Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
The hoodie slides off my shoulders. Someone takes it from me. Folds it. Sets it on a chair like it's not a ratty piece of garbage I've been living in for days.
The one with blonde hair kneels. His hands find the waistband of my leggings.
Oh god.
"Wait—"
He looks up at me. Blue eyes. Still gentle. Still kind.
He doesn't wait.
He pulls my leggings down. I'm not wearing underwear because I haven't done laundry in three weeks and I ran out and—
Jesus Christ, Scarletta. You're standing in front of three strange men and you're not wearing underwear.
The leggings pool at my ankles. Someone lifts my left foot. Then my right. The fabric disappears.
I'm naked except for my bra. Sports bra. Gray. The elastic is shot. One of the straps is held together with a safety pin.
The tall one reaches around my back. Finds the clasp.
"I really don't think—"
Shush.
The bra falls away.
I'm completely naked.
I should cover myself. Cross my arms over my breasts. Put my hands between my legs. But I'm frozen. Paralyzed. Three men are looking at me and I can't move and I can't breathe and—
Hands touch my elbow. Guiding me. Not forcing. Just—moving me.
There's a tub. I didn't see it before. How did I not see it before?
It's massive. Freestanding. Oval. Carved from a single piece of white marble that looks like it was stolen from a Roman bathhouse. Steam rises from the surface.
They guide me to the edge. I step up onto a small platform. The tall one takes my hand. Steadying me.
I lower one foot into the water.
It's perfect.
Not too hot. Exactly right. The kind of temperature that makes your muscles unclench before you realize they were clenched.
I sink lower. The water rises around my calves, my thighs, my hips. Someone's hand stays on my elbow until I'm sitting, submerged to my shoulders.
The heat hits me everywhere at once. My skin flushes. My heartbeat slows.
When was the last time you took a bath? When was the last time you—
Hands touch my hair. Gentle fingers working through the tangled mess. I haven't brushed it in—
Don't think about that. Don't think about how disgusting you are.
Water pours over my head. Warm. Someone's using a pitcher or a cup, rinsing my hair, smoothing it back from my face.
Something floral-scented. Shampoo. Expensive shampoo that doesn't smell like synthetic fruit. Hands massage my scalp. Working the lather through. Fingers finding every knot, every tangle, patiently working them loose.
I close my eyes.
This is insane. You're insane. Three strange men are washing your hair and you're just—sitting here. Letting them.
More water. Rinsing. The shampoo swirls away.
Then conditioner. Thicker. Silkier. They work it through the ends of my hair, patient with every snarl.
A hand appears in front of my face holding a white washcloth. Soft. Probably Egyptian cotton or some shit I can't afford.
The blonde one kneels beside the tub. He dips the cloth in the water, adds something from a bottle—body wash that smells like jasmine and something darker, richer—and begins washing my arm.
Long strokes. Methodical. He lifts my wrist, turns my hand over, washes my palm, between my fingers.
The one behind me washes my back. Shoulders. Spine. The small of my back.
The third one washes my other arm.
They don't speak. Don't explain. Just clean me.
The washcloth moves to my collarbone. My throat. Down between my breasts.
I should say something. Stop this. But my mouth won't work.
The cloth slides lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. The soft flesh I hide under oversized hoodies.
Lower.
Chapter 8
Caleb
The Master Suite lives up to its name.
Sixteen monitors mounted on the mahogany-paneled wall, each showing a different woman in various stages of preparation. Some crying. Some defiant. One laughing nervously with her attendants like this is a spa day and not exactly what it is.
I'm not interested in fifteen of them.
The other panel of monitors—all six that I've configured myself—show different angles of Scarletta's preparation suite. Camera one: wide shot of the entire bathroom. Camera two: close-up of the tub. Camera three: overhead view. Camera four: profile angle. Cameras five and six I can control manually, zooming and panning as needed.
Right now, I need camera two.
The washcloth has traveled south. Between her legs. The blonde one—I should've gotten his name, tipped him extra—moves with professional efficiency. Not groping. Not violating boundaries. Just washing.
Thoroughly.
Scarletta's eyes go wide. Her mouth opens slightly. I watch her chest rise and fall faster.
She doesn't stop them.
Doesn't close her legs, doesn't push his hand away, doesn't say a word.
The cloth slides over her pussy. Once. Twice. A third time that lingers.
Her thighs part slightly.
There it is.
I zoom camera two until I can see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her nipples have gone hard, the slight tremor in her breathing.
She's written this scene seventeen times across her portfolio. Different setups—kidnapped and bathed by her captor's servants, prepared for a wedding night by handmaidens, cleansed before a ritual. The details change but the core fantasy stays consistent: being touched by strangers while powerless to stop it, shame and arousal tangled so tightly she can't separate them.