Locked Out (Locked In Love, an Alpha Billionaire Serial)(Volume 2)

Locked Out

An Alpha Billionaire Romance

Book Two: Locked in Love Series

Myra Song

Copyright © 2015 Now and Wren Publishing

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Myra Song likes her coffee black, her mornings late, and her romance serialized. Find her on facebook
here
and twitter
here
!

Copyright © 2015 Now and Wren Publishing

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Myra Song likes her coffee black, her mornings late, and her romance serialized. Find her on facebook
here
and twitter
here
!

continues from “Locked In.”

Elise

A figure in head-to-toe black is standing and staring at me.

It is just the two of us in Locke’s gallery hallway. My chest hurts because my heart is trying to leap out of it.

He is in a ski mask. Despite my fear, my brain kicks into overdrive. This man is about five-eleven with broad shoulders. He’s built like a kicker on a football team: big enough to take a hit, but still lean. Elegant, really, in his muscular physique.

I know it’s muscular because the clothing he’s wearing leaves
nothing
to the imagination. The black shirt and pants cling to him like a second skin.

The man in black is in a mask, too. Like a ski mask, but made from the same thin material as his other clothing. Even his shoes are five-toed, like those trendy running shoes.

I’d put him at around one hundred ninety pounds. If he’s as athletic as I think he is, he can overpower me.

I jump when he speaks. “You shouldn’t be here, Little Bird.”

A thrill runs through me. This is no ordinary thief. An ordinary thief wouldn’t have stood, waiting for me to notice. He’d have hid, or ran as soon as I glimpsed him. And now I’ve heard his voice, though it sounds like he’s dropping it on purpose. It sounds ice cold and filled with mirth.

“You shouldn’t be here, either,” I croak, my fear clogging my voice.

He shrugs and begins to walk toward me. “That depends on who you ask.”

“Stop right there!” My feet slide apart, but my body can’t decide whether to run or attack.

It doesn’t matter. He charges me. I torque on my left knee, tensing my abs and bringing my right fist around for a hook, aimed at his jaw. I telegraph the movement and he takes the bait, grabbing my right wrist.

Here’s a secret: I’m left handed. My instructors used to go crazy when I’d do this. They’d shout and curse and often, kick me out or fail me. I think it’s because they were mad that it worked. Every. single. time. Because if I let my attacker grab me first and think he has the advantage?

I can blindside that son of a bitch.

My left hand shoots in, an up cut. Only instead of aiming at his face, I’m shooting my knuckles into his windpipe.

It is possible my instructors were actually mad because I’d hit their throats a little too hard.

My eyes are narrowed and I lunge up, putting the momentum of my body into the move--

But, to my shock and horror, the thief easily deflects it. Instead, he uses my momentum against me. It’s too fast to see, but he manages to kick, lift, and flip me. There is a shredding noise and then my back hits marble, winding me. My head would have, too, had the man in black not caught it.

It is a weirdly chivalrous moment, and it stuns me.

Cool air breezes over my legs. My dress is torn. The close-fitting silk and mermaid cut were only enough to contain my curves. The dress was not made to withstand hand-to-hand combat.

The tear reaches up high, high on my thigh, and if my legs had flailed at all during that flip I know the thief will know I’m commando.

Before I can catch my breath, though, or even blush from the exposed skin, there is cool metal pressed against my temple.

“Oh, no no, Little Bird. I’d love to continue, but that patrol will be back any moment.”

The click of the gun’s safety being switched off rings in my ear and now I’m just scared stupid. Police Academy and work and training for Detective? They helped build a lot of confidence. Probably too much bravado. I was trained on how to stay calm, and stay
smart
, in most any situation.

But when a gun is pressed to your head, you tell me how smart and calm you are.

My breaths are coming in tiny wheezes. “Get up, quickly,” he orders in my ear. I do, stumbling a little until his iron grip on my bicep steadies me.

“That hurts.”

“We aren’t exactly on a first date, Little Bird. Let’s go.” He leads me to a door. “Did you know Locke has two rooms he never tapes?”

My chin juts up in interest. I remembered the two dark screens in his security room. The thief laughs. It’s low, more a bark. “I see you do.” He whips me around, surprising me, and slams my back against the wall. His body presses on mine, pinning me in an intimate way. Between the remaining silk of my dress and the thin lycra of his suit, I feel his cock nestled in the apex of my legs and it makes me burn with shame.

“Oh,” he whispers into my ear. The ghost of his breath sends ice down my spine. The gun has been placed back on my temple, but his other hand gropes my breast. I wince, anger and fear swarming in me. Gun or not, if that hand goes anywhere else, I’m going to knee him in the balls. “You’re just his type, too. I bet you know all about those rooms.” The hand pinches my nipple, hard, and I’m reminded of Jameson’s proclivity for pain.

The difference this time is I don’t get wet. I just get pissed. “So what if I do? Pinch me again and I’ll scream. You might shoot me, but you’ll get caught. That’s robbery and a murder, you asshole.”

He
tsks
me. “I think you’re lying. You look his type, but you aren’t nearly… docile enough. Well, let’s leave him a present, shall we?” He reaches down and grabs the ruin of my dress’ bottom and pulls it up. “Don’t move, or I
will
risk that murder charge.” Gripping it, he rips a large swath of it off and hands it to me. “Tie this around your eyes. I’ll know if you leave room to peek.”

