Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
At sunset, I drag myself up the stairs like a broken-down workhorse, every muscle in my body screaming for mercy.
The dust coating my hair is so thick I could pass for a freshly dug corpse.
Scratches burn along my forearms, still fresh from tussling with that psychotic rooster.
The bastard drew blood over his precious eggs.
My back aches from hunching over cellar stairs I suspect haven’t seen bleach since the house was built. The stone steps were slick with God knows what, and I spent an hour on my hands and knees scrubbing grime that multiplied the harder I worked.
All this to stay hidden from the feds. Every blister, every bruise, every bit of backache is the price of not getting dragged back in cuffs or in a body bag.
I only managed a quarter of the list before my body collapsed. And the worst part of it all is that I’m being played. Mr. Rochester said it was a few tasks. Now I’m a full-time servant doing the work of ten. If I refuse, will he replace me with someone else? Probably.
Shit. I need to wash off the day before I lose my mind.
After pushing open my bedroom door, I trudge into the bathroom, which feels like a sanctuary after today’s household hell.
I peel off my ruined uniform and grimace at the new bruises blooming across my knees and shins.
The black dress is torn at the shoulder seam, stained with dirt and what I’m pretty sure is chicken shit.
“Fuck that bastard,” I mutter under my breath, although I’m not sure I’m talking about Rochester or the rooster.
I turn on the shower, step under the spray, and grab the soap.
The hot water pounds against my sore shoulders, washing away layers of grime and sweat.
A groan escapes from deep in my chest, and I let my muscles sag.
Steam rises around me like a protective cocoon, and for the first time all day, something feels good.
Tipping back my head, I soak my hair and lather up my aching muscles.
The soap’s lavender scent fills my nostrils, making me feel almost human.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell Mr. Rochester the workload is too heavy, but not so much that we need to bring in another employee.
New people mean more chances of getting exposed.
Just as I reach for the shampoo, the lights cut out.
Darkness swallows the bathroom whole. My heart slams against my ribs, and my fingers go limp. I fumble for the shower tap, skidding on the dropped soap. The water continues to pound down on my back like torrential rain.
Before I can turn off the spray, a large hand covers mine.
“Relax.”
The voice is deep. Commanding. Familiar. I swallow back a scream.
Strong hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension along my neck. The touch is firm, confident, like he owns my body and knows exactly how to handle it.
“Who—” I start, but he cuts me off with a low growl.
“Hush.” His breath heats my ear. “You’ve had a long day. And I know exactly what you need.”
Every survival instinct screams at me to run, to fight. But my muscles go rigid. The hands on my shoulders know exactly where to touch and how much pressure to apply. I melt under his touch like butter in a hot pan.
“Isn’t it better for both of us when you’re obedient?” he murmurs, working his thumbs deeper into my knots.
Hot water cascades over us both. His hard chest presses into my shoulders, and his hard cock presses into my back.
“Edward?” I groan.
“Rochester,” he growls, his voice rough.
Heat pulses through my core at the sound of his name. There’s no question of the masked man’s identity. It was him. And now, Mr. Rochester is naked in my shower.
He slides his hands down to my shoulder blades, massaging away the tension. Each touch sends sparks racing through my nervous system, and I arch into him like a cat in heat.
“Such a good girl, helping out with the house. You worked so hard today,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips ghosting against my skin. “I’m impressed.”
The praise hits me like a drug, flooding my heart with warmth. When was the last time someone called me good? When was the last time someone appreciated my efforts instead of just demanding more?
“I tried to do everything on the list,” I say, my voice breathy.
His mouth moves to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I shiver despite the hot water. “That’s my obedient girl. You’re finally learning your place.”
My place?
Before I can make sense of that comment, his hands roam around my front, skimming my ribs. The words ring like an alarm bell at the edge of my mind, but the heat building between my legs won’t let me search for answers. I grip his wrists, try to guide him to my aching breasts. But he pulls back.
“Good girls wait their turn for pleasure. Are you the good girl who gets her reward or the bad one who gets nothing?”
Heat fills my cheeks—shame mixed with arousal in a way that makes my head spin. I’ve never had to ask for what I want. Men usually just rush to the good parts.
