Chapter Seventeen
AS ALWAYS, I wake up fully aware.
I slowly sit up on the sleeping bag with the early morning sun at my back.
There’s dirt under my fingernails and twigs in my hair.
There’s streaks of blood on my body and my dress, dried up and so stark against the white backdrop.
Rocky’s still tied to the same tree, his head bent, mouth grazing in the bucket on the ground.
There’s breakfast waiting for me, warm and fresh by my sleeping bag, along with my own bucket of water and a small towel.
I notice the smoke rising from the firepit he built yesterday, alerting me that he probably cooked those breakfast sausages while I was sleeping.
At least he isn’t going along with my fake vegetarianism anymore.
The only thing that’s missing from this scene is the man who put all of this together.
Then I hear a splash in the close distance, and beyond the trees and the foliage, I spy flashes of arms cycling in and out. I guess I found him then. He’s taking an early morning swim. But how is he doing that after what I…
Regret drowns me for a few seconds. I honestly did not mean to stab him. Yes, he deserved it. He probably deserves more, but daydreaming about plunging a knife into someone and actually doing it and watching the blood spurt out is something else.
I never want to do that again. And yes, I will admit that I never want to do that to him again. I also don’t want to think about what came after.
What he made me, basically forced—as always—me to do.
Three times. Or was it four? Whatever it was, I’m not thinking about that. Instead, I spring up on my feet. Bending down, I reach out for the bucket of water and a little washcloth he’s left for me. It’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be with my hands tied.
Oh yeah, my hands are tied.
That was the very very first thing I noticed when I woke up.
Even before the sun and the dirt and all the other things.
But I decided to not dwell on that because I guess I can’t blame him after what I did last night.
I mean, he’s my kidnapper, isn’t he? He’s using me for revenge.
I’m nothing but an object to him. Just because he made me come… No.
Absolutely not. Stop. Right now.
The point is, nothing has changed. Even though it feels like it has a little bit.
Even though, I can’t help but feel my heart clench at the fact that he tied the rope in a way that has enough of a give so I can easily wash up and eat. Or that every morning, no matter where we are, he always remembers to feed me breakfast.
Just as I’m done eating, I hear another splash and my eyes jump over to the lake-type-thing. Only to have them go wide and for my mouth to drop open because holy God.
Holy fucking God.
There he is, emerging from the water. Last night, the fire was too low and he was too fast for me to see anything, but not anymore. Now I can see everything. Every powerful, masculine, wet inch of him.
So, so wet.
The water is sluicing down his thick, dark hair and sharp face.
It tunnels through the arched planes of his pecs that seem like the expanse of a land that can probably withstand a thousand galloping hooves.
Before splashing along the grooves of his abs that I thought were ladderlike but that I realize now look more like the harsh terrain of a mountain.
And don’t get me started on the dark dusting of his chest hair.
Lighter at the top but growing thicker along the abdomen with the thickest trail disappearing into the waistband of his…
A literal gasp escapes me when I realize the only thing he’s wearing is black-colored shorts. I mean, of course, he was swimming. But now they’re wet like the rest of him and they fit him like a second skin.
Which means several things.
First, I can see every flex of his thighs—and this is what Peyton means when she says tree-trunk thighs—as he walks out of the water. The way his thickly muscled thighs tense with every step he takes makes me wonder how the ground isn’t shaking beneath his feet.
Because I am. I am shaking. My heart is shaking, and I haven’t even looked there yet.
By there, I mean the thing that is the hardest on his body, or at least gets the hardest when the occasion calls for it; and before I can talk myself out of it or more into it, I skitter my eyes to the spot and freeze.
Why was I wasting my time checking out his abs of steel or his iron-welded thighs when I could’ve been looking at that… bulge in his shorts?
I lean forward a little, squinting at it.
It’s big, that rounded bump. It’s almost stretching the fabric of his shorts to the max, sticking out almost. Sort of like a tent.
Was it this big last night? And how does it fit into a girl?
All I know is that I have to squeeze my thighs hard.
Like, really, really hard. And even though I washed up, my thighs still feel sticky.
