Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Do it,” he growls when I pause, and the constant threat just his presence brings moves me into action.
The fabric sticks to my damp skin all the way down my legs, but I’m quick to kick it free once it hits my ankles.
I fumble with the clasp of my bra at my back, but I eventually open it.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine when my bra joins my panties at my feet.
It’s a testament to his control, the way he holds my gaze rather than letting his eyes rake the length of my body the way they did when I took off my dress.
I see the desire in them, however, so him not taking the liberties he could doesn’t give me any hope that I’m safe in this situation.
Hatred, anger, and, for some reason, embarrassment heats my cheeks, and I’d claw his eyes out if I didn’t know what he’d do to me after would be much worse than any harm I could cause him.
His eyes move, first rolling over my shoulders before pausing on my breasts.
I’m doing nothing to entice him, but my ragged breaths cause my chest to rise and fall, and, for a brief second, he seems entranced at the sight of them before moving on to my stomach.
I fight the urge to close my legs in an effort to keep him from seeing me there.
The brief affair I had with my college professor was nothing like this. It wasn’t romantic. Each time we met was a rush to do the deed without getting caught. I couldn’t meet him at his house or in some discreet hotel room. It was always in his office, also always bent over his desk with my skirt hiked up only enough for him to pull my panties to the side.
He was selfish in the way he used me, but at the time, I thought that’s how things were supposed to be. He didn’t have to woo me or persuade me in order to have me. The slightest amount of attention from him drew me in.
A tingle I hate and would never openly admit to washes over me at the way he takes in every inch of my body.
I hate myself for it.
I hate my parents for never letting me have any sort of life outside of my father’s campaigns.
How fucked up is it that even nefarious attention from a man who is no doubt going to end up killing me makes me react this way?
It’s fear, I argue internally. I’m not aroused. I’m terrified. Even if I hadn’t seen him shirtless at the surf shop, I’d know he is stronger than me. I have no hope of fighting him off if he advances. I might get in a few scratches, but he’d leave me broken and bleeding.
If I don’t fight, is it still considered assault? The educated side of me says yes, but that part of me that’s always been told there has to be proof for people to believe it is also a big part of my psyche.
He’s no longer appealing to me, and I had to have had a moment of temporary insanity to even consider for a second that he was good looking.
He’s a monster, a villain.
No.
He’s the damn devil.
“Out,” he says, making me realize I’m still standing in the shower.
My body moves instinctively, his threats enough to control me.
He doesn’t step in closer to me. Instead, he reaches to the side, pulling a towel from the rack before holding it out to me.
He isn’t near enough for me to take it from his hand without walking closer to him. He’s going to make me approach him, and I struggle with that as well.
I’m doing exactly what he says.
Will this be what he plans to use in his own defense? Will he tell everyone that asks that I wanted whatever it is he plans to dish out?
My hands shake uncontrollably as I take two steps toward him before reaching out to grasp the towel.
He doesn’t pull it back in an effort to taunt me.
As quickly as possible I wrap it around my body.
“It’s warm,” I tell him absently, feeling only slightly better now that I’m not fully exposed to him.
A single layer of fabric won’t protect me, but it’s like blankets on you at night, a false sense of security. With what’s happened to me so far, I’m willing to take any reprieve I’m offered and bask in it.
“I’m a criminal, a kidnapper, not a savage,” he says in a bored tone. “Now, dry off.”
I do the best I can to soak up all the water on my skin without exposing myself again, but I notice the way he follows each droplet of water that runs down my skin from my soaked hair.
My eyes burn with fresh tears as I pull the towel from my body. I bend, wondering if this is the moment he attacks as I roughly swipe the towel over and through my hair.