Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 165(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 165(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
This is a last meal.
My conclusion is confirmed when he lifts the silver lid to reveal a scrumptious-looking dish of chicken on rice, complete with a sprig of parsley as garnish. The rich aroma fills my nostrils. Under different circumstances, my mouth would’ve watered, but my empty stomach only churns.
“Pollo con chocolate,” he announces. “I’ve been told it’s one of the best Latin American dishes.”
“Who made it?”
“Esguerra’s cook.” He scoops up a forkful and brings it to my mouth. “Open.”
“Is it poisoned?”
He chuckles. “No.”
He has no reason to lie. He can easily force it down my throat if I refuse to eat. I part my lips not because I’m hungry, but because I don’t have a choice. If this is my last meal, I should try to make the most of it.
When he carefully pushes the fork into my mouth, the flavors burst on my tongue. The dish is creamy with a savory, peanut-flavored sauce and a hint of cacao that complements the chicken surprisingly well. The bite of chili that registers after I’ve chewed is mild.
“Like it?” he asks when I’ve swallowed.
“It’s delicious,” I say honestly. “Have you tried it?”
“Not yet.”
He offers me a sip of wine. It’s crisp, tangy, and refreshingly cold. It somehow enhances the flavors of the food that linger on my tongue. With my arms stretched tightly above my head, I sit dead still while he feeds me. I watch his eyes while he watches my lips. He seems to home in on every bite and swallow. He’s meticulous in feeding me, offering small enough bites so I can chew comfortably. When the fork leaves a trace of sauce on my lip, he wipes it away with a linen napkin before giving me another bite. In this manner, he alternates between the food and the wine until half of the food on the plate is gone and I’m buzzing.
I shake my head. “I can’t eat another morsel.”
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“It was a big portion.”
“At least finish the wine.”
I’m pathetically grateful for his kindness, for numbing my senses with alcohol for what lies ahead. When he tilts the glass, I gulp down what’s left. He puts the glass back on the tray and leaves it on the ground. I start to tremble in earnest when he stands.
This is the moment.
The shaking gets worse when he lifts a hand to my face.
“Shh.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it ever so gently over the healing cut.
His gaze follows the action, all his concentration focused on the task. I bite down hard on my back teeth to stop the involuntary quiver of my jaw that betrays my body’s severe state of stress. He trails a finger along the line of my quaking jaw and gently cups my face. Then he kisses me sweetly, invading my mouth with leisurely strokes of his tongue until I melt and the uncontrollable chattering stops. My eyes flutter closed. He tastes of mint and coffee.
“That’s better,” he breathes against my lips.
When I open my eyes, I catch him staring at me with searing heat. My face is slack from his kiss, but my body still trembles. He smoothes his hands over my arms, rubbing softly, and I don’t resist when he pushes me down slowly until my back hits the bench. I let him stroke me all over. I let him feel me under the shirt, brush his palms over my nipples and stomach. I let him feel between my legs where my wetness betrays me.
No meaningless words are said when he unzips his fly and takes out his cock. I open my legs and allow the touch of his hands to chase away the shivers of my body and the chill of my heart. He stretches out over me, supporting his weight on a hand next to my head. He fists the other around the root of his cock and aligns it with my opening. I sigh when he sinks into me, embracing the feelings he offers. The rocking of his hips makes me forget. I go with the ebb and flow, surrendering my fear. The shivering stops as my back scrapes over the rough wood of the bench and my arms pull at the ropes. I give over to the gentle pace of this strange, soft coupling, knowing everything from here on is out of my control.
He doesn’t kiss me again. He watches me as he touches my clit and brings me closer to the edge. He’s kind after all, this ruthless killer, giving me pleasure as a distraction. My need climbs. My back arches. In that split second before everything unravels, panic hits. Claustrophobia strangles me. I toss in my constraints, frantic with helplessness. I need to hold on to him.
“Shh.” He kisses my lips. “I’ve got you.”