Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“What’s going on right now, Calvino?” My head’s spinning and I can’t tell if he’s toying with me for his own sick pleasure before he inevitably kills me or if there’s a point to all of this insanity.
“I’m wondering if I should keep you as one of my dancers. I dreamed about it last night, you know, your body glistening with that fake glitter shit, your tits bare and your nipples hard. Maybe I’ll make you my private stripper and build a pole in my living room. Every night I’ll come home and command you to dance for me, to take off every stitch of clothing until you’re entirely naked, until your pussy glistens and drips with need. Maybe I’ll turn you into my toy, little Gracie. Maybe I’ll fuck you until you scream and beg me to keep you forever.”
I take a long sip of coffee and holy shit, it’s really hot and burns my tongue, but my core’s tingling with wild excitement at the prospect of him owning me and fucking me like I’m his little plaything. Yes, that’s insane, definitely insane, entirely unhinged, but he’s looking at me like he truly wants to do it, and some part of me believes he just might.
Come on, Gracie girl, what’s wrong with a little adventure? Riley’s voice again, but I’m not sure even she would think it’s remotely rational to be entirely turned on in a situation like this.
But holy shit.
“You can’t just… you can’t just kidnap me,” I manage to say, which is lame but it’s all I can get out.
“I can and you know it.” He casually takes a bite of his pancake and it’s like the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen.
How does this guy make eating pancakes look sexy as hell?
I must be the one that got drugged last night because I’m out of my damn mind.
“I don’t think you’re the crazy serial killer Buffalo Bill type, and since I’m not dead yet, my guess is you have a plan for me. One that doesn’t involve turning me into a sex slave.”
His eyebrows raise. “You wouldn’t be a slave, Gracie. You’d be a willing participant.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Perhaps I’ll just leave you tied up in my extra room then. I’ll come and go as I please.”
“That’s not better. That’s actually much worse.” My heart’s racing and I’m about to freak out. “Are you just messing with me?”
His smile is maddening. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a psychopath and also I drugged your brother last night.”
“That’s a fair point. Except the part about me being a psychopath.”
“You haven’t exactly proven me wrong yet.”
He grins and leans closer. “The fact that you’re free and not dead suggests I have some measure of empathy, however small.”
I grimace and look away. “Okay, that’s true. Can you tell me why you haven’t hurt me yet? This is driving me insane. Why are you acting like everything is normal?”
He runs a hand through his hair and I admire the hard line of his bicep as he tugs it slightly, tilting his head, his forearm flexing.
“I haven’t killed you yet because I think I have a use for you.”
I run my finger around the rim of the coffee cup and feel the heat raise up along my skin. “Other than tying me up and, you know, whatever.”
“Fucking you senseless? Are you unable to even say that?”
“I can say it.” I’m blushing like crazy and I’m stupidly embarrassed. “I just choose not to.”
“Jesus, Gracie. You work in a strip club. You’re dressed like a cam girl thot right now. You can’t even say fucked senseless?”
“I’m not going to be goaded into saying something I don’t want to say.” Although I probably should, considering my life is very much in his hands right now, but I get the feeling he’s toying with me and teasing me and riling me up just for fun. It’s not a bad idea to play along.
And I also don’t want to say it.
“You’re a fascinating little thief.” He leans back and studies me and I feel like I might spontaneously combust from the heat of his stare. “But yes, my use for you has nothing to do with your body. Not exactly, anyway.”
“What do you want?” I force myself to meet his gaze even if I’d rather dump his hot coffee in my lap just to spare myself the indignity of letting him eye-fuck me into oblivion, and maybe to hide the evidence of just how dripping wet I am at this moment, which is wildly inappropriate.
Apparently, I’m capable of being turned on even when my life is on the line—something about the fear and danger mixing with the excited pleasure to create a heightened awareness beyond anything I’ve experienced before.
It’s extremely inconvenient and I wish I would stop it.