Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
By the time we return to the house, I’m shivering and the tips of my ears feel like icicles. Peter is nowhere to be seen, so I go upstairs and run a hot bath for myself, figuring that should warm me up.
The tall white tub is unusually shaped: square and narrow but deep, with a built-in step inside. I can’t lie down in it like in my oval tub at home, but I can sit on the step and have the water cover me up to my neck. It’s actually more comfortable this way, I decide, closing my eyes as the heat of the water seeps into me, chasing away the chill and the tension in my muscles. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe my current state as relaxed, but I’m definitely feeling better.
If I weren’t here against my will, I’d almost consider this a vacation.
“You like the Japanese tub?” a familiar deep voice murmurs behind me, and my eyes snap open as strong hands descend on my shoulders, massaging my slick skin. Instantly, my pulse jumps, the relaxed feeling giving way to the confusing mix of anger, longing, and fear that I always experience in Peter’s presence.
Twisting around, I wrap my arms around my torso as I pull out of his reach. He’s seen me naked a hundred times, but I’m still conflicted about this intimacy between us, still acutely aware of the sheer wrongness of it all. Because if our relationship was twisted before, it’s doubly so now that my stalker—the man who waterboarded me at our first meeting—is my captor.
I’m completely in his power, and we both know it.
He stands by the tall tub, his big, sun-bronzed hands resting on the porcelain edge. The sleeves of his thermal shirt are rolled up, exposing the tattoos decorating his left arm. The ink goes from the wrist all the way up to his shoulder, the intricate designs flexing with each ripple of his well-defined muscles. His thick dark hair is mussed, as if he just ran his fingers through it, and his hard jaw is shadowed by a hint of stubble.
He looks all kinds of dangerous, and so uncompromisingly male that my insides tighten. Sexy is too weak of a word to describe Peter Sokolov; what he possesses is pure animal magnetism, a raw, harshly masculine appeal that speaks to something disturbingly primitive within me.
With effort, I shut the mental door on that thought and scoot back as far as the tub allows. “Please go away. I’m bathing.”
“I can see that.” His gaze travels over my body before returning to my face, his metallic eyes dark with hunger. “So what?”
“So leave me alone.” I do my best to hold his stare without flinching. “Unless privacy isn’t something your prisoners are allowed?”
His eyes narrow, his fingers tightening on the edge of the tub. Silkily, he says, “My prisoners aren’t allowed many things, baths included. My woman, however, can do what she wants—as long as she understands one simple fact.”
“And what’s that?”
“That she’s mine.” He steps back, and before I can respond, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor before taking off his socks. Then he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans.
I suck in a breath, my arms tightening around my breasts. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He pushes down his jeans and steps out of them, then does the same thing with his briefs, revealing a thick, hard cock that curves up to his ridged abdomen. The sight floods me with adrenaline even as unwelcome heat gathers between my legs.
I can’t do this with him. Not again.
“I’m not having sex with you.” Water sloshes over the rim of the tub as I stand, no longer caring that he’s seeing me naked.
I have to get out, get away.
Peter catches my arm before I can swing my leg over the rim, and then he steps into the tub, his big body crowding me in the small square space as he pulls me back down into the water. More water sloshes over the rim, displaced by his weight, and I gasp as I find myself ensconced on Peter’s lap, my back pressed against his chest and his erection nestled between my ass cheeks. Panicked, I begin struggling, and he loops an arm around my ribcage, holding me in place.
“Oh, ptichka…” His voice is gently mocking in my ear. “Who said anything about sex?”
His teeth graze over my earlobe, and his free hand cups my breast, his thumb stroking possessively over my hard, aching nipple. I freeze, clutching at the muscled band of his arm as my heart drums against my ribs. I’m not afraid of him as much as I’m terrified of my own reaction, of the way my body melts and softens at his touch. And this is so much more than touch. Peter’s cock is like a steel pole between my ass cheeks, his balls are pressing against my sex, and his thumb is torturing my nipple as his tongue invades my ear, making me shiver with helpless pleasure.