Page 62 of Touch of Hate
Still, she gives no reaction as her gaze moves over the clutter in what passes for a living room. The kitchen is tidier, at least, with a small fridge and wood-burning stove.
Those two rooms comprise the entirety of the cabin aside from the bathroom, which is where I lead her. “This is cozy,” she says, and she sounds sincere when she says it. Her eyes widen at the sight of the claw-foot tub in the rustic bathroom. “Oh, that’s beautiful. This is really charming.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I murmur, fighting back a grin I know would come off as cheesy, like a little boy glowing under the praise of a teacher.
“Wait,” she blurts out, her cheeks flushing when I turn back after starting up the shower and explaining how tricky the taps can be, how they take a delicate hand. “Where are you going?”
“I wanted to grab you some more clothes, maybe fix myself something to eat.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, teeth sinking into her lip. This can only mean one thing, and desire and dread immediately begin fighting it out.
“Why don’t you join me instead? The rest of that can wait.” She slowly strips down, staring at me all the while. Almost daring me to look away.
Her body. Fuck me, every inch of skin, every curve seems like it was made for me. To be touched and held, stroked, and grabbed.
Eaten. Fucked.
It seems to me she’s forgetting who’s in charge around here. Yes, I need to focus on that because it’s the only way I’ll be able to resist.
“I already took a shower,” I inform her with a tiny shrug even as fire begins raging in me all over again.
“There are other reasons to get in the shower besides washing up.” As she speaks, she steps into the tub, leaving the curtain open. I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight of her, the water hitting her hair. It runs over her chest, drips from the pink nipples of her perky tits, and it’s all I can do to keep from growling like the animal she turns me into.
But I can’t stop watching. Nothing in the world could pull me away now.
I settle for closing the lid on the toilet and taking a seat, glued to every move she makes. “Look at my dirty little angel. Acting so seductive.”
Almost as an afterthought, she soaps up her hands before running them over her throat, her shoulders, and arms. It’s her chest I’m focused on, and soon she rewards my intense stare by taking her tits in her hands and squeezing, running her thumbs around the nipples, and sighing.
This isn’t put on for my sake. I know it. I feel it.
And oh, what I want to do to her. What I want to make her feel. What she went through in the bedroom will be nothing compared to what I have in mind.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in here with me?” As if to punctuate the question, she turns her back to me, bending slightly at the waist before running her soapy hand through her ass crack. Fuck, I could watch this all day. She is living, breathing porn, and she’s all mine. No one else will ever look at her this way. She will never display her body for anyone but me, the man it belongs to. The man she belongs to.
If I’m not careful, that cold shower will have been for nothing.
“I’ll get your clothes,” I mutter before practically fleeing the room. By the time I return with fresh sweats, she’s finishing up, rinsing quickly now that there’s no reason to linger.
“How was the shower?” I ask, watching her dry off.
She’s endlessly fascinating. Even the most mundane activities take on new meaning. I’m desperate to be a part of her life, to weave every part of her with every part of me.
“Good, but I feel like I got hit by a truck,” she admits with a soft giggle. “But in a good way, if you can imagine being hit by a truck and smiling about it.”
Adorable. Perfect. Mine.
“Come sit with me. I’m starving.” Almost as much as I’m starving for her. Rather than send her back to bed, I gesture to the table separating the living room and kitchen.
Instead of settling for one sandwich, I make two for myself, spreading the peanut butter and jelly thick enough that they threaten to drip out. I haven’t eaten since… before I took her.
How did I forget to eat?
She sits on one of the two wooden chairs at the small, round table, drawing her feet up onto the seat with her. Like this, she looks small, fragile, and so helpless. Every protective instinct in me rears up when I see her that way, looking so young, her blond hair—darker now due to its wetness—hanging against both sides of her face.
Immediately, a wave of self-consciousness swallows me. This cabin is nothing like she’s used to. It’s outdated, the chairs don’t match, and the table is scratched and beaten to shit. It’s a very dull comparison to all she had back home, and I hate it. I hate that I’m comparing myself to those fuckers. Yet I can’t stop myself.
Disdain burns my lips. “I’m sure this doesn’t look like much compared to the life you’re used to living.”