“I’m not his.”
“No, you are mine.”
There’s that dark voice again.
Hands go around my waist and he turns me so I am facing him, his hard, broad shoulders come into my vision and it takes everything in me not to cry or drop to the ground.
“I am definitely not yours.” I spit at him.
He wipes my spit from his face then looks me dead in the eye, his hands are fast to reach for me and he throws me over his shoulder.
“Put me down,” I scream out, my hands banging on his back.
“No can do.” He slaps my ass to quieten me, but I just scream louder. “I like it when they scream. Tell me, will you like it when I make you scream?”
Before I can say anything back, he looks at his men and says, “Buttala fuori.” Then hands are over my face, and everything goes black as I breathe in something that’s not air.
It’s still on my wrist. That’s the first thing I notice when I wake.
The second is that I’m not alone.
My hands instantly go to my dress to make sure it’s on, and when I feel everything intact, I sigh in relief. But the relief is short-lived when I hear slight huffing noises.
Do I even want to turn around to see what that sound is?
I wait a few beats to see if he speaks, but he doesn’t, and I don’t want to turn to face him either. It’s just a bad dream, right? This doesn’t happen in real life. Who sells their wife? And why would anyone want to buy me?
What the fuck?
I’m not his to sell. I’m mine, and only mine. My hands shaking and my mouth dry, I lick my lips as I gather up my courage.
The huffing coming from behind me continues.
Is he fucking someone next to me on this bed?
Sliding to the edge, I hold on to my dress so it doesn’t slide up and sit up straight. My eyes lock on my shoes, which I love, that somehow now look dirty lying on the floor beside the bed. Or maybe it’s me who feels dirty. A shiver runs through me at the thought.
Can I run?
I should run.
What would they do to me if I ran?
Standing on shaky legs, I turn ever so slowly. My heartbeat is high, my palms are dewy, and my eyes are heavy. Managing to look past the blindingly white sheets of his bed, I see him, and in his hands are weights. He pumps them with force, and every muscle in his body goes taut each time he moves them.
Thank God he isn’t fucking someone. That’s not something I want to see after being fucking sold.
“Excuse me.” My voice is surprisingly even. Fucked if I know how, though.
As he stops lifting the weights, with a motion I never knew existed, he drops them to the floor and picks up a towel wiping his face before he turns toward me. His chest is bare, and I can see every bit of skin that was hidden under that black shirt last night. He’s the type you see in the movies. Those bad boys you know you should stay away from. Those ex-boyfriends who are simply bad for you, but you keep going back to because their appeal drags you in like some sort of magical spell that’s been cast on you.
But I don’t want to be some sort of rag doll who’s pulled every which way.
Been there, done that.
The man is Italian. I know it by looking at him and those strong features. Plus, I’m pretty sure he spoke it to someone as he threw me over his shoulder.
Asshole.
I try to look away, it would be the smart thing to do.
But this man has a body like no others. My husband has a nice body, but you can tell this man takes great pride in his and I appreciate that right now. Just looking at him alone is good for the vibrator bank. The way the veins in his arms pop as he moves, or the way he bites his lip as he pulls the weights up, yep great material for later.
My voice quivers when the next words leave my mouth. “I think it’s time I leave,” I say to him.
He gives me nothing, simply leans down and lifts his bottle of water, holds it to those delectable lips, and swallows. I watch as he takes each gulp, his throat moving with precision, the sweat trickling over his neck to his chest then further down his stomach. When he’s done, he places the bottle back down and walks to my side. My heart starts pumping hard, my eyes on the verge of watering, with the thought that he may just kill me. I never feared my own death before, but with him, I do. You simply can’t help but be concerned with your own mortality when a man like this stares at you like you are nothing but shit on his shoe.