Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Hannah
I jerk awake when I hear Armando come in, and Shadow, who was curled up in front of my chest, jumps off the bed and stretches. I blink at the digital bedside clock. It’s been two hours since he left. I slept fitfully for the last hour after I finally calmed myself down with slow breathing. Now all the adrenaline of the stressful day rushes back, so I’m wide awake. And still very pissed.
He comes straight to my side and crouches in front of me. “You’re awake.” He peels the duct tape off my mouth.
“You’re an asshole.”
He ignores that and unties my bound wrists from the bedpost. The moment they’re free, I swing them at his face. His reflexes are way faster than mine. He snaps them up in an iron grip. “Hey.” He modulates the grip, loosening slightly. “You want to spend the night tied up?”
“Go to hell.”
He stops work on the knot on my tights and arches a stern brow. It’s tragically sexy, which pisses me off even more. I shouldn’t find any of this hot. He’s confused me with sex, blurring lines, so I can’t tell what’s what. Actually, I guess I’m the one who started it with that kiss back at the shop. But now, I’m a jumbled mess. It’s like I just willingly dove headfirst into an abusive relationship where I’m bonded to my abuser, craving his affection and ignoring the fact that he’s holding me prisoner.
It’s way worse than all the misguided relationships I’ve been in. Worse than Jarod, who cheated on me three times before I stopped believing he was sorry. Worse than Eric, the guy it took me six months to realize only thought of me as his booty-call. This is the definition of a toxic relationship. It’s not even a relationship. It’s Stockholm Syndrome.
Ragey tears fill my eyes again, and I fight some more, wrestling to get my bound hands free.
He tightens his grip, dropping a knee on the bed to hover over me, pushing my hands closer to my chest to trap me. “Hannah.”
“You stink of cigar smoke,” I hurl at him, like he’s a lover come home late from a night of partying with the boys. Then I catch another cloying scent on top of it, and my stomach drops out. “Oh my God! You’re covered in shitty perfume! You fucking dick!” I’m unprepared for the flood of betrayal that fills my lungs.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” He straddles me. Somehow, he worked the knot loose on the tights while I flail at him, and he pins my wrists down beside my head. One wrist is still wrapped in the fabric. I keep fighting him, the pain of my stupidity for screwing this guy gushing like blood between us. “I was at a strip club,” he says like that makes it all better. When my mouth elongates in horror, he adds quickly, “For a meeting.”
Right. Apparently when you’re in the mob, that’s where meetings take place. On second thought, I’m inclined to believe that part.
“Everyone bought me dances because I’m fresh out. I wasn’t into it, Flowers.”
“Oh, I’m sure you weren’t.” My voice drips with hurt and sarcasm.
His face contorts into scorn. He normally shows so little in his expression that it takes me aback. “You think I needed that shit? After what you gave me?”
I go still.
After what you gave me.
Armando’s face hovers inches from me, his hazel eyes sparking. There’s frustration in him. Passion. I feel it through his skin, but it doesn’t harm my body this time—it feeds it.
“If you fucked another woman tonight, I’d cut off your dick.” I may be his prisoner at the moment, but I’m still going to make myself clear. I’m not stupid enough to believe our sex today meant anything—I didn’t take it as a promise or a commitment. It just happened. But I would take huge offense to him dipping his wick elsewhere after what we did.
“I didn’t, Hannah. I didn’t even want to be there. I swear to Christ.” He suddenly looks so weary. His eyes, ancient. “And you had me worrying about a fucking fire the whole time.”
Well.
That’s sort of satisfying, too.
I’m still pissed but growing mollified.
He pulls the wrist with the tights still wound around it to the bedpost and starts retying it.
Fresh alarm rings through me. “What are you doing?”
“Rinsing the smell off.” He pulls my other wrist up and secures it, too.
For me, a little voice whispers.
“You are such an asshole.”
He’s back to cool and indifferent, his face the brutal mask. “Been told that.” He heads to the bathroom and leaves the door open while he strips out of his clothes.
I watch. He’s not putting on a show for me. He probably left the door open to make sure I don’t scream or try anything, but it’s a show worth watching, nonetheless. I saw him naked earlier, but that was up close, and I was half out of my mind with lust. Now, I can observe him clinically. And he’s even more impressive the second time. He’s solid muscle. Six-pack abs, the kind you could climb. He’s not shiny. Not tanned and waxed and all-American. He’s hairy, brutal, and strong. He’s grit and manliness.