He took a step back and removed his shirt. Her gaze traveled down his chest, taking in every single piece of ink he’d had decorated on his body. “You like what you see?” he asked.
The ink he’d used to cover up every single scar he’d gained as a child. Only Viper understood what he’d gone through. It was strange this connection he had to the other man. Together they had come out of their nightmare, and yet it had never really left them. There were still moments when Bain woke up sure that he was about to wake up to a stick slammed across his back.
Shaking off the feeling, he removed his pants and boxer briefs until he was fully naked. His cock was long, hard, and there was already pre-cum at the tip, but like so many times he ignored it.
Glancing over at Scarlett he saw that she had averted her gaze. Running himself a bath, he made sure there were lots of relaxing bubbles. He was getting older, and with his age there were a few aches and pains he had to take care of.
A nice long bubble bath was one of the few luxuries in life that he allowed himself, and right now, he needed to relax. He already felt the beginnings of a migraine, and within an hour he’d be useless as the pain took over.
It was kind of funny, or at least to him it was. He was a hardened killer that was often brought to his knees by the pounding inside his head.
“Do you want a bath?” he asked, looking toward her. She was now staring at him. “I don’t mind you having the water after me, but I’ll be here as you wash. I’ll see you naked.”
He watched as she swallowed, her hands rubbing against her thighs.
“I would like a bath, please,” she said.
See, he wasn’t a total monster.
Chapter Three
She’d only had sex with two different men in her life, both assholes, but neither of them looked like Bain. His body resembled a sculpture chiseled out of marble, hard and cut. His cock would give any man penis-envy. She tried not to stare, but he was so brazen and confident and very nice to look at. Her chair was poised right outside the open bathroom door, so she could see everything from his tight ass to the trail of hair leading to that monster cock. His body was a living canvas with tattoos all the way down his arms and torso. She supposed she could look away, but she didn’t want to.
For a killer, it surprised her when he began adding scented bubbles to his bath. Bain’s bathroom had an original claw-foot tub. She’d always liked antiques over modern décor. Once he stepped in, he groaned and sank into the water. He was so big, he barely fit his body into the cramped space.
This house reminded her of her grandmother’s old place with the decorative crown moldings and hot water radiators. Scarlett had spent a lot of time at her grandmother’s home until she died. Those were some of her best childhood memories. And it was a long time ago.
“This is good stuff, Scarlett.”
It was odd how this murderer seemed so personable. He must be a sociopath. He had spoken with Alexei briefly in Russian before casually pulling the trigger—no warning, no emotion. She hoped he didn’t do the same to her without notice. Maybe next time he fed her, she’d die with a sandwich in her mouth and bullet in the head.
“You speak English well,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my first language.”
“But the Russian. It sounded native.”
He chuckled, rubbing the suds over his strong arm up to his shoulder. “I speak a lot of languages. At least six that I can think of offhand. It’s necessary in my line of work, something we were taught.”
“By those same men who starved you?”
“Exactly, so you can imagine I got the dialects down pat fast.”
She only knew English. Learning new things took time and money, both things she didn’t have in abundance. Now she’d never get a chance to do any of the things on her bucket list. Scarlett wiggled in her seat to test the bonds, but they were secure, even digging into her waist. It would be the perfect time to escape, but she’d have a real opportunity soon enough. When he’d offered her his dirty bathwater, she’d only agreed because it meant he’d have to untie her.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
“Just me. That’s how I like it.”
She copied his earlier questions. “No wife? Kids?”
The water sloshed as he shifted positions, but she could still only see his shoulders and the back of his head. “Hell no. Family would be a complication. I hate complications.”
How could anyone not crave a family, stability, the all-American dream? Didn’t everyone want the white picket fence? Even after what she’d been through in relationships, she still dreamed of that elusive happily ever after. Some days that hope, even if unrealistic, was all that kept her going.
Bain must be lonely. He wasn’t young. He was mature and weathered—all man. Her thoughts began to drift into uncomfortable territory. His shoulders were broad and corded with muscle, his intricate tattoos trying to reveal his secrets. What stories would they tell?
What is wrong with me?