Page 18 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Even with the warning, though, she carefully peeled it the way you might with a bandage when you were afraid of the sting.

“If you scream, there will be consequences.”

Ah, yes.

Consequences.

That didn’t involve any kind of pain because her weak stomach couldn’t handle that.

I was fucking shaking.

“Do I look like someone who would scream?”

She watched me for a moment. “Maybe not right now,” she said, folding her arms. “But I bet you would with… with a spoon in your… um… eye.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I used this with regard to a grown-ass woman, but that was cute as fuck.

I had to press my lips together to keep a chuckle in.

“Ah, yes, the spoon. And all those eye juices.”

I wasn’t close enough to hear a gag, but I saw the way her chest heaved.

Her hand lifted as if to silence me before I went on. “If you answer my questions, there won’t need to be any spoons or juices or… just anything like that.”

“It’s pretty late.”

“What?”

“Late. Past my bedtime.”

“This is a hostage situation,” she reminded me.

She sounded like a fucking cop show. I covered up the snort with a cough.

“I’m thinking maybe some coffee is in order. Just so I can think straight.”

“Coffee. Right.” She didn’t even question the request.

She just walked back into the kitchen and started knocking around in the cabinets.

“Do you have sugar?” she asked, like we were a couple of old friends catching up.

“Top cabinet over by the fridge.”

“Top cabinet over by… oh, there it is. I guess you don’t use this much.”

“I drink my coffee black.”

“Right. That’s very stereotypical.”

“Of a mafia capo?”

“Of big, scary guys.”

Scary.

Interesting.