Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Let her see her innocent daughter in nothing but her white cotton underwear, worshiping at the feet of her new god. I liked that idea a little too much. But I couldn’t let her catch us too soon. This wasn’t just about defiling Rose.
It was about breaking her… publicly.
The rage I had been harboring for so long was pushing through my body, begging to be let free. Part of me wanted to let it out now, rip that underwear from her body and fuck her hard and fast.
That wasn’t the kind of man I was. It was rash, and all it would do would be to give Mary Quinn her soapbox to play the victim. Besides, I was not a man of violence. I saved the brute force for less intelligent men. I was a man of strategy.
Mary Quinn didn’t need to be hurt. She needed nothing to cry about and aid in her return to society.
She needed to be crushed.
Irrevocably destroyed.
Then Rose twisted her shoulders to slide her arms into my shirt. I liked her in my clothes. There was something satisfyingly primal about it. To know she was surrounded by my scent, like some crude, barbaric claim.
I walked away from Rose to regain control of my emotions while she buttoned up my shirt and slipped back into the shoes she’d stepped out of to remove her tights. One impulsive act would ruin my little game. I refused to let that happen.
Besides, my little angel had a cut on her inner thigh, probably from the side of the dumpster. It needed to be cleaned, and I intended to care for her.
When this was all over, she would willingly follow where I led, even if it was straight to the gates of Hell.
CHAPTER 5
ROSE
The second I heard him move, I whipped around, ready to catch him watching me, not knowing what I would do about it.
But he wasn’t looking at me or gawking at me, dying just to glimpse my body. No, he was completely unaffected by me and my indecent state. He had entered the other room and turned on a light in what looked like a bathroom.
I glanced over at him every few seconds while buttoning the shirt he’d offered me, to see if his back was still turned. Each time, it was. True to his promise, he was a perfect gentleman. He granted me privacy and respected my modesty.
He had kept his promise.
I should have been happy he had kept his word, and that I wasn’t with some lecherous pervert that would prey on me. I should have felt relief and gratitude along with burning embarrassment for being a burden on someone else.
Why did I feel rejected and disappointed?
Though I had to admit, his back, even shrouded in darkness as it was, fascinated me. Just looking at him like this made my fingers itch for my charcoals. The way I would draw this body, over and over. I had tried my hand at figure sketches before, and even took a class with a live nude model. Once I got over the shock of being in a room with a naked man, I was bored.
But this man, this stranger, he wouldn’t leave me bored. I was inspired. I wanted to capture the shadows and how they seem to dance with the candlelight on his skin, in charcoal, and then the depth of the golden glow of his skin, with oil paints.
I wanted to know if it was possible to convey his intense glare, his dominating presence, and his sinful arrogance in a portrait. When he disappeared through the doorway for a moment, I took advantage of the second of privacy and buried my nose in the collar of his shirt.
His cologne smelled of bergamot, dark spices, rum, and some other essence on the shirt, something uniquely him. The combination smelled like decadence and dark desires.
I bit my lip, trying to memorize every note of this incredible smell, until he walked back into the room and caught me sniffing his shirt like some weirdo.
“I promise you, it smells far better than your clothes do right now.”
My mouth went dry, and my cheeks burned. All I could do was stare at the floor, not knowing what to do or what to say. I wished I was like my sister, Amelia. She always knew what to say in any situation. She didn’t mumble. I was positive her cheeks didn’t feel like they caught fire if she was attracted to someone, and she didn’t feel the need to stare at the ground because she wasn’t brave enough to look them in the eye.
She knew how to stand up for herself. She broke away from Mother and her demands. I hadn’t been able to do that, not entirely.
My hand went to my hair, my fingers twisting in the brown locks while I tried to work up the courage to ask him… something. Anything.