Or maybe it’s because I’m wet again. I’m leaking all over, just at the sight of his nearly naked body.
So it’s a good thing when he bends down to pick up the pile of his clothes from the ground and I lose sight of it.
It’s even better when he puts his jeans on, covering his magnificent muscles, the fabric getting soaked in places from the water.
Then, as he straightens up, I watch him rake his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back before heading toward the camp.
Actually, he first spears me with his dark eyes, and he does it in a way that makes me think he knew I was sitting here all along, watching him like a perv.
Even though I’m embarrassed at being caught, the closer he gets, my embarrassment is overcome by concern. I see the cut on his body, just by his collarbone. An angry-looking, reddened gash.
I’m staring at his wound so hard, all wet and dripping with water, that by the time he makes it back to the camp and takes his place on the opposite log, my own shoulder is throbbing with a phantom ache.
He picks up the saddlebag by his log—something I hadn’t noticed before—and retrieves a first aid kit.
Before I can stop myself, I call out, “I can do it.”
He was in the process of fishing out alcohol pads and a bottle of disinfectant, but he stops and looks up. I blush under his dark gaze and swallow. “I know how to…”
There was no need for me to trail off there, but it’s hard to talk when he’s looking at me like that. With so much intensity that it doesn’t feel like looking at all but touching. It becomes harder when I realize exactly what he’s looking at.
My hair.
My loose, finger-combed hair.
Every day since I’ve met him or rather since he kidnapped me, I’ve taken the time to braid my hair.
Just because every morning, that’s what I do.
I even went to the café with my braid hanging over my shoulder.
This morning, though, I left my hair loose, the long strands falling down my back and over my shoulders.
It feels strange, heavy, like there’s a weight on my shoulders, but also freeing because I can feel the wind in my hair.
I don’t know what made me do it. But now that’s he’s staring at me like that, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should’ve done what I usually do. Squirming in my seat, I clear my throat. “So as I was saying, I know how—”
This time, I stop talking because something zips through the air, and without thinking or hand-eye coordination, my tied hands reach out and catch it. It’s the pack of alcohol swabs. Good. Now I have something to do instead of blushing and feeling awkward.
With the swabs in my hand, I come to my feet. Slowly, I make my way around the smoking firepit, my feet crunching the leaves, stepping on the dirt and twigs. I should probably be watching where I’m going, but I’m not.
Because I’m watching him watch me.
I’m watching him take me in as I walk toward him.
My loose hair, my bloodstained dress. My tied hands in front of me and my bare calves.
I’m also watching the stubble on his hard jaw.
It’s grown thicker over the course of the last few days, now bordering on a light beard.
But more than seeing those whiskers that cover his beautiful face, though, I’m feeling them.
Between my thighs.
I didn’t dare look when I was washing up, but I think he left marks down there.
From his stubble. And they’re all pulsating right now, burning up, the closer I get to him.
It should hurt, all of this. My bare feet walking on the dirt, those little rash marks of his stubble, and it does.
But it hurts so good that I can’t help but curl my toes every time my inner thighs brush together. I can’t help getting wetter.
When I finally reach him, there’s a moment when I’m taller than him, and he has to crane his neck up to look at me.
It should make me feel powerful for once.
That I’m finally looking down at him. But then he goes ahead and widens those powerful thighs of his that I just saw on full display, making a place for me between them, and I lose whatever illusion of power I had.
My knees feel weak and I go down to the ground.
I kneel in front of him, but it’s okay. It’s so I can be at eye level with his massively broad shoulders. And thereby his injury.
It has nothing to do with whatever craziness is going on in my head and between my slippery legs. That his eyes flare at my new position, and his bare chest swells with a large breath, is something I’m choosing to ignore. Then, before I can draw another breath, he touches me.
Or rather, my hair.
He reaches out and runs his fingers through the loose strands and goose bumps rise all over my body. I clutch my dress with my tied hands and whisper, “What are you… doing?”
“Touchin’ your hair,” he whispers huskily, staring at his fingers strumming through the mass like the strings of a guitar.
“But—”