Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
He curses under his breath in Gaelic, shaking his head. He kicks off his shoes and sighs, then he joins me on the bed. He sits up against the headboard, the pillows at his back, reaches for me, then arranges me against him.
“I’m not giving you what you want,” he says, with bloody unnerving calm, like a parent talking to a toddler in a fit. “But I’ll give you what you need.”
“Like that’s supposed to bloody help?”
He holds me to him with one arm while he takes his cell phone with the other.
“It will,” he says. A moment later, he’s talking to someone on the line.
For some reason, it actually does help being held by him. My face is pressed up to his chest, and his heartbeat’s steady. Even his voice, while he talks on the phone, seems to bring something soothing to my limbs. The old Aisling would be shocked at the nearness of Tiernan. But I’m not the girl I was then, and he’s a man now.
I only catch bits and snatches of his words to whomever he’s talking to on the phone.
“Sebastian… withdrawal…” Then he’s nodding. “Aye, right away.”
He hangs up the phone and tosses it on the table.
“We’re getting you food and water,” he says. “Are you still hot? Does it still burn?”
I nod. It hurts too badly to do anything but nod.
“We’ll get a shower for you while we wait.”
I need to go home. Everything I need is at home.
“I don’t want a shower, I want to go home.”
He shakes his head and doesn’t respond.
“You have to bring me home,” I repeat, as if maybe he didn’t hear me the first time and this will be the ticket to getting him to understand how important this is.
“No,” he repeats, his tone firm.
I smack at his chest, “I can’t stay here!”
“You bloody well will, and we’ll talk about this when you’re in your right mind.”
He picks me up again, swings his legs off the bed, then carries me into a large bathroom. The tile’s light blue, the accents silver, bright overhead lighting nearly blinding me. He turns the shower on, but I’m still fully clothed.
“Take them off,” he says.
I strip out of my clothes quickly. He scowls at the total lack of hesitation. I’ve used my body before to get what I need. When I’m fully naked, I turn to him.
“I’ll do whatever you want if you let me go,” I whisper. I offer my full, naked body to him. I lift back my head and jut my body toward him boldly, my tits and curves on full display.
His jaw firms. He points one finger toward the shower. “Get in there before I redden your damn arse.”
The old me would’ve been embarrassed by this, I think. But I don’t care right now. All I know is, right now he means it, and I don’t want to push him to make good on his threat. I step into the shower, and turn it on cold.
I lean up against the cool tile. The blissfully cool water feels so damn good, I sigh. It doesn’t relieve all the pain and fire, but some. I shake from the cold, but can’t bear the thought of the water getting any hotter than this, because it’s the chill that’s keeping the fire inside my skin from burning me.
“Feels good,” I murmur. “Feels bloody good.”
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. I look over my shoulder to find him staring at me, his gaze steadily fixed on my eyes. Does he not like what he sees? I can’t be bothered by that now, though. I need more water. I turn my body to face the steady stream, my palms open upward, and close my eyes. The water flows and flows, a cleansing waterfall, washing away my tears.
He slowly makes it warmer, and I can tolerate it.
I rotate, but I’m shaking, and I stumble. I feel his hands on me, steadying me.
“Come here,” he says, as he tugs me closer to him.
I open my eyes. There’s bottles of soap and shampoo, and I reach for them on instinct. He watches me lather my hair. This is nice stuff, much better than the cheap bottles I get for myself.
“Mmm, flowers,” I mutter to myself.
“Lavender.”
“’Tisn’t purple, though?” My words are distant and muddied. I note a corner of his lips quirks up.
“Rinse your hair, Aisling,” he says, again with the patience one might have with a small child. “I’ve got tea and food for you in the other room.”
“I don’t want to leave the shower,” I say. If I do, the burning will be worse, I know it. And it feels good in here, like the shakiness and pain are being washed away somehow.
“You must. Come, now. Behave yourself, and do what I say.”