There's a term for this. It's called sleeping with the enemy.

I'm disgusted and turned on in the same breath. Wulf is hot. He's got a body that's been sculpted by sin. Watching his tattooed skin against my clean flesh was erotic in it's own right.

To be honest, I don't know why I did it. I've been here not even two days. It's too early for Stockholm Syndrome, right?

Waking up in his arms, feeling him pressed against my core, the need in his eyes. It ignited a fire that I think I was already feeling. I felt it the day I first saw him on his bike. Lust.

I'm actually a very sexual person. Despite the fact that I don't want to actually have sex with anyone. Sometimes, the fantasy is better than the experience anyway.

Stepping into the shower for the second time today, I let my fingers explore my body in the way they've done so many times before. At this point, I'm basically an expert on my own orgasm. Under the hot spray of the shower, I've managed to get myself off and wash his come off of me in what I guess is about fifteen minutes.

When I get out and redress, I expect to see him awake. But he's sleeping. He's stretched out on the bed, buffered by all of my shopping bags. Looking around, I realize that maybe I went a little crazy.

Watching him sleep, I drink in more of his form. His body is hard in all the right places, but not so chiseled that he looks unrealistic. He's got soft curls of red brown hair on his chest, and there's a part of me that wants to run my fingers through them. His boxers are pure black, in stark contrast to the bleach-white comforter.

His tattoos are like little stories all over his arms and stomach. Some are new. Some are old. You can watch the quality improve as he got more money. There's one that says Virginia in big, sweeping, letters near his rib cage. Is that a person or the state? Knuckles on one hand read, W U L F, the other reads G A N G.

Outside, commotion stirs and I hear women screaming and giggling. They flash past the window and I peek out the curtain. Two blondes run by in bikinis. A tall man catches one and throws her over his shoulder. They disappear from view and music starts playing somewhere else.

Picking up my phone, I want to send a text to my family and let them know I'm okay. I don't want them to worry, but I also don't know what to say. Hey, went shopping today...

Yeah. That doesn't feel right.

I stifle a scream when his hands wrap around my waist. He pulls me back to his chest and rests his chin on my shoulder. "Did I startle you?" he kisses down my neck and over my shoulders.

"Yeah," I laugh, trying to pull away from him.

He holds me tighter. I step forward, twisting from his grip. He scowls.

"I'm just..." I start, not really sure how to explain myself. Flicking between my fingers I say, "I'm not sure what this is."

He cages me in, pressing my back to the window. "You're mine," his breath feels heavy against my skin. His full lips press to mine and they're warm and soft. It feels like I'm falling. Like the bottom has dropped from beneath me, because I wasn't expecting something so tender.

His gentle lips seek my kiss, building us up into a frenzy. When his hands slip under my thighs, he lifts me effortlessly and I latch around his waist. Never stopping the kiss, he lays us down on the bed, me on top of him once more.

Large hands stroke through my hair. It's passionate. Full of need. A kiss that feels like it's stealing my soul.

Just like he worked us up, he winds things back down. Slowly untangling our lips until he gently kisses the tip of my nose. Then my forehead. Then he presses my head down against his chest and I lay there, experiencing his heart beat.

My head is a tornado of thoughts. How can the man who orchestrated my own downfall be so gentle now?