Free Vanquish by Pam Godwin

titles, and oh baby, there she was, all laid out in a dozen manuals.
    Break Out Guide for Shut-ins. Face Your Phobia. Imperfect OCD. Living With Agoraphobia.
    OCD was a term he knew, and one that had been scraping at the back of his mind since he'd walked in. But what the fuck was agoraphobia? He cracked open the text Out Without Fear and flipped to the first page.
    Agoraphobia is an anxiety disorder in which a person has a fear of being in open places where it is hard to escape. The individual might feel embarrassed, helpless, or trapped, and the intense fear can manifest into a panic attack. Agoraphobics avoid attacks by restricting or completely eliminating activities outside the home.
    No shit? That solved the mystery behind her meltdown outside, and maybe why she'd run from the door when she unlocked it. He skimmed a few chapters as a weird mix of emotions clumped in his stomach. Part of him felt bad for the girl, a quaint feeling to be sure. If he were a fucking pansy, maybe he'd explore that. Instead, he focused on the sharper, more familiar sentiment that clung to his gut.
    He wanted her vulnerability. To use her body. To bleed off the pent-up shit inside of him. To fill the emptiness. To get his fucking mind off Liv Reed.
    Amber was the one he’d been waiting for, and considering the irony that she lived right next door to Liv, maybe Amber had been waiting for him.

Van knew the risks in kidnapping all too well, but taking an agoraphobic outside her door? Christ, that was a new one. Were there medical considerations? Would Amber keel the fuck over and die from an aneurysm?
    Wait, why did he care if she had seizures and shit? Because he didn't want to kill her. If he managed to successfully move her, she probably wouldn't even try to escape. His muscles swelled with heat just thinking about her locked in his house. Locks optional?
    The swoosh of the bathroom faucet interrupted his romantic thoughts, followed by the approaching click of her heels.
    “What are you doing?” Her horrified whisper sent a quiver of pleasure down his spine.
    Just to rile her a bit more, he didn't stand, didn't turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he pocketed the toothpick, lifted the glass of mixto tequila from the shelf, and drained half. He took his time, drawing out the tension that wafted from her, savoring it. Unlike the piss burning his throat. Lighter fluid would've gone down smoother.
    Eventually, he returned the book, out of order, and rose with his back to her. “How long have you been shut in, Amber?”
    “You need to leave.” Her voice was so strangled it sounded like she'd lost the ability to breathe.
    He shifted to face her, his expression relaxed, his tone more so. “Are you medicated?” An inventory of her medicine cabinet was on his list of to-dos. He needed a better understanding of the disorders.
    “Leave right this minute, and I won't call the cops.” She clutched her knuckles and raised her chin, the sinews in her neck pressing against delicate skin.
    Was she telling him to leave because he'd discovered her phobia? A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Go ahead. Call in the pigs.” He waved a hand at the door. “If you don't mind them tracking the outside world all over your nice floors.” The self-help text had said, The individual might feel embarrassed. “Maybe they won't jump to conclusions about someone with a mental disorder going ape-shit on her house-guest.”
    A noise squeaked in her throat, and her eyes darted from him, to the front door, and back again. Then they lowered, as did her chin. “What do you want from me?”
    Ah, fuck, he was screwed. The only thing missing from her response was Master . He drew a deep breath through his nose and tried to calm the fuck-her-take-her-break-her rap against his ribs.
    “I'm going to finish my drink” —he raised the glass, his voice soft and casual— “while we wait for your projects to dry. Then I'll drop them in the mailbox when I leave. Isn't