Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
My dad is a kind, working-class man whom I deeply respect and love. He’s a big, strong guy who can fix anything with his hands. He works in construction as an electrician. Union guy.
Even though Armando is more of the slick Italian suit type, there’s something about him that resonates for me. Some similarity between them that hits me on a biological level. My brain imprinted my father as the archetypal man. Armando fits the archetype. He’s strong. Take charge. He gets shit done.
Armando steps into the shower. He’s quick about it, soaping everywhere and rinsing off in no more than two minutes.
He pulls on his boxer briefs after he dries off and returns to the side of the bed. He doesn’t speak as he unwinds my tights from the bedpost. He doesn’t untie my wrists, though.
Maybe he thinks I’ll try to punch him again.
I still might.
He climbs in the bed beside me. I keep my back to him, my shoulders hunched. I’m still nursing my piss-off.
When he molds his body to mine and wraps an arm around my waist, I swing my bound arms back to elbow him. He’s too fast. He catches my wrists and ties the loose end of the tights to his own wrist. Ah. Now I understand. He wasn’t trying to spoon me. He’s attaching himself to me.
I imagine he considers it to be kinder than keeping me tied to the bedpost. I guess it is. This position’s better, anyway.
And I secretly enjoy the feel of his arm draped over me, the weight of it. It’s centering. Comforting in ways it shouldn’t be. It’s been a long time since I’ve been held by a man, and I forgot how much I love it. The scent of soap and clean skin enters my nostrils.
His cock twitches against my ass.
“We’re not having sex again,” I say firmly. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.
“Understood,” he rumbles.
“I mean, ever.”
“Shh, Flowers. Go to sleep.” He wraps his big hand over the top of my bound ones, almost like we’re holding hands.
Because I hate how much I like it, I say, “I still think you’re an asshole.”
He doesn’t answer, and I start feeling guilty, like I should worry about hurting his feelings.
Then he speaks. “Listen, I know you’re pissed, Hannah. But trust me, tying you up and leaving you here was the best option I had.”
I turn my head in his direction, staring angrily at the ceiling. “That is such bullshit.”
“Would you rather I left you tied in the van in the strip club parking lot? Or—fuck. I’m not even going to tell you the other possibilities.” Frustration laces his words.
A shiver runs up my spine because I suspect they involve getting rid of me—the only witness to his crime—permanently.
And I’m suddenly as weary as he looks. Maybe I’m just soaking in his state, but it’s a crushing weight. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, and one slides down my nose. “What about the option where you just trust me? I told you I won’t talk. When will you believe that?”
Armando is silent behind me, but his body is stiff and tense. His arm has tightened around me and so has his grip on my hands. Finally he exhales loudly into my hair. “I do trust you, Hannah. It’s just that the stakes are too high here to go on trust. If I make a mistake, it will cost me my life.”
Okay, those are high stakes.
“I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. I really am. But shit went down that I didn’t plan, and now I’m just trying to manage the mess.”
“And I’m part of that mess.”
“You’re the only good part,” he says. I think I feel his lips brushing the back of my neck, and I try to stifle the shiver of pleasure that runs through me. Try to steel myself against his words, even though I believe him. I know they’re true.
“Don’t leave me tied up again.” Tears clog my voice.
He pulls my body back against his snugly. “I’m sorry, Flowers.”
Earlier I was sure sleeping with my wrists bound would be impossible, but I already find myself sinking into a deep relaxation, the heat and weight of Armando’s body like one of those weighted blankets that are supposed to be so soothing.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Hannah,” he rasps into the darkness.
He already has. But I think he knows that.
I’m an emotional sponge, and that makes me soak in all his feelings.
So I believe him. I have compassion for his situation. But it doesn’t mean we’re not speeding toward a brick wall. Or that it won’t hurt like hell when we crash.
Chapter Eighteen
Armando
I jerk awake several times during the night, my heart pounding, the instinct to kill sharp as a knife edge, but each time, when I find my body wrapped around Hannah’s soft, warm form, my pulse slows. Each time, I bury my face in her hair—her incredible curtain of tight curls—and breathe in her scent, and I’m home.