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)
She’s wrapped in the bath towel, sitting on the sofa, when I reenter. Although I can feel her eyes on me, I can’t bear to look in her direction. She makes me feel like a monster and I want nothing more than to feed that dark part inside of me.
That line I refuse to cross is getting thinner. It’s fading and disappearing. But I have the ability to fight it just a little bit longer.
I place the tray of food on the end of the bed before turning back in her direction. I wouldn’t say that the look on her face is expectant, but she’s also not looking away from me. She’s not ignoring me, the way I would expect. She’s not begging me to set her free or demanding that I release her.
It surprises me. She could easily make threats. Her father could easily follow through with whatever threat she does make, but she doesn’t open her mouth.
I lock eyes with her as I drop my sweats and kick them across the room much in the same fashion she did in the bathroom not long ago. Just like I was unable to look away from her, she doesn’t follow the fabric as it slides across the floor before disappearing under the bed.
She gasps when I turn around to unlatch the chain from the floor. I know what she’s seeing. My back is a map of scars and burns. Sometimes I forget that those souvenirs from my time in Mexico are still there.
I don’t know anyone who spends any length of time turning around to look at their back in the mirror and it isn’t until I’m agitated or until I witness horrific things while working that they tingle and itch. Much like they’re doing right now with her eyes on me.
She doesn’t ask me what happened. She doesn’t placate me or tell me that she’s sorry because of the sight of them and for some reason that surprises me a little too.
Maybe she’s imagining adding more scars there. The threat of that makes my cock stir once again.
I’m not picturing her taking a knife to me or putting her cigarettes out on my skin. It’s the scrape of her fingernails curled and drawing blood as I fuck into her that I imagine. My mouth feels dry as I stand.
“Get on the bed,” I tell her. My grin is sly and hidden as I hear her stand from the couch. “Leave the towel.”
She doesn’t argue and when she walks around to the end of the bed, she’s completely naked. I watch the muscles of her arms and legs work as she climbs up on the bed. She doesn’t hesitate to pull the blankets up to her chin and I don’t know if I’m feeling generous or if I think her covering her body up would ease some of the aches the sight of her nakedness causes.
I climb in beside her, taking great care not to let our skin brush. It’s not hard in this big bed.
I lean forward, grabbing the tray of food so I can situate it between us and I feel her eyes on my back once again.
Those scars connect me to Angel Guerrera and I know he has to have some of the same injuries on his own flesh. I find myself wanting to tell her about them, even though she will probably never ask.
There hasn’t been a single person in my life that I’ve had that conversation with and I don’t know why she’s different. Why I want to tell her about the month I spent in South America, being tortured. It’s as if I need to try and explain myself. It’s like I need to tell her that I’m still a monster, but I’m not the same monster that was caught in the middle of an assassination job.
I want to explain that month changed my life. That was the switch that flipped. That’s why I began taking jobs to help others, to save others.
She probably wouldn’t believe me. It’s not like my current actions and her situation right now isn’t a complete contradiction to what I could claim is to come, but I’m not hurting her. I’m not touching her. I’m not raping her. And that has to mean something, right?
Her eyes are locked on me when I finally look up at her. Her hair is wet, a tangled mess around her shoulders. And although the blush I saw in her cheeks from her orgasm has faded, my memories of it haven’t.
I feel like I need to get the upper hand. I want to taunt her and tease her. I want to chastise her for thinking even for a second that that fake little display she put on in the beginning would convince me that’s how she orgasms.