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“Come,” I growl in her ear as I grab her nipple, kneading it between my fingers. “Come on. Come on my fingers. Good girl. You earned it.” She cries out, and her head lolls back as she climaxes, pulsing against my fingers. I stroke her until she's compliant, folded over my chest, her head falling to the side.
I've learned a lot from her in this little exchange.
I slide her off my lap and onto the bed, then bring my fingers to my mouth and lick them. “Christ,” I curse under my breath. That will be next.
I leave the rope on the nightstand, letting her see that I’ve left it there.
After a while, she gets up, goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door.
I let her be, ordering food before working through the files Declan sent me. We're piecing together the network in Boston. We don't want to make a move, not yet, because we know we could uncover one threat only to find a bigger threat behind the first. I can’t help but feel like we’re sitting ducks.
I hear her in the bathroom, quiet, the water running. At one point, I even hear her humming to herself, which surprises me. Maybe she's happy she's not where she was before. Maybe climaxing makes her a happy girl. Maybe she’s as fucking high-strung as I am.
Sitting at the table, she doesn't talk or look at me, just stares at the tray I've set in front of her. “Eat.”
She picks up a fork, then puts it down, eyeing the eggs like they might bite her back.
“It's not packaged,” she says.
“No.”
She glances at me.
“I ordered it from the kitchen,” I tell her. “Sealed packaging or room service. Those are your options. You can have the pretzels back if you'd prefer.”
After a moment, she picks up the fork and begins to eat. It's a win. I'll take it.
When she's done, she begins to gather things up. I don't know whether it's because she was raised that way as a child or because she has a need to be tidy.
“Leave it.”
“You don't want me to clean this up?”
“No. I have housekeeping for that.” She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, reconsidering.
I watch as she tests the boundaries quietly—tries the balcony door, tries the entryway door. I'm watching and trying not to make a show of it. Finally, she sits on the couch and folds her hands in her lap. A caged bird.
The sound comes first, the heavy thud of footsteps outside the door, followed by the sound of a shoulder against a frame two rooms down.
I’m off the chair instantly.
“Get up,” I hiss. I have her by the arm before she can ask why. She reads my face and doesn’t say anything.
Good girl.
I pull her back from the window and press her flat against the small hallway just outside the bathroom door. I lift a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
She nods, her face a mask.
I text my security.
You do not move unless they come for our door. Disappear
I go to the door and put my eye to the peephole.
Red hair gone gray at the temples and a huge gut. There are two others with him I don’t recognize. They’re not bothering to be quiet anymore.
There’s the sound of a door coming off its frame and a woman screaming.
