Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(28)

But my hands ignore my head. Fingers trace over my skin, moving lower and lower, against everything I’m telling it to do. Because I’m thinking of the way his shoulder felt pressing into my belly as he slung me over his shoulder. I’m thinking of the way his hands gripped me so tightly - so possessively.

I’m thinking of the animalistic look in his eyes as he tossed me across his bed.

I moan quietly in the shower - his shower - as my fingers find my pussy slick and aching. I gasp shamefully into the shower spray as I rub a finger over my clit, teasing the little nub there and feeling the aching want shudder through my body.

My wet hair drapes down over my face and the water cascades in steamy waves over my skin as I slip a finger inside. I gasp, teeth raking over my lip as I grind my clit against the palm of my hand, the dirty feelings rippling through me.

I’m getting wetter and my pulse is beating faster, and my body wants more, before suddenly, it’s like reality hits me like a tidal wave.

Suddenly, I’m shattered from the moment.

My hand jerks away, and I suck in air as I quickly shake my head and hug myself under the spray.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I shiver despite the heat of the water, hugging myself and leaning against the warmed tile wall.

I mean honestly, what’s the matter with me? This is Stockholm syndrome is what this is. Or, something. This is the adrenaline and other brain chemicals from my traumatic experience still running havoc though my head, obviously.

I can actually be attracted to the man who kidnapped me. I can’t really be touching myself thinking of the man who tied me up, who made me pee in front of him.

And I hate that I’m still wet, thinking of him.

I shake my head angrily as I quickly whirl to turn off the water when suddenly my foot skids out from under me across some soap or something. I gasp as gravity goes topsy-turvy, and I scream as I go slamming into the shower wall, tumbling to the ground and taking the shampoo bottles and soap with me.

The bathroom door slams open, and I scream again.

“What the fuck are you doing!” I scream, covering myself and trying to shy away from Connor as he stands there looming in the doorway.

He looks away, his brow furrowing. “I heard you-” he glances back, and he grins.

“Look away!”

Connor chuckles. “You drop the soap or something?”

I’m this pathetic little ball on the floor of the shower stall, clutching an arm over my breasts and trying to hide myself with one leg.

“Do you mind?”

He looks right at me. “Not at all.”

I scowl at him. “Can I have a towel?”

“And the magic word is…”

“Fuck you?”

He grins. “Close enough. Here.”

“Can you look away?”

“Demanding little girl aren’t you.”

I roll my eyes as I snatch the towel from his outstretched hand. Little girl? I’m twenty-three, and there’s no way he’s past thirty. Still, I know there’s a world of difference between us. Something tells me just by looking at him that he’s older inside.

“Look away, please?”

He sighs, turning away in the open doorway as I stand. I turn my back to him, dropping my head down and squeezing my hair out, patting it dry as quickly as I can.

“Are you looking?”

“No.”

I glance over my shoulder, and immediately yelp as I yank the towel around myself. My face burns hot, and my eyes narrow at the man staring right at me - those eyes hungrily drinking me in.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m an opportunist.”

I yank the towel tighter around myself and wince at the bruise on my shoulder from my first escape attempt the previous night.

“C’mon, we’ll get some ice on that for you. Get dressed.”

He leaves the door open this time, disappearing into the kitchen. I quickly pull on his undershirt and boxers, looking at myself in the mirror.

I hate that I pull my hair back with my fingers, and I hate that I wish I had a brush. I hate that I peer closely into the mirror, pushing my hair behind one ear, and straightening my shoulders.

I hate that I care what I look like right now.

And I hate that I’m still soaking wet between my legs at the thought of his rough hands on me.





Chapter Sixteen





Connor




Sierra perches on one of my kitchen stools, holding a bag of frozen peas to her bruised shoulder.

This time, she only gives me a sour look instead of a kick when I zip-tied her ankle to the leg of the stool. Call it insurance, or whatever. We might have somehow turned a corner since I yanked her out of her ex’s place, but then, this girl did smash me over the head and taser me.

Twice.

I’m holding a bag of matching frozen carrots to the back of my own head as I put water on to boil to make some pasta for a late, late night dinner. We could both use the sustenance after the last forty-eight hours or so.