Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Do I want him to touch me?
Yes.
Should I let him?
No.
There’s no happy ending to this. He’s already made me an accomplice to his crime. I had no choice. I can write off the fact that I gave in due to exceptional circumstances. I can argue I gave him my body in exchange for my life. Maybe I did. I’m still not sure why I opened my legs for him. No one would blame me. But a second time? It makes my innocence a bit harder to swallow.
The cops are already doubtful of my statement. I don’t want to get sucked deeper into this mess. I’ve already lost my job and almost my home. I have no wheels or income. My life has all but gone to pieces, and I’ve yet to pick them up. Who knows what another night will cost me? I don’t want to deal with the consequences of giving in to him again. I’ll be faced with handling the aftermath of tonight alone. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone, and he’s not coming back. Unless it’s to make good on his threat if I talk.
Giving me one of those half-smiles, he walks to the door that leads off the lounge and opens it in silent invitation.
He didn’t bring a gun inside. If he had, I could’ve tried to disarm him. My dad taught me to shoot before I could walk. I can handle a pistol or rifle as well as any soldier, and when I pull the trigger, I always hit a bullseye.
“Cas,” he says in his deep, husky voice, letting me know he’s waiting.
I’m not shy about my body or about nakedness. I love the feel of skin and the beauty of flesh. What makes me hesitate is my own reaction. It’s what letting him watch can lead to. I’m not immune to his touch. He excites me. The danger that emanates from him draws me. He’s the magnificent, walking proof that not all sex is a cliché and that fantasies can be real.
That’s not why I finally put one foot in front of the other. What makes me cross the floor is the need to dislike him. I don’t want to trust him, but I do. I do because he hasn’t hurt me. He hasn’t killed me. Yet. He will if he must, and that’s why I can’t let my foolish heart feel safe with him. I need to prove to myself my trust is unfounded when he breaks his promise. That is why I walk through the doorframe into the bedroom.
He follows but not so close on my heels as to make me nervous. Well, not more nervous than what I already am. He gives me time to take in the space. The room is small but clean. It smells like a mixture of thatch and laundered linen. A comforter without a single crease covers a double bed. The pillows in their white pillowcases look fluffed out.
“There are towels and a robe,” he says, opening the en-suite bathroom door. “I brought shampoo if you’d like to wash your hair.”
The consideration catches me off guard. The dinner, the candle, and the toiletries… he prepared for spending the night. When he made it sound as if breakfast was my idea, that breakfast had already been a foregone conclusion.
“Go ahead,” he says, “unless you want to chicken out.”
No one calls me a chicken. I walk to him and stop so close our bodies are almost touching. I notice with satisfaction how his chest expands with the breath he takes and holds.
“If I don’t let you watch?” I challenge.
His dark eyes heat. “I get to touch.”
He scorches me with nothing but a look. “That’s not what you said earlier. You said you won’t touch, but you get to watch. You didn’t say anything about touching if you can’t watch. You changed the rules.”
Holding my gaze, he cups my nape and brings his mouth a hairbreadth from mine. His words are soft-spoken, which only adds to their intensity. “I make the rules.”
Affected, too much so, I step away, escaping the touch and the quiet but undoubtable promise. No idle threats. No empty promises. I don’t have to know him well to know this about him.
A promise is a promise, even if it’s an unspoken one. Making good on my promise, I turn my back on him and step onto the bath rug. Then I face him. I don’t shy away from the challenge. Keeping my gaze trained on his face, I take in his expression as I undress. When I pull off my sneakers and socks, his lips tilt in that lazy way that says he’s amused. He braces a shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms and ankles. If I were naïve, I would’ve thought he’s getting comfortable to watch the show, but there’s more to the relaxed stance. He’s blocking the only exit, trapping me in the small space.