Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
On the one hand, I was glad to have most of my memories back. In my opinion, it was always better to know than to be in the dark. But on the other hand, knowing made shit all the more complicated.
On the plus side, he had no idea that I remembered. So I had that to work with. I could just keep playing dumb about what had happened. Maybe that would be my ticket off this damn beautiful prison.
You know, if I could keep my friggin hands off of him.
Another whimpering sound escaped me as I pushed off the door and made my way toward the bathroom where I stripped out of my wet bathing suit, hanging it up to dry in the shower.
I mean, really, what the fuck?
Sure, I’d made some—fine, quite a few—bad decisions where men were involved. But I’d never been minutes away from fucking my kidnapper. That was a whole new level of fucked-in-the-head.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
I was still riding high off my enjoyment of that slide, of the free-fall for a second that made my stomach drop before I was swallowed up by the ocean that was warmer than I’d expected.
Then I’d gotten to the ladder and looked up and saw a man who didn’t look so much like the rich playboy without his fancy suit and expensive shoes on.
No.
If anything, he had the more rugged body of someone who did manual labor for a living. Or someone who spent a fair chunk of time carving out their body. And it was carved out.
The man had an eight-pack.
I mean who, in real life and outside of those underwhelming gym bros—had an actual eight-pack?
Even more surprising than the muscles, though, were the scars.
The man had a lot of scars.
What ultra-millionaire was walking around sporting scars like that?
Had he gotten drunk and fallen off his yacht?
I mean, how did that happen?
“Ugh,” I grumbled, looking at my reflection, silently chastising myself for having any sort of curiosity when it came to Bellamy.
The only thing I needed to be curious about where he was concerned was what he planned to do about knowing that I’d killed Brandon Adams.
I imagined if he planned to turn me over to the cops, he’d have done that already.
So, what?
It made no sense.
I guess I could just outright ask.
But if I did that, he was going to ask for things back.
I guess I could lie.
I had a pretty decent poker face.
If I was careful, I could pull it off. Then I would get the information I needed and find some way off this fucking beautiful prison villa.
To get answers out of him, though, that meant I would have to face him. After having an orgasm with him.
Decision made, I got into pajamas and climbed into the bed, finding myself out cold after just five minutes even though I’d been sure that I was going to toss and turn about the events of the last couple of days.
I woke up to the sun streaming in the windows, making me grumble and throw an arm over my head until the scent of fresh coffee brewing had me climbing out of bed and making my way downstairs.
Not even the humiliation of the whole deck debacle could keep me from my coffee.
“Ah, there you are, love,” Bellamy said, annoyingly perky early in the morning. “Not a morning person then,” he said when a sound that was pretty similar to a growl escaped me. “I made coffee. And Adnan’s wife sent over breakfast.”
Damn. I’d missed it. That boat was the only way off this villa. Sure, I could try swimming, but I didn’t really trust my mediocre swimming skills for that far of a distance.
“What is it?” I asked when he gestured at a covered plate.
“Moong Dal Cheela,” Bellamy said and I tried not to like the way he seemed to effortlessly pronounce that.
“Which is?” I asked, looking over at the flat almost omelet-colored pancakes of some sort.
“Well, from what I can gather, it is some sort of fried lentil batter with cottage cheese and vegetables.”
“They even manage to get veggies into breakfast,” I said, walking over and sniffing the food, deciding it smelled pretty good, veggies aside. I slid one onto a plate, grabbed a fork, then shuffled outside without another word to Bellamy.
He followed me out.
Of course he did.
And he went ahead and slid into the round seating area with me, blocking me in on one side with his body, and the other with his legs propped up on the seat cushion.
“This is cozy.”
“Oh joy,” I drawled, sipping my coffee.
“Oh, come on, love. I’m not that bad.” I must have glowered at him, because he let out this entirely too sexy chuckle. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dick-shriveling resting bitch face?” he asked, smirking.