“I, uh, sorry, I, uh, walked in and . . .”
Get it together, Jess.
“I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
He’s silent for a long moment, so I look at him again. He’s still staring. Honestly. Maybe he’s having a brain aneurism and I just don’t know about it.
“No problem,” he says, and damned if his voice isn’t thick with need. “She doesn’t do as she’s told anyway.”
I snort. “Well, it’s not surprising, since last time I checked she isn’t a dog.”
His eyes harden and he glares at me. “I have one rule, it’s not hard to follow.”
I sigh, walking in the room and rattling my cuffs in his face. “I need to shower. Take them off.”
“You’re not curious about that rule?” he says, digging into his jeans and pulling out a key.
“Not really. Should I be?”
He shrugs and when his hands touch mine, I can’t help the shudder that runs through me. He lifts his eyes, even though his hands are still working. They meet mine and I can see full awareness in them. He knows I just shuddered, and worse, he knows why.
“Are you going to fuck me?”
“W-w-w-what?” I gasp, shaking my head quickly.
“It’s a simple question.”
My mouth drops open. “I’m your captive, I’m sure there’s a condition created for the love between a captive and a captor.”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. “Stockholm syndrome, and you don’t have it.”
“How would you know?” I say, crossing my arms.
He gives me an expressionless, almost bored look. “Your arousal is very real.”
I gape, giving him a fully disgusted expression. “What?”
“You heard me—I can almost smell it on you. All it would take for me is one swipe of my tongue through that sweet pussy and you’d be on your knees. Now, answer my question.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, buster. And what makes you think I have a sweet pussy—I could be a man.”
He snorts. “You’re not.”
“I could be,” I whisper as he steps closer, getting far too close to my comfort bubble.
“You’re not.”
“It’s a very real possibility.”
“Not.”
“Okay, so even if I’m not . . .” I begin, struggling for breath as he stares at my lips. “You still don’t know I have a sweet pussy.”
“You have a sweet pussy.”
“You can’t possibly know that!”
His mouth jerks up at the corner, and I nearly fall to my knees.
“You. Have. A. Sweet. Pussy.”
“You’re such an asshole, I hope you’re aware of that.”
He tilts his head and gazes at my neck like he wants to lunge at it and suck it.
“I’m aware,” he murmurs.
“Take a step back,” I order, my voice shaky.
“Answer my question.”
“W-w-what question?”
He steps forward again, leaning in so close I can actually smell Malibu’s perfume on him. Ugh.
“Are. You. Going. To. Fuck. Me?”
“Dream on,” I whisper, unable to force my voice to make an appearance.
He smirks. Goddamn him. I’ve not seen anything but a hard expression on his face, so seeing him smirk is kind of like seeing sunshine. I stare at his lips—oh, they’re so full and manly. And when he’s smirking, I can see a dimple. Just one, though. Strange man.
“Then my one rule won’t matter to you, will it?”
I shift nervously. “I suppose not.”
“We’ll see.”
“Can I shower now?”
He steps back, waving his arm toward the door. “By all means.”
I rush off, getting to the door and taking hold of the handle. Just as I reach it, I turn and open my mouth before I think about it.
“Do you have some kind of . . . condition?”
He raises his brows.
“I mean, you’re one thing one minute, and another the next. I thought maybe . . .”
“Maybe I just like a challenge.”
I study his face. He’s serious. He thinks I’m a challenge. A challenge for what? To get into bed? Is he trying to get into my panties because I’m fragile? I turn my expression to stone, and he notices. Boy does he notice. His whole body stiffens and he narrows his eyes.
“Don’t bother,” I growl. “You’ll never have sex with me, I can assure you of that.”
“Care to tell me why?”
I look him dead in the eye. “I imagine for the same reason you won’t let anyone touch you.”
I close the door, but not before I catch his expression.
It’s one of complete shock.
Yeah, buddy. I told you I wasn’t what you thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dimitri
The same reason as me.
The same reason as me.
No, it’s not possible. She’s read me all wrong. She would have no idea why I don’t like being touched, she’s just assumed. She couldn’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody understands what it’s like being me. All that’s happened here is that she’s attempted to piece together a story as to why I am the way I am.
I’m used to it.
Many people in my life have tried to figure me out. Countless psychologists have spoken to me, trying to get to the roots of who I am. No one ever gets deep enough—I won’t allow it. The shell of me is what I am, and that’s how I intend it to remain. Some pirate’s whore won’t allow me to change my mind.