He doesn’t seem like a psychopath or a killer, though the tattoos prove otherwise. Bottom line? He sees me for who I am.
I know that for certain because I told him everything when I took the drug he gave me. He absorbed it all and still gave me two orgasms. Still brought me into the shower and washed me with so much care it made me want to weep.
Embarrassingly, I did weep. And then I told him why I wept. I confessed that no one had ever taken such care of me. That after my dad was murdered, my mom became severely depressed, and Anya was the only person who looked out for me.
He said very little, but he didn’t stop. He washed my hair and rinsed me. Toweled me dry. Then he wrapped me in a blanket, handcuffed me to the bed, and handed me the remote to the television.
What did I tell him? I remember the words pouring out of me without any filter. I told him about the FBI. The bugs. The security code. I’d confessed…
Oh boy.
Did I actually say I wanted him to punish me?
Thinking of it makes my core heat. I must be crazy. I cannot be enjoying this scenario. What total insanity.
What had he said?
I plan to punish you thoroughly. I just haven’t decided how much will be pleasure and how much will be pain.
It must have been the drug that made those words heat my body to the temperature of molten lava. It certainly can’t be that I crave that sort of treatment at his hands. That I desire that rough but attentive way he has with me.
Things could be far worse. I’ve been captured by a dangerous but attractive man who is more interested in sexual torture than anything bloody or painful.
Now, after leaving me alone for a couple of hours, he’s had dinner delivered and is acting like a perfect gentleman–other than the handcuffs and his refusal to allow me to wear clothes.
The smell of the food makes my stomach rumble. I didn’t realize how hungry I am. Maykl slides the plate in front of me. Despite being transported, the food retained visual appeal, with a slice of lemon and sprig of rosemary atop the salmon.
Maykl stands over me, hesitating. “Can I trust you with a fork, little warrior? Probably not.”
“I’m too hungry to fight,” I tell him, unable to take my eyes off the food. My mouth waters for it.
He tsks. “If only I could believe you. But I think the truth serum is out of your bloodstream now. I can’t trust anything that comes from those pretty lips.”
He retrieves the other plate of food and one fork and sits down beside me. “I don’t mind feeding you, though. In fact, I rather enjoy it.” He forks a piece of salmon and holds it out to me.
I take the morsel into my mouth and moan softly at its perfection. Lightly salted and herbed, crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, it’s delicious.
I watch as he takes a bite of his own food. He doesn’t make me wait long for my next bite.
I should hate him for reducing me to eating from his hand. Or better yet–I should feel nothing. Should be able to keep emotions out of this scenario so my mind can work out how to escape, but I’m still in some kind of surrendered state to him.
He finds feeding me pleasurable. I find eating from his hand equally satisfying. Like I’m proving the bond we forged. The one he doesn’t trust yet. I tell myself it’s a manipulation, but that’s a lie.
I’m doing it for him.
For me.
For us.
I do feel bonded to this man. I trust him with my body. Trust him to pleasure me. Now, to feed me and care for me.
I’ve had to rely on myself and myself alone for most of my life. Now I have no choice but to rely on Maykl for even my most basic needs. I both hate and love the way it feels. Terrifying. Like I’m falling from a precipice, and I’m hurtling through the air. The rush of the wind and the sense of soaring are exhilarating, but I don’t know whether I’ll reach the cushion of water or the destruction of rock when I touch down.
He continues to feed me, eating his own dinner between bites until we both are finished. Then he picks up the plates and fork, washes them, and returns with a bottle of water, which he uncaps and hands to me.
I wash the dinner down and use a napkin to wipe my lips.
“What’s happening, Maykl? What are you doing with me?”
Maykl towers over me. “I’m keeping you, Kira. And if you prove you can’t be kept… well, then…” He shrugs and leaves a space for me to fill in the blank.