There’s a part of me that yearns for my humanity and another louder part that knows I’ll never have it again, and don’t deserve to walk in the light even if I could.
I open my bedroom door and find her lying on her side with her knees brought up to her chest, her ass almost entirely exposed, the mound of her delicious pussy covered only by a pair of black lacy panties, the tiny skirt a worthless bunch of fabric up around her waist, and her hands are tied behind her back, bound tightly.
I can’t take my fucking eyes off her and almost miss the note tacked onto the top drawer of my dresser with a piece of tape: Enjoy her. Diego.
His idea of a fucking joke.
I rip it down and crumple it and Gracie sits up, frowning, the tie still bound tightly across her eyes. “Is someone there?”
The fear in her voice makes my blood pulse quicker but I don’t answer. She struggles to sit up and one strap of her top falls down over her elbow, revealing even more of her breasts, nearly a hint of her hard nipple, and I wonder if she’s excited to be lying in my bed on my soft sheets with her hands tied behind her back—but no, she’s likely wondering if I’m going to murder her tonight.
Which is a fair question, and I haven’t decided the answer yet.
She’s alluring, like a tiny red-headed fairy, no more than five-foot-three at most and curvy in the best possible ways with creamy thighs and full lips and big innocent eyes that always stare around Crystal Lake like she’s never seen a strip club before in her life. Which, based on her resume, it’s extremely likely she hasn’t. I wonder for the millionth time why I ever hired a girl like her, with no experience waiting tables anywhere, let alone at a club like mine, with good grades and a nice smile and a wholesome look.
Maybe I wanted to ruin her. Maybe I wanted to get her dirty.
I walk toward the bed. She shuffles back and her skirt shifts down, covering her again as she reaches the headboard and leans against it. Her mouth opens, lips parted, tongue pressed against her little white teeth and I’m losing my fucking mind, staring at this girl tied up in my bed—and why do I give a shit about her? Why do I care that she’s defenseless and mine for the taking if I were into that sort of thing? Gracie is beautiful, but I’ve seen beautiful before, I’ve had beautiful, conquered it and owned it—beauty holds nothing for me now, it’s only empty looks, it’s skin-deep nothing.
No, she has something else. I’m not sure what yet, and maybe her intense draw is the key to why she drugged my brother and why she was breaking into his phone.
“Please, if you’re here, just say so.” She’s breathing hard. Her breasts rise and fall in rhythm as I stand at the end of the bed. I could reach out, grab an ankle, and pull her over.
Instead, I only say, “Hello, Gracie.”
She starts, looking around. “Calvino? Is that you?”
“I’m home.” My words are like a velvet purr in the back of my throat and I watch a shiver run down her body, either the chill of impending death or the toe-curling thrill of potential pleasure—the two things aren’t so different.
“Diego said if I waited and didn’t make a mess then you might not hurt me.”
“Diego says a lot of things. Did he tie your hands behind your back?” It’s a stupid question. I know he did. He set her up and presented her like a present for me, like the rope keeping her tied up is the bow, and all I need to do is unwrap her to make her mine.
“Yes, he did, and he said I should be quiet and wait, so I that’s what I’m doing.” She’s desperate to make sure I know she’s cooperating.
I walk around to the side of the bed. “Don’t move.” She stiffens as I reach out and push her to the side slightly so I can release the length of black cord Diego used to bind her tight. The knots are good, but easily removed from the outside, and soon she’s rubbing her wrists and pulling off the blindfold, blinking at the sudden dim light from the overhead bulbs.
I walk slowly back to the end of the bed and she tracks my every move. I love those eyes, so wide and green and lovely, and I wonder how many men she’s destroyed just by looking at them with that too-cute gaze. I wonder if I’m about to be one of them, and the idea makes me smile.
“It isn’t what you think,” she says quietly, staring at me with fear. “What happened earlier.”