Page 26 of Trapped

“Shower,” she says through gritted teeth. I use the knife and cut her dress straps. She gasps, but doesn’t move from me.

“That was Gucci!” Thalia loves to argue. It’s easier than succumbing to her fear. Fear that I can smell as potent as the smell of her arousal. Her defiance wavering with her need.

I pull the fabric down, revealing her bare breasts. Running the blade of my knife over her hardened nipples, a small moanescapes her. Lowering the fabric further, I look at her bare pussy under a red mesh thong. My mouth waters at the sight. I bite on my bottom lip to stop the groan that wants to erupt at the sight of her. I could spend hours studying her body—every curve, every beauty mark, and every scar.

When her eyes meet mine, she looks away, but not before I see the same hunger lurking there. I quickly cut the straps of her thong and slide open the glass door of the shower. I set the water and begin to undress myself. She stands there naked, watching intently as I remove my clothes.

Her eyes go to the scar on my shoulder—the one she tried to patch up for me—then they roam lower. Her lips part when her gaze meets my rock-solid cock. The one I fucked her mouth with in that gas station bathroom.

I help her into the shower and step in behind her. My erection moves across her back as I reach up for the body wash in front of her. My hand goes to her pussy, and I run my hand roughly down her front. She attempts to pull away, so my other hand moves to embrace her throat.

“You think I care about who’s been between these thighs?” I cup her tightly. “I don’t because I’m not just your first, Thalia, I am your last.” I rub my thumb across her clit, and her head falls back. “This is mine.” I move my hand back between her ass and run my finger over the sensitive hole.

“This will be mine, too.”

I wash every inch of her body, then wash myself. I work shampoo through her hair, massaging her scalp and dragging the soap through the ends. Her body relaxes under the touch, and she lets out a sigh. When I’m finished, we step out of the shower, and I dry her off.

I pick her up, bridal style, and move her to the bed. Her legs shake as I spread them wide. I stroke my shaft, and she watches me intently.

“Silas...” she says in a breathy voice. I kneel and bring her pussy to my mouth. I massage her clit with my tongue as she whimpers. She is breathing heavily, but she’s stopped fighting the sensation. The way my name flows freely from her mouth is the only way I want to ever hear it again.

How long have I waited to hear her voice cry out for me? Plead with me to bring her past the point of destruction.

I ravage her pussy and shove two fingers inside her. She rides my face and sobs at the pleasure coursing through her. Her legs squeeze my head, and her body shakes as I thrust my tongue deeper, catching her orgasm. I lick up every drop of her sweet taste as she comes undone on the bed.

I stroke my hard cock at the sight of her withering on the bed. I pump my dick violently until my balls tighten. With her legs spread wide, I let my cum free over the top of her soaking cunt. She cries out, and I crawl atop her, bringing my lips close to hers before I speak.

“Welcome home, wifey. I’m going to fucking destroy you.”

Silas runs a brush through his long black hair. His hair is wild, but his facial hair is kept perfectly trimmed. His body is much more muscular and defined than the last time I saw him. My eyes roam over the large muscles that ripple down his back. Swirls of ink trail down to the gun tightly secured in the waistband of his cotton briefs. The cotton material hugs tightly to a full round ass. My mouth waters, and I swallow. He looks up in the mirror at me, and I look away.

His gaze is inebriating. Those deep pools of darkness call me in like a Siren’s call. Or maybe it is La Llorona lurking in those deep pools and calling to me so she can drown me in the depths. So much of him is still the same. His eyes, the lip piercings, the long hair, but the way he carries himself is different.

I look down at my body. After Iunremorsefullyrode his face, Silas cleaned me up and dressed me. By dressed me, I mean he forced me to put on a matching lace bra and thong set with fishnet tights. I wonder what his first impressions were of me. I can’t say that the things that plagued me in life ever made meless confident. If anything, my confidence stands as a testament to who I am and how I carry myself. Yet the man in front of me makes me question everything.

Including the way my body is reacting to him. Earlier, he touched me in ways that were perverse and rough. Everything I had ever wanted, and yet I can’t help but feel like my ribs are closing in at the thought of how he had learned those techniques. Had he not come back for me earlier because he had found someone else? I can only hope that life has excluded both of us from love.Why the hell am I thinking about love?

No. No. This man is a fucking parasite, and I am nothing more to him than the perfect host. He lied to me for years, and for what reason? So he could come back andrescue me?I can’t succumb to fairy tale beliefs. I was kidnapped and am being held hostage while he plays a game I haven’t strategized for. He could very well be the one behind all the threats made to me.

Familiar pressure falls on me, and I look up to find those fucking demon-possessed eyes watching me. He moves slowly to the side of the bed. The covers are pulled back, and the heat of him fills the empty space next to me. We lay there staring at each other for a moment. When he puts out a hand to cup my face, I turn my head.

“Igualita de Enojona. Me encanta.” I let my eyes dart through his.

“Uncuff my wrists so I can sleep,” I demand.

He props his head on his hand, and I fight like hell not to get lost in his fuckery. Fuck him and the way his very smell is stained to me like my favorite perfume. Fuck the way my core eagerly wants to invite him back in so I can experience the bliss of his cum filling me to the brim.

After a moment of silence, he lets out a sigh and sits up. He reaches into the top drawer of his dresser and strides to my side of the bed. He places his gun on the end table beside me, thenreaches behind me. The cold metal falls free from my wrists. I give him a straight smile when he returns to his side of the bed.

I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t want him to know how much he hurt me. I reframe and reword the one question that seems the safest. A question that won’t put my heart on the line.

“How did you survive the bus bombing?” I ask.

“I got stabbed and was bleeding out in the bathroom when the bus took off.” His voice is void of any emotions. I look down at the stab wound under his pec. I noticed it briefly when he undressed and wondered about its origin. Similar scars can be found on my body from the various attempts to kill me. There are much deeper wounds I carry, but those can only be found internally. I reach out and skim the knotted tissue with the tips of my finger. Warm air builds in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, unsure why I’m apologizing, I harness the moisture forming behind my eyes. He places his hand over mine and holds it to his chest.

“It wasn’t your fault.” I pull my hand away. Silas’s eyes are full of mercy. My apology runs deeper than any wound found on his body. It’s an apology for the past, the things my father did to his family. The ruthlessness of how everything transpired. However, this is also an apology for the future, because I am my father’s daughter. Cold-blooded killer runs in our DNA. Mercy will not be given when it comes to protecting my family. When it came to protecting my child.

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