Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
His mouth watered, and blood surged to his cock, swelling his length at a painful angle behind the zipper.
“You’re staring,” she said.
He snapped his gaze to hers and glared unapologetically.
“What are you thinking about?” She ran her hands through her hair, rinsing the soap.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I can guess.” She gave his erection a pointed look. “Tell me.”
A conversation about her and him and Camila was a minefield he didn’t want to tread, but sex was different. Lust was simple and clear-cut.
He clasped his hands behind him and gave her an honest answer. “You have great tits.”
She glanced down and made a face. “I imagine they’re a lot smaller than Camila’s.”
Well, that fucking backfired.
“They fill my hands,” he said. “What more do I need?”
“Camila’s?”
He pulled in a long breath. She wasn’t going to let this go. If it made her happy, she could ask her questions, and he’d answer them. But first, he wanted her comfortable and fed.
“Time’s up.” He shut off the water and searched the room for a towel. “What do you dry off with?”
“Air dry.” She squeezed out her hair and swiped the water off her arms.
Swallowing a string of explicits, he yanked off his shirt and used it to dry her shivering body. “You can’t live like this.”
“I get by.”
With his hands grazing across her soft skin and her pussy inches from his face, he would’ve been wildly turned on under other circumstances. And he was. But his mind was stuck in a whirlwind.
She had a partial roll of toilet paper, toothpaste, soap, and a razor for shaving. She needed shampoo, underwear, basic pain medication, a fucking towel, and… What about feminine products?
“Where are your tampons? Pads?” he asked.
Her hand flew to his, where he wiped the wadded shirt across her stomach.
“I don’t…” She made a sound in her throat and stepped out of his reach. “I don’t need that.”
A fist of dread clamped his insides. “Why not?”
“I haven’t had a period since the accident.” She grabbed a t-shirt from the pile of clothes and pulled it on.
No period in eleven years? Were her female organs damaged? Removed? Or was it stress? Malnutrition? An IUD? Having been raised in a brothel, he had an in-depth knowledge of monthly cycles, hormones…all the female stuff. If she couldn’t conceive, the destruction would reach far beyond a physical injury.
Everything inside him thrashed to demand answers, but he remained silent, motionless. It was one of those instincts he depended on, and it was telling him not to push her on this.
She seemed to have shut down, moving robotically through the apartment, straightening and organizing with no purpose. Pausing at the sink, she ran hot water until steam floated into her face. Her hand trembled as she reached for a paper cup and tried to unwrap a pouch of tea.
He went to her, taking over the task. The water wasn’t hot enough to steep the leaves, but it was the only option. Once the tea was prepared, he lifted her onto the counter, set the cup in her hand, and molded her fingers around it. Then he fixed her something to eat.
Her silence pressed against him, but at least she was drinking. Dehydration was one thing he could control in this fucked-up situation.
There were no plates, so he arranged the sandwich and strawberries on the counter beside her. Then he crowded into her space, pushing against her knees until she spread them.
Wedged between her legs, he lightly stroked her damp hair and waited.
She drank half of the tea before she set it aside and closed her eyes. “I remember the crash in Peru. The falling sensation as we rolled. The bodies slamming against me. Bones being crushed. The sharp scent of blood.” Her fingers skated over her midsection, shaking as she traced the scar. “And the pain…”
He felt it, the terrible hurt in her voice, as if he were living in the memory with her. It hit him right in the chest, and he clenched his jaw until his molars protested.
“I blacked out before I saw what impaled me.” Her tone flattened, becoming detached. “I don’t remember much of the next year with all the surgeries and sleep-inducing drugs. After that, Tiago kept me locked in a room. A suite in the old hotel. He didn’t let me out for eight years.”
“He what?” Fury hit him like a thunderbolt, ringing his ears and scattering his breaths.
“I was a prisoner.” She lifted a shoulder. “He could’ve killed me. God knows why he didn’t.”
The impulse to hit something simmered beneath his skin. The next best thing would’ve been a cigarette, but he couldn’t smoke here and risk the smell alerting the guards.
He pulled away from her and paced.
“He visited me every day,” she said. “Always ate with me. Dinner was our thing. Still is. It’s like he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, no one he trusts anyway, and I was a safe ear since I was locked in a room with no contact with the outside world.”