Chapter 7
Liam
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t hide the erection forming in my sweats at the sight of her in the shower.
She doesn’t look at it as she runs soapy hands over her bare arms. Maybe she thinks not acknowledging it will make it disappear?
I’m hoping for just that because I shouldn’t be turned on right now.
She’s fully dressed, and historically, it takes much more than the sight of damp skin to get a rise out of me.
The list of mistakes I’m making continues to grow where she’s concerned because I assumed she was just another snooty fucking brat used to getting her way, but she’s not.
I can’t pinpoint exactly why she’s different but refusing to admit she is would be more detrimental to this already fucked-up situation.
A fucking senator’s daughter?
I can’t remember another time when I fucked up so royally.
When I left the room earlier, I tried to run every fucking scenario through my head. I tried to reason and convince myself it isn’t as bad as it seems.
When I thought of calling Angel, I knew I was completely fucked.
I don’t ask for help.
There isn’t a soul on this earth that could do anything for me that I can’t do for myself.
I don’t follow the fucking news. That shit is depressing, just one negative thing after the other.
I don’t have to watch CNN to know how fucked up people are.
I live a life and work a job that brings me face-to-face with the shit on damn near a daily basis.
I don’t want more of that shit in my head when I’m trying to relax.
The breaks I’ve taken from the world around me aren’t helping me on any level right now.
The fucking soon-to-be president’s daughter?
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
I wipe my hand over my face in frustration, only to look up and see her staring at me. Her hand has frozen on her right arm with my words.
And then I see it. I see the way her eyes drop to the front of my sweats, and despite the warm water rushing over her, she starts to tremble again.
I wish that her fear excited me. I wish that scaring her is what turns me on, but it isn’t. It’s the limited amount of push-back that appeals to me. The obeying turns me on.
But it also pisses me off. She isn’t doing it because she wants to.
She thinks that giving me what I want will endear me to her.
She thinks it will make me happy, easy to manipulate.
I saw it in her eyes when she asked for a blanket.
I’d be a fool to read any of her actions at face value.
She’s a politician’s daughter for fuck’s sake.
She’s like a snake in the grass as far as I’m concerned.
I want to step into her, rip her clothes from her body in an effort to force those real emotions to bubble to the surface.
She knows she’s been abducted, yet, she hasn’t once asked me to let her go.
She hasn’t opened that pretty little mouth of hers to beg for mercy.
It’s what makes her different, what separates her from every other captive woman I’ve encountered.
Of course, nearly everyone eventually complies either through pain or torture, or threats to their family.
“You’re different,” I say before I can stop myself.
She shakes her head as if rejecting the idea. “I’m not.”
“Is that a lie you tell everyone or do you actually believe it?”
She blinks away the droplets of water that splash on her face after hitting her bare shoulders.
“I’m just like everyone else.”
“If you were like everyone else, I wouldn’t have noticed you on the beach.”
“Earlier today?” She continues when I don’t answer. “Today was the first time you saw me?”
“Wash your hair,” I demand.
Her hands continue to tremble as she reaches for the bottle of shampoo, and stubbornly she keeps her eyes wide open as she lathers her hair. She’s smart not to take her eyes off me, but all that does is prepare her to see what’s coming. She has no ability to prevent anything from happening.
“Conditioner,” I tell her after she rinses the shampoo from her hair.
She obeys the order quickly, but as her hands work the cream into her hair, her demeanor begins to change a little.
Her scared eyes gather a hint of defiance, irritation at following my orders clear as she immediately rinses the conditioner from her long blonde hair. I know she’d let it sit for a few minutes if she were alone, but I don’t make her repeat the process.
“Stop,” I snap when she considers herself done and reaches to turn the water off. “Do you really think I’m going to let you out of the shower before you wash your pussy?”
She shows more emotion than she has, yet when she looks back at me, her chin quivers uncontrollably. I know she’s crying, her eyes red from a combination of terror and the soap that had to have gotten in there in her stubbornness not to close her eyes to rinse the shampoo out.
I give her the same look I gave her earlier that says you know the rules.
A sob escapes her throat as she lathers more soap on her hands before pulling the front of her soaked dress up.
She doesn’t show me a damn thing as she cleans herself. I didn’t exactly expect her to lift the fabric and tuck it in under her chin as she washed, and I have to say I’m both a little disappointed and proud at the same time.
Surprisingly, she turns her back to me, risking taking her eyes off me to rinse herself clean, but I don’t use the opportunity to showcase the power I have over her. She’ll get more of that soon enough.
“You can turn off the water now,” I instruct when she turns back to face me.
She does so hesitantly, as if she’s anticipating the really bad shit to happen now that she’s clean.
“Get my floor wet, and I’ll make you lick it clean,” I warn as she lifts a leg to step out of the shower.
“May I have a towel, please?”
She says it the same way she did when she asked for the blanket. She’s very prim and proper, very fake.
“You’ll never get fully dry in that soaked dress.”
She blinks up at me, smart enough to understand what I’m saying, but not willing to do any more than she’s instructed.
“Strip,” I say, making it easier for her to obey.
“Pl-please,” she begs, and the sound of it makes my semi-erect cock start to thicken fully.
I don’t step back. I don’t give her any indication that she’ll win this round if she refuses.
And once again the witch fucking surprises me by reaching behind her for the zipper on her dress. She struggles for a few seconds, the zipper no longer working properly now that it’s wet.
The dark fabric falls to the floor at her feet, and that ounce of defiance I saw in her eyes disappears as she looks up at the ceiling.
Her black lacy bra is a perfect match to the tiny piece of fabric between her legs.
I spend a solid minute staring at her, raking my eyes over her body.
She looks fucking incredible, something I noticed even in that one-piece bathing suit she was wearing earlier today, but right now? She’s fucking delectable.
She’s still covering more in her underwear than the other woman was wearing in her white bikini, but that chick has nothing on Raya fucking Reed.
This girl is fucking trouble.
I knew after discovering who she was that I’d more than likely end up dead at the end of this.
I just didn’t realize that she may be the one to actually kill me.
“All of it,” I demand.