Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Before I can stop myself, I call out, “I can do it.”
He was in the process of fishing out alcohol pads and a bottle of disinfectant, but he stops and looks up. I blush under his dark gaze and swallow. “I know how to…”
There was no need for me to trail off there, but it’s hard to talk when he’s looking at me like that. With so much intensity that it doesn’t feel like looking at all but touching. It becomes harder when I realize exactly what he’s looking at.
My hair.
My loose, finger-combed hair.
Every day since I’ve met him or rather since he kidnapped me, I’ve taken the time to braid my hair. Just because every morning, that’s what I do. I even went to the café with my braid hanging over my shoulder. This morning, though, I left my hair loose, the long strands falling down my back and over my shoulders. It feels strange, heavy, like there’s a weight on my shoulders, but also freeing because I can feel the wind in my hair.
I don’t know what made me do it. But now that’s he’s staring at me like that, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should’ve done what I usually do. Squirming in my seat, I clear my throat. “So as I was saying, I know how—”
This time, I stop talking because something zips through the air, and without thinking or hand-eye coordination, my tied hands reach out and catch it. It’s the pack of alcohol swabs. Good. Now I have something to do instead of blushing and feeling awkward.
With the swabs in my hand, I come to my feet. Slowly, I make my way around the smoking firepit, my feet crunching the leaves, stepping on the dirt and twigs. I should probably be watching where I’m going, but I’m not.
Because I’m watching him watch me.
I’m watching him take me in as I walk toward him. My loose hair, my bloodstained dress. My tied hands in front of me and my bare calves. I’m also watching the stubble on his hard jaw. It’s grown thicker over the course of the last few days, now bordering on a light beard. But more than seeing those whiskers that cover his beautiful face, though, I’m feeling them.
Between my thighs.
I didn’t dare look when I was washing up, but I think he left marks down there. From his stubble. And they’re all pulsating right now, burning up, the closer I get to him. It should hurt, all of this. My bare feet walking on the dirt, those little rash marks of his stubble, and it does. But it hurts so good that I can’t help but curl my toes every time my inner thighs brush together. I can’t help getting wetter.
When I finally reach him, there’s a moment when I’m taller than him, and he has to crane his neck up to look at me. It should make me feel powerful for once. That I’m finally looking down at him. But then he goes ahead and widens those powerful thighs of his that I just saw on full display, making a place for me between them, and I lose whatever illusion of power I had.
My knees feel weak and I go down to the ground.
I kneel in front of him, but it’s okay. It’s so I can be at eye level with his massively broad shoulders. And thereby his injury.
It has nothing to do with whatever craziness is going on in my head and between my slippery legs. That his eyes flare at my new position, and his bare chest swells with a large breath, is something I’m choosing to ignore. Then, before I can draw another breath, he touches me.
Or rather, my hair.
He reaches out and runs his fingers through the loose strands and goose bumps rise all over my body. I clutch my dress with my tied hands and whisper, “What are you… doing?”
“Touchin’ your hair,” he whispers huskily, staring at his fingers strumming through the mass like the strings of a guitar.
“But—”
“Only ever seen you in a braid,” he goes on. “Didn’t know your hair was this long. Or this thick.”
“My hair’s always been this long and uh, thick,” I say lamely.
He fists the ends, tugging at it, making me gasp. Before wrapping it around his wrist, once, then twice, making me whimper and clutch my dress harder. Licking his lips, he rasps, “Long enough to use it as a leash and thick enough to pull that leash hard.”
He accompanies that with a hard tug of my hair that almost makes me lose my balance, but his thighs around me keep me safe. Still, I whisper, “Please.”
Which makes him look up and find the result of his ministrations. My neck is stretched back, and my spine is bowed. I’m clenching my thighs, and even though he can’t see that, I still think he knows. He also knows how wet I am and how close to exploding. Something like satisfaction passes through his features before he lets go.