Reluctantly, I do as he says. The silk is dense and he checks after I’ve finished. I can’t see a thing.

He guides me again and we’re walking. I hear him open a door before he shoves me through it. My sneakers catch and I fall to my knees. Instead of the crack of pain from kneecaps hitting marble, I hit something stiff but cushioned. It reminds me a bit of the shock-absorbing gym floors from my days in martial arts.

Then the man in black is ripping more of my dress. The coarse sound of the expensive silk giving way to force is louder. Frightening. His fingers make sure to brush each inch of my exposed skin, too, leaving goose pimples on my flesh and the bitter taste of disgust in my mouth.

In the back of my mind I’m concerned about rape, but logistically the man is on a short timer. Robberies rely on scheduling more than any other aspect. Timing is what gets a thief in and out, and the man in black has wasted more than a little time with me.

The shreds of my dress are used to bind me. Only… he does it strangely. Instead of trussing my wrists and ankles together, the thief ties my forearms together in the back, my fingertips brushing the opposite elbow. The silk is wound in a pattern in and around them. There is no give, no way to wriggle out.

He makes me kneel. He ties each leg separately, binding them so they are forced to stay bent and I am made to sit, thighs apart and legs pinned under. It is intensely uncomfortable and more than a little sexual.

“You’re a shaver, I see,” he quips, and I’m worried I might throw up. He can see my pussy the way I’m tied, and time seems to expand as I wait for his dreadful touch. Instead, a final piece of my dress is shoved into my mouth.

I am bound and gagged.

The door whispers shut, and I know I am alone.

~ ~ ~ ~

The silence is worse than the pain. This surprises me. I’m a loner. I live alone, and I work alone. I worked with Dalton, but he knew how to leave me alone when I needed it. If you were to ask me if I was comfortable with silence, I’d say “sure.”

But that’s because I’m always
doing
things. Investigating, or cleaning. Sleeping. Eating, if I have the money to. Working out and hating my curvy body for refusing to show it. But doing means noise, just not the people kind.

This is real silence. It’s quiet enough for me to hear my ragged breaths. It seems like I can hear the rapid fire pulsing of my heart as it races in terror.

It’s awful.

The pain is up there, too. My feet are going numb. They aren’t there yet. It’s the tingling warning that comes just before the numbness. The man in black bound my legs so tightly I can’t shift at all to get circulation going.

My shoulders are on fire. It’s worse than the numbness in my feet. Having my elbows forced behind me is putting an enormous strain on my shoulders, and they are angry about it.

It’s hard not to get lost in the pain and the fear and the quiet.

Thankfully, I’m trained for this kind of thing. Okay, maybe not
this exact
kind of thing, but I’m able to keep focus. I’m able to not hyperventilate. And, as I slow my pulse, I’m able to think.

There was a thief in Jameson Locke’s house. The cold, calculating nature of the thief put him far above the typical robber. The man had no problem diverting from his plan. He never lost his temper. And he seemed keen on letting me know that he knew about Jameson, and Jameson’s less than wholesome preferences.

Okay. This means he knows Locke. Knows him well.

He also seemed to know, and be counting on, the security Locke was using. The security Locke obviously
knew
wasn’t prepared for an event like this.

A knot ties in my stomach. I can’t tell if it is anger or sadness, but it’s there. It’s looking a lot like Locke set this up. I don’t think he meant for me to be groped by his thief friend. I
can’t
believe that of him.

I was probably supposed to be somewhere else. I’d been heading to my room to pack and leave, cutting my losses and Locke out of my life.

What do I know of Locke? Not that much. I know he’s one of the richest men on the planet. I know he owns a lot of property, some of it questionable. I know he’s arrogant. He wants people to see him as a playboy. It’s all laughs and smarmy charm in public. But he made his father’s company what it is, and that requires ruthlessness and calculation. It requires control.

I bite my lip when I think of Locke and control. Because that is something I
know
he needs. It was never an option or a conversation when he touched me. He just commanded and--

and I submitted.

Submission
. It’s not a word I’m used to. Not one I like, really. I never submitted to the chauvinistic comments at the station. I never submitted to my father’s desires to take up painting, or my mother’s hopes that I become a proper lady. My debutante ball had been the last time she’d had that hope.

With Locke, though, it just clicked. I fell into place. And he made it so, so worth it. My body is responding to these thoughts, arousal tinging the corners of the pain. It threaded through and made everything, well, bearable.

I’m torn between wanting Locke to find me. Him, because I can’t stand the thought of one of the guys from the station seeing me like this. I know it’s okay. I’m a victim-- there was a gun in my face. Being a victim doesn’t make me less of a woman. How many times had I said that shit to a woman on a case? Back when I was a cop and still trying to make the world a better place?

But it’s Locke I want. And, according to the man in black, it’s Locke he wants to find me as well.

On the other hand, the pieces fit in such a way that I’m sure that Locke set this up. The police department instead of his own men. The thief was walking around, bold as brass, in a home with more security than a prison. And the other safe? The competitor? What was that?

If I had to guess, I’d say a distraction.

Locke said he wanted to play. He’d said the stakes were high. But were they stealing a ruby from his own estate high?