Page 12 of Twisted Vows

A part of me expected something bold, like black or red, but just the thought of her in an innocent color like white tests my control. I close my eyes and pull my purposes tight around me, leaning into the detached persona I slip into when I torture information out of a rat.

I hook my tattooed fingers into her waistband and peel her jeans down to her ankle bindings. With deft fingers, I untie the knot but wrap one hand above her knees before taking the rope off her legs, ensuring she can’t kick me without warning.

After working her jeans off her left foot, I fix her sock, move my hand to her naked knee, then remove her jeans from her right foot.

When I toss her pants onto the counter, the sock from her right foot slaps onto the floor. With a long-suffering sigh, I pick it up, press my hip against the leg bearing her weight so she can’t kick me, and lift her naked foot off the floor. Her neatly trimmed and unpainted toenails are undeniably feminine and cute, but the moleskin and blisters covering the rest of her foot look agonizing.

“Is the other foot this bad?”

She stiffens and tries to pull her foot away, but I prop her heel on my thigh and slip the sock back on without a word.

I didn’t mean to ask, but with my question hanging in the air, my curiosity is too much. She doesn’t fight, but she also doesn’t help me when I shuffle around and lift her other foot.

Trimmed toenails. Overall clean. Covered in blisters.

Helpless fury roars through me. She tugs against my grip. Itskand fit her sock into place, biting back several unhelpful retorts until I remember yanking her shoes off her feet.

It must have hurt, but she didn’t cry out in pain.

The shoes were new.

Which explains the blisters. Her days are so long and active, it’s no wonder her feet are in such bad shape. The wordless anger loosens its grip on my chest. Knowing she doesn’t constantly walk around with battered feet helps calm the beast raging within my soul.

I set her socked foot down and cup her ankle. Intending to warn her against attacking me while I reach for the sweatpants, I curse my wayward hand as it caresses up her calf, teases the back of her knee, and slips around to mirror my grip on her other thigh.

The scent of her arousal fills my mouth with saliva. I rub my thumbs back and forth over her soft flesh, unable to peel my eyes from the juncture of her thighs.

I never imagined full-coverage white cotton briefs could be so tantalizing, but she fills them out so well all thoughts flee from my mind and need pulses at the base of my spine. She morphs a utilitarian garment into pornographic material. I want to taste her. She smells so sweet.

My cock hardens to steel, testing the seams of my sweats.

It nearly kills me, but I close my eyes and fill my lungs with her musk instead of leaning forward and closing my mouth over her clothed pussy.

When I bite the inside of my cheek, forgetting about the bruise forming from where she headbutted me, the sharp pain pulls me away from the edge of insanity.

Despite wanting to steal a lick, I grab my sweats off the counter and guide first one, then her other leg into the pants before pulling them up to her waist.

The fabric pulls tight around her ass and hips but hangs loose everywhere else. I train my focus on her face as I fix the pockets, my fingertips way too close to her pussy but nowhere near where I want them, then wrap the rope around her ankles, careful to keep my sweats as a barrier to protect her delicate flesh.

With her properly dressed and trussed, I step back and allow myself a moment to enjoy the view.

The angry, flustered blush on her cheeks brings out the worst in me.

“I thought nudity wasn’t a big thing for nurses, but you’re as red as an apple,” I goad.

When she stiffens, I realize my mistake. She doesn’t know I stalked her all day, or that I’m hunting the man she treated last night, so I shouldn’t know she’s a nurse. From her point of view, I’m just some back-alley murderer she caught while walking home from work.

Needing to distract her and already addicted to her haughty responses, I step forward, trap her bound ankles to the door with my shin, wedge my knee between her thighs, and brace my forearms on either side of her raised arms, caging her in with my bulk.

“Maybe I should call youmia mela caramellataand take a bite every time you blush. You look and smell so sweet, but how do you taste?”

Her breasts brush against my chest with her furious breaths, and when she squirms, my leg slips higher between her thighs. She turns her head when I lean closer, tucking her face against her arm.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarls.

I brush my lips over her temple, teasing the edge of her blindfold, and breathe in her sweetness.

With her thoroughly pissed off—and my cock fully hard—I press my front to hers, enjoying the way her breasts flatten against my chest, and unhook her wrists from the door. She stiffly accepts my manhandling as I scoop her into a cradle hold and carry her into the bedroom.

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