake.  He also didn't need the cut to the back of her head bleeding even more.  “Stop right now.  Look at me.  Eyes to mine.”  He gave the command with his mouth over hers.

How the hell could she have breath that smelled like clear winter snow and strawberries when she'd been in a fight and was locked in a coffin?  Nothing about her made the least bit of sense, including her insane reaction to the situation they were in.  She climbed mountains sometimes with little gear.  He knew because he'd been her damned stalker for the three months he'd been undercover and the last two, returning like an idiot, convincing himself he went back to her because she was the best at giving haircuts and he wanted the best.
           
He sometimes was truthful with himself, and right then, he had to admit, it wasn't the haircut.  It wasn't even her smoking hot little body.  It was the way, when she saw him coming, no matter where she was, her shop or the bar, she rushed to the door, with a huge smile on her face, and greeted him like the moon rose when he showed up.  She didn't flirt.  It was a genuine greeting as if she'd been waiting for eternity to see him.
           
It was strange because she never once acted as if she wanted him.  In fact, when he flirted, she rolled her eyes.  He liked that too.
           
The moment he issued his command into her open mouth to look at him, she froze beneath him.  Despite her stillness, he could feel the tremors and shudders going through her body.
           
“Eyes on mine.  I mean it, Lyric.  I want you looking into my eyes.”  He feathered his lips over hers.  “Do it now.”
          
She didn't like looking anyone in the eyes, but over the last five months, she'd gotten over that with him.  Sometimes, in the bar, it was still quick, shy glances, but she was learning he liked her looking at him.  He knew she wasn't playing coy, she just preferred to avoid eye contact.  In this instance, it was necessary, and he was going to get what he needed from her.
           
Lyric didn't respond fast enough, and he locked his teeth on her bottom lip and bit down in warning.  He made certain she felt the shocking sting.  Instantly, her gaze flew to his.  The terror had receded enough to allow shock in.  He licked at the bite mark all the while holding her with his eyes.
           
“You keep looking at me.  Only me.” He used the voice he knew scared the crap out of anyone hearing it.  She had never shown fear of him, not once.  Not even when everyone else had.  Her normal reaction to his shift into badass was secret amusement.  He wanted to see that in her eyes.  Not this time.  Her green eyes skittered all over the place, her breath coming in raw gasps.  He wasn't certain she was fully with him.
           
Eyes locked to hers, he lowered his head again and took her lower lip between his teeth.  Very slowly he began to apply pressure until she gasped, all that green suddenly centering completely on him.  He licked at the spot again.  His brand.  He liked that she wore something of his, and that just proved he was a fuckin' idiot.  He also knew only something shocking could pull her out of her complete panic.
           
“You back with me?”
           
Her gaze started to shift toward the lid and he caught at her lip in warning.  Instantly, he had her complete attention.
           
“Lyric, we're in a little trouble here.  I can get us out, but I need you to help me.”  He softened his voice but kept her gaze captive.  “We're not going to draw their attention.  They have to think we're unconscious.”
           
A shudder went through her body.  Plastered as he was on top of her, he felt the earthquake-like tremors.  The deep, very real fear.  “I can't breathe.  There's no air.”  She whispered it to him like a confession, her pupils so wide they were taking over the color in her eyes.
           
“There's plenty of air.  Stay with me, Wildfire.  You're tough as nails.  Take a breath in and let it out.”
           
“I can't.” 

She tried to shake her head, but he didn't allow her to move—or take her eyes from his.  He sighed very loudly.  “Babe, you're giving me no choice here.  If you can't get on top of this, you give me no choice but to distract you.”

Her lashes fluttered as if she was trying to decide between screaming in terror or trying to figure out what he meant.  He didn't wait for either reaction.

Keys lowered his head and took her mouth.  Feathered his lips over hers.  Swallowed her fear and took it deep.  Tasted that elusive strawberry and fresh snow scent that he knew he'd always want when he kissed her.  Her mouth.  Those pouty lips.  Hell.  He was trying to shock her into distraction, and he ended up drowning in her. 

He might have surprised her, but the shock to himself was far more than what he was doing to her.  He liked her.  As a person.  He was drawn to her for many reasons.  That greeting of hers, unfailing every time. The real laughter she gave to him and no one else.  It didn't matter if he had a woman at the bar with him.  She didn't seem to care.

