Page 39 of Twisted Vows

She’s too tempting in only my shirt. We have too many things to do today for me to sneak another taste of her curves, so I lift her onto the counter by her hips and grab her panties and jeans—which are dry now, thank fuck—from the hooks on the door.

I thread both items onto her legs, pull her flush against me, and tug them over her hips, keeping my oversized shirt draped over her so I’m not tempted to take advantage. When she’s properly covered, I fill my hands with her ass and lift, forcing her to grab my shoulders and wrap her legs around my hips.With her breasts rubbing against my chest through the oversized shirt, I brace an arm under her ass and move through the apartment, tidying up the bathroom and warming food before sitting in the only chair, enjoying the angry, flustered blush on her cheeks as my half-hard cock grinds against her pussy.

Despite the renewed pain in my wound, the blood drying on my back, and the other various aches throughout my body, I feed her the last of the homemade food before tearing the wrapper off a protein bar with my teeth and eating what might as well be cardboard for how tasteless it is.

Whatever. Nutrition is more important than flavor. It’s worth it since I knowmia caramellinaate well.

When I lean forward as though to stand, she elbows me in the sternum and reaches for another meal replacement bar. I quirk a brow.

She rips the foil open, breaks it in half with excessive force, and shoves the first piece in my mouth so hard I choke.

Before I can spit it out, she covers my lips with her palm and pierces my soul with a fierce glare.

Awe floods my veins as she dons an overly sweet and innocent expression.

“You’re going to need more calories if you’re going to protect me.”

She’s so beautiful my chest aches, and for a moment, I stare at her and chew like an obedient puppet. When my brain finally clicks into gear, I wrap my arms around her lower back and pull her tight against me. She stifles a moan as my cock mashes the seam of her jeans against her clit. My mouth waters, making it easier to chew, as her breasts flatten against my chest and her nipples harden.

She crams the second half of the meal bar into my mouth and pushes against my shoulders.

I rise, stalk to the bed, and drop her onto the mattress before tossing my last clean pair of socks at her.

“Get off the bed at your own risk,” I warn.

She grinds her teeth and glares at me but doesn’t move, so I stride into the bathroom and leave the door open as I clean and dress my wounds.

I trim my facial hair, dress in my least dirty pair of street clothes, and style my hair before taking my comb and a damp washcloth to the bed.

“Turn around,” I tell her.

She complies, but the set of her shoulders says she’d rather shove the comb in my eye than let me touch her.

I run the washcloth from her scalp to the ends of her hair, taming the static, and work my fingers through the worst of the tangles before gathering her hair in my fist and using the comb on the ends. No matter how careful I am, the comb snags with every other stroke.

“Just tie it up. My hair hates all brushes, especially when it’s dry,” she hisses.

I stop, release her locks, step back, and study the mess. Her hair looks so shiny and smooth, I don’t understand why it’s so difficult to brush.

When another attempt to comb it fails, I sigh and take her advice. She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her fingers against her biceps, obviously not impressed by my attempts, but in the end, I succeed.

I spin her around by her hips and guide her feet toward the floor but squeeze her thigh, silently instructing her not to move as I rise. I return with her shoes and loosen the laces before carefully slipping them onto her feet, mindful of her blisters. She doesn’t grimace despite how uncomfortable they must be.

I cup her nape and pull her to her feet. She glances at her bag under the table before meeting my gaze.

“Ready,mia caramellina?” I ask, even though we’re leaving no matter what her response is.

“No,” she says.

I quirk a brow and tighten my grip on her nape.

“You have two options: cooperate and walk out of here on your own two feet or fight me and leave the way you came—bound and over my shoulder. Either way, we’ll get where we’re going,” I challenge.

She lifts her sexy lips in a crooked sneer and rolls her eyes—literally rolls her eyes—before meeting my stare.

“That’s not what I meant. I need a bra,” she says.

I scoff and purposefully rub the muscular ridges of my abs over her chest, enjoying the stiff peaks of her nipples poking at me.

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