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)
Chapter 16
Raya
Shame keeps my eyes lowered as I hand him back the towel. It’s not the first time he’s commanded me to pleasure myself and I have no doubt that it won’t be the last, considering the amount of desire in his eyes while it was happening. My shame stems more from the guilty realization that I enjoyed it. I needed it. I wanted him to tell me to do it. I don’t think I would have touched myself had he not issued the command, but my body was begging for the release. My skin was on fire, itchy with need. Wanting it this time is unlike being forced to do it the first time because the pleasure lasts longer. It doesn’t dissipate the second the orgasm is over like it did the first time.
My head is a jumble of thoughts as I walk past him into the bedroom. The chain around my neck clinks and jingles as it travels along behind me. At first, my eyes dart to the bed, I could really use more sleep. I have no doubt if I survive this situation, I’ll sleep for a month straight. But then again, I know my parents would never allow it. We’d have to jump on the prime news spots that have been covering my abduction. There’d be exclusives and interviews and every part of my life leading up to my abduction until I returned home would be picked apart as much as I want out of here.
I’m not looking forward to that part. There’s no true privacy in my life. There would be no headline that states the family is asking for privacy during this trying time. My emotions and my mental health would not even be considered. The news would be too big.
I swallow as my eyes dart to the bedroom door and for a split second, I imagine myself throwing it open and escaping. But I know that’s not possible. The lock on the door requires a thumbprint—his thumbprint.
With a sigh that encompasses more than the guilt I feel for what I just did in the shower, I cross the room and take a seat on the small sofa. My mouth waters at the sight of the bacon there. It looks golden and extra crispy.
I glance up at him as he crosses the room, his erection flagging but not fully gone as he sits right beside me. There’s a brief brush of his thigh along mine but he’s quick to move over a few inches until we’re not touching. I don’t know if it’s guilt or his own form of shame that keeps him from putting his hands on me. Maybe all the things he spit at me when he first brought me here are right. He thinks I’m a petulant, petty child. Maybe he believes I’m not worthy of his touch. Maybe the thought of touching me in the first place disgusts him.
“Eat,” he grunts as he reaches for a piece of toast. I don’t do the same.
He chews quietly and I can feel his eyes on the side of my face, but I refuse to look in his direction. I’ve acknowledged his presence too many times already.
“Is there something wrong with the food?” he asks.
I have a choice to make. I can comply and eat what’s put in front of me, because Lord knows I’m starving, but I decide to go with my first instinct instead. “Do you know how much grease there is in bacon? Do you know how many carbs are in toast and oatmeal?” I keep my voice level, the snideness I want to use bubbling under the surface.
“This isn’t a fucking five-star hotel, Raya.”
I scoff at the ridiculousness of his words. “I can’t eat a plate full of carbs and saturated fat. I’ll get as big as a house.”
He scoffs as if I’m the ridiculous one. As if he didn’t rip me away from my life and force me to play with myself in his shower.
“You could stand to gain a little weight. Now eat.”
My head jerks back, his words like a slap to the face. But I’m more surprised than angered. It’s the opposite of something my mother would say. My mother, who’s a firm believer that everybody has at least five extra pounds to lose, would say if the camera adds ten pounds, you need to lose fifteen.
I try for a different tactic. “I’m going to go crazy without exercise.” He hums and it sounds like an agreement as if he couldn’t imagine going through daily life without some form of exercise. His agreement isn’t an offer to provide that for me though. He doesn’t make a suggestion about doing jumping jacks or push-ups or wall squats.
In the room he’s caged me inside of, he just continues to eat, using long fingers to pick up another piece of bacon. I have to look away, remembering what those hands look like when he’s touching himself. I’m losing my mind. I have to be. That’s the only reason I can come up with for letting those things infiltrate my head.