She knew he fucked everything in the county with a pussy, skanks to married women from the “right” side of town.  She didn't seem judgmental, just amused.  When the women treated her like shit, she never looked hurt or upset, she simply gave him her little grin, the one that lit up his world and went to the other side of the bar while he dumped the bitch.  No one talked to Lyric like that on his watch.

She complimented him.  The words were always offhand. Casual. As if she were stating a fact, but she always said something nice to him, like how she loved his hair, it was thick and shiny and she could tell he took care of it.  That meant something to her.  She was into hair.  She'd tell him a shirt color looked good on him.  Or she liked the way he wore his motorcycle boots so much she wasn't going to make him take them off if they were muddy.  She meant those things, and she wasn't flirting.  He wasn't certain she knew how to flirt, or the fact that she didn't do it was wreaking havoc with every one of his preconceived notions about women and relationships.

He didn't acquire female friends.  He fucked them and kicked them to the curb.  He made it clear before he had them what it was and there wouldn't be a repeat performance.  Women never believed him.  Never.  They thought they would be the one to “tame” him.  It was a crock of shit. Most of the time, he couldn't take the utter crap, the lies and idiotic romantic nonsense they spouted.  He had a brain, much to his chagrin, and it needed stimulation, not inane conversation.

Lyric believed him when he explained his one-time fuck policy and just laughed.  She told him he was hotter than hell, and she could see why women fell like dominos, but that didn't say much about their intellect if they couldn't see with his atrocious track record, that he was telling them the truth.  That had led to him objecting to the word atrocious and it had turned into a two-hour discussion he'd enjoyed more than anything else the entire five months he'd been hanging in that little town.

 And then there was the little thing she'd done that had made him feel—hell—he didn't know how it made him feel.  She'd been tired, on her feet all day, and he'd dropped by her shop at closing time for no reason other than he had to see her.  She saw him coming, flung open the door, and greeted him with that unbelievable smile of hers.  He'd taken her out to dinner, a little diner that had extraordinary food.  Her order came up, but his was delayed.  She sat there across from him asking about his day.  Seemingly genuinely interested, but she didn't touch her food until his arrived.  It was a little thing, but he liked it a fuck of a lot.  Too much.

Cradled by her soft body, feeling her superb feminine form, Keys inwardly cursed the relentless demands his cock made on him.  He didn't need to be as hard as a rock when their lives were at stake, and she was scared out of her mind.  That made him far more of a disgusting pervert than he'd ever considered himself.  Shit.  He knew he was worthless.  He'd always known it, but in this instance, he wanted to live, to ensure she did, and the assholes who were so cowardly they hit them from behind with a baseball bat, didn't have a chance to touch her.

He knew he used women to relieve the merciless hard-on that never let up, but they'd used him as well.  Not Lyric.  She hadn't once indicated she was willing.  If anything, it was just the opposite.  He'd thought it was the chase that kept bringing him back, but with Lyric, there was no chase.  She was without guile.  She was just…Lyric.  Wildfire and sunshine.

Fiercely aroused was a state he often found himself in, but he'd never experienced feeling when his cock demanded sating.  He didn't want the intimacy of kissing.  He didn't want to have to seduce anyone.  He wanted to bury his cock in pussy and get off and then get away.  He didn't want conversation or the exchange of numbers.

But then there was Lyric.  Her mouth.  That sweet innocence he tasted along with the hint of strawberries and fresh snow on her breath.  Finding restraint took effort, but he managed to kiss her gently.  Exchange breath.  Exchange heat.  He was shocked that he could be lying in a coffin, his head pounding and still want a female.  Not just want.  Need.
He suppressed a groan.  Who the hell was he kidding?  He didn't want just any female's body.  He wanted the one under him.

With his mouth on hers, feathering kisses, exchanging air, it was impossible for her to get away from him.  There was no room.  She stilled again.  He swore he heard her frantic heartbeat.

“Get my hands free, Keys.”

Her shaky voice whispering to him in that pleading tone so unlike her, turned his heart over.   If he knew one thing about her, it was that she was as independent as hell—a trait that wouldn't work for him—but one he admired. Pleading with him in that scared tone was so unlike his Lyric his heart ached for her.

“Babe, if I could, I swear I'd get those cuffs off and move your arms out from under you, but there isn't enough room.”  Her entire body shook and her eyes went wild.  “Lyric,” he spoke in his harshest, most deadly, dominating tone before she could go into her full-blown panic attack.  “Look at me.  Keep your eyes to mine.  I swear on Czar's life I'll get you the fuck out of here, but I need you thinking.  Cooperating.  You can't have a panic attack.”