“Talk to me, pretty pet.” He pulls me close, his chest brushing my back, and slides a hand down the curve of my hip. “I can make your thighs quiver. Keep you on edge for eternity. Make you moan your deepest, dirtiest secrets, just for a taste of my pleasure.”
I shiver, wanting to cling onto a shred of pride, but his lips graze my ear. “Hold your silence, and I’ll have you sobbing for sweet release. Continue being tight-lipped and I’ll strip you of everything you hold dear. Or you can promise to be good and let me lavish you with ecstasy.”
“I’ll be good,” I murmur.
He chuckles, low and deep. “Excellent choice. Now, tell me what you need.”
“Please,” I rasp.
“Please what? Use your words, my beautiful little plaything.”
Is this man really going to climb into my shower and make me beg?
The silence stretches between us, filled only by my ragged breath and the spatter of water.
The hands skimming my ribs make maddeningly teasing circles, making every nerve ending tingle with need.
He’s waiting, and I know he won’t give me anything until I say the words.
“Please touch me,” I manage.
“Where?” His voice is patient, laced with steel. He won’t make this easy.
“My breasts. Please touch my breasts.”
“Good girl knows what she wants. I like that.” The approval in his voice makes my nipples tighten. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you exactly what you need.”
His fingers slide up my ribcage until he reaches my breasts and cups them with both hands. Tingles skitter across my flesh, and I gasp at the contact. Then he rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
I try to turn around, to touch him back, but his arms tighten around my shoulders, holding me in place.
“No moving without permission or the pleasure will stop.”
The command sends a jolt straight to my core. No one this sexy ever talked to me like I’m something to be directed, controlled, or owned. It should piss me off. Instead, it floods my pussy with heat. I can’t remember ever being so wet.
“These tits,” he growls, cupping them tighter. “These beauties have been testing that poor dress since day one. Straining like they’re desperate to break free.”
A moan escapes my lips. It feels like I’ve been waiting for him to touch me like this my entire life.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve been aching for this body, every curve. To claim what’s been teasing me for so long. Look at you, writhing beneath my fingers, trying to take charge.”
“Oh god.”
“Call. Me. Rochester,” he growls, his cock nestling between my ass cheeks.
“R-Rochester!”
“Naughty little nymph. Don’t you know it’s me who controls what you feel?”
“Please,” I cry out.
His hands slide down my belly, fingers trailing through the water over my skin. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, I spread my legs wider, wanting more.
“Eager little slut,” he says, his voice lilting with a smile. “You moan for me so prettily. Do it again.”
I lean against his broad chest, panting hard, not quite believing this refined gentleman wants me to talk dirty. When he slides his fingers away from my sex, threatening to withdraw the pleasure, I blurt, “Touch my pussy.”
He chuckles again, deep and rich. “And what do you want me to do with that sweet little cunt? Is she wet? Is she aching?”
“Yes,” I moan. “Oh, fuck. Stroke my clit.”
“Like this?” He slides his hand lower, over my thatch of pubes to where I need him the most.
The words flow better now. Maybe the darkness makes it easier to be shameless. “Just like that. Please, I need it so bad.”
He tilts his hips, his thick cock sliding between my cheeks. I lean against him and moan. Then he ghosts his fingers over my outer lips, giving only the barest hint of sensation.
“How badly?”
“So bad it hurts. I’ve been thinking about it since last night, since you—”
“Since I what?”
“Since you sucked my toes,” I finish, my insides burning with desire.
When he glides a finger over my swollen clit, my knees buckle, but a strong arm around my waist keeps me upright.
“And what did you think about?” he asks.
His finger circles my entrance, collecting the wetness, but he doesn’t push inside. The teasing touch makes me squirm against his larger body, desperate for more.
“I thought about your tongue. I couldn’t stop thinking about your mouth. I wanted it everywhere. On me. In me.”
“Greedy little thing.” His finger slips inside me just to the first knuckle, then withdraws. “But you don’t get what you want just because you ask for it.”
I whimper at the loss of contact, my hips bucking forward on instinct. But the moment I shift, he pulls his hand away.
“What did I say about moving?” he growls.
My mind goes blank. I can’t remember anything beyond this aching need. But I’ve been with enough dominant men to know what he wants. “I’m sorry,” I say with a gasp. “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Just please don’t stop.”