Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
It’s okay, Elyse. It’s okay.
I force myself to breathe through the panic bubbling up in my mind. I can’t do anything to stop him, but at the very least, I know he won’t hurt me. Or at least he hasn’t yet, so I have no reason to believe otherwise.
I shake my head because my brain is past the point of forming coherent words.
“Good. Then be a good girl and do as you're told.”
Good girl? What is it about those two words that calms me? I try not to delve too deeply into it, but it’s hard since the person saying those words generally has the opposite effect on me. Please don’t tell me I’m developing a praise kink. I gulp and tighten my hold on the counter, then slowly allow him to readjust my legs.
I can feel his hot gaze on my bare skin, and he skims his hand up the front of my shin to graze over my knee. “Mmm. You’re so fucking tiny, Ely. Tiny and breakable. Like a little porcelain doll.”
I lift my chin and let him see what's left of me there. “Looks can be very deceiving. I’m tougher than you might think.”
He looks from my legs and up to my face like he’s looking for something, but then he looks away, the connection severed when he turns on the faucet, pulls the tab for the stopper, and waits for the sink to fill. The entire time he keeps his eyes on the water, and I sigh, grateful I don’t have to meet his gaze while he does this.
There’s a vast difference between staring at his face and staring at his hands, and I find a strange combination of comfort and pleasure coiling in my stomach as I watch his graceful hands while he soaks a white washcloth in the water before he gently scrubs it down my right leg.
He does the same with a rich lather of soap he works in his hand from the provided toiletries by the sink. I realize very suddenly how intimate this is, and I can’t help my need to say something.
“This really isn’t necessary,” I quip, trying to focus on anything but the way his calloused palms feel on my wet, slick skin.
“If it wasn’t necessary then you wouldn’t have brought it up,” he responds while keeping precise focus as he dips the knife in the water. I hold my breath when he turns the blade and runs it up the length of my soapy shin and over my knee, stopping right before he reaches the curve.
I'm mesmerized by the action. It’s in the flick of his wrist, the deliberate control he maintains, as if he’s painting a picture and not gliding a sharp-as-hell knife over my skin. Rinsing, he repeats the action carefully, methodically, until my skin is slick and shining in the bright overhead lights. He's surprisingly gentle around my knees and even shaves up the inside curve of my thigh. I flinch as that sharp blade reaches closer and closer to the junction of my thigh and pussy.
My heartbeat skyrockets as he climbs higher, and I tighten my grip on the counter.
Say something. Tell him to stop.
One wrong move and your lady bits are gone forever.
I swear he adds pressure to the blade just for the hell of it because it feels as if it’s gliding harder against my quivering muscles. When he reaches the edge of my pussy, he pauses, and I stare down at him, frozen with fear. He looks up at me, and I can see the predator lingering just beneath the surface.
“Never forget who’s in control.” The words are a whisper, but he might as well have yelled them with how loudly they echo in my mind.
It’s a warning, a reminder that no matter what, I’m at his mercy. He switches to the other leg without hesitation while I can hardly draw a full breath into my lungs.
He repeats the same process, only this time he drops down to his knees to carefully carve off the hair around my ankles.
Fuck, why does he have to be so pretty? Why does he look so good on his knees for me when I know he's only there to get into the best position to strike. The most advantageous position to cause the most pain and suffering. That's what he lives for—to hurt people, to hurt me. Even if his touch is gentle, there’s always the promise of pain and suffering lingering in the background like a wisp of latent tobacco smoke.
He finishes the second leg, then cleans the sink, re-wets the washcloth, and mops up the remnants of soap still left on my skin.
Now that the job is done, all I can think about is asking him why he did it and what he expects in return from me? But I can't seem to bring myself to break the spell. To crack the silence and see what fresh hell comes out of his mouth.