Her eyes stared straight into his and the sexiest pout he'd ever seen formed on her lips.  “I can, Keys.  I can have a full-blown panic attack, and it's your fault.  What idiotic reason did you think you had for waking me in a coffin.” She practically spat the last word and those green eyes of hers blazed with fire.  He recognized that Lyric.  He'd woken the little dragon, and she was getting ready to breathe fire on him.  He could work with that.

“I was thinking I was bored as hell and getting turned on with all the bumps and twists causing our bodies to rub all over each other.  Shit, woman, you've got those excellent tits pushed right into my face.  How the hell else are we going to pass the time?”

He stared right into her vivid green eyes so he was able to see those building flames.  Went from golden sparks, little fiery embers to full-blown flames.  Bog, the woman was fuckin' gorgeous.  And even sexier than gorgeous.  Why the hell did she hide in her baggy clothes?

He didn't need or want the tall, leggy blondes or the voluptuous abundant curves of dark-haired beauties.  He found he wanted a waterfall of silky red falling around him.  He wanted the tiny little body and luscious handful of tits.  They weren't huge, but they were flawlessly formed.  The cradle of her hips gave him the perfect place to rest his cock.  Her ass.  It had to be said, she had a world class ass hidden in those baggy jeans she loved to wear.  Small maybe but firm and soft.  Heart-shaped.  He'd spent far too many times thinking about her ass and what he'd like to do to it.  He was a connoisseur, and he'd spotted her figure under all that heavy material long before he'd stalked her and seen her in climbing clothes.

“You are out of your mind, Keys,” she informed him.  “And if you bite me again, I'm going to bite you back.  Hard.”

He grinned at her.  “I like hard, baby.  You put the steel in my cock, up to you to remove it.”  He said it as matter-of-factly as he could.  Taunting her.  Teasing her.  Hoping she'd go along with the game and forget about their circumstances.

The moment the words were out of his mouth, the fire faded into that intriguing, sexy feminine amusement that seemed only reserved for him. He thought of that soft sexy look as an intimacy between them and that it was—his.

“You are so full of shit, Keys.  I don't make you hard.  You just come wired that way.  Don't blame me for your lack of control.”

At least he'd distracted her, but that was a low blow.  True, but still a blow.  He had control, he just didn't bother to exercise it.

“You suddenly have a foul mouth just because we're in a dicey situation, woman.  Don't say shit.  I don't like you cussin'.”

 Her eyes narrowed, but then she had that dimple that gave her away.  “You can't tell me not to swear when you have the foulest mouth I've ever heard.  Every other word is the f-word.”
           
He was about to make her head spin.  “Yeah, babe, but I'm the man.  You're a woman.  I don't like it, and I want you to stop.”
           
The truck was definitely slowing. Now things were going to get interesting.
           
She started to speak, deliver her comeback, but she became aware of their ride skidding in the mud.  Of the pounding rain coming down on them.  “Oh, God, Keys.”
          
He brushed a kiss over her lips.  The truck fish-tailed.  “Listen to me.  I want you to do everything I say.  When I tell you to do something don't hesitate.  They're going to open that lid and expect us to be out of commission.  We're going to let them think that. You can't give it away, no matter how scared you are, that we're alive and well.”
           
“What are you going to do?”
           
“Kill them.  All of them.  And you're going to try not to hear a sound, or if they drag you out of here, you close your eyes and don't look.”
           
“But I can't help you.  Even if they do get me out of here, I can't feel my arms.”

Her fear was for him, not herself.  He tucked that away to process at another time.  The truck swerved, slid sideways.  That made no sense, they were practically at a crawl.

“I have certain skills, Lyric.  They'll lift me out of here, and I'll appear to be dead weight.  They don't know I have the cuffs off and I've kept the circulation going in my arms and legs.  Trust me, babe, they won't have a chance.  I just don't want you to see me do this.”

“I have scissors in a pocket of my jacket if you can get to them.  Front left pocket.  I always carry a kit with me.”

“Woman, are you telling me you attacked with a blow dryer when you had scissors?”

Before she could reply, the truck spun, throwing the coffin against the sides of the bed.  The truck hit something, most likely a solid tree, and came to an abrupt stop.

“Game on, baby,” he whispered when the jarring in his head from the wreck settled. He once more took her mouth.  Gently.  Reverently.  If they didn't make it, he was going out with the taste of her as his last memory.