Page 28 of Silenced

He settles on his knees and he moves my legs around as if they’re his to control, not mine.

He’s there—right there.

Pussy height.

He can see it if he looks.

But he doesn’t.

At least, it’s not obvious if heisogling my sex. To be fair, he’s doing a better job than I am of ignoring his cock.

Instead, disregarding my blazing hot embarrassment that has me kicking out and trying to get him in the face, he moves his hands over my thighs and calves as if I’m a doll, going so far as to massage my feet. He proceeds to hold them hostage before I can attempt to kick him again, then he stands once more.

But my humiliation isn’t over yet.

Now, he rubs my shoulders, moving soap to my nape where he gently palpates the skin, robbing me of the tension that had gathered there.

When he cleanses my face too, I blink up at him as he makes circles at my temples.

Overwhelmed, I sag against the wall, trying not to enjoy his tender ministrations which help with the intensity of the migraine that’s plaguing me. A migraine that’s undoubtedly worse than ever because I overexerted myself.

I almost moan with disappointment when he finishes and helps me get to my feet. That’s when shame filters through me.

Mortification as well.

Here I am, being showered against my goddamn will, and I’m moaning when the bastard stops!

Pride makes me refuse to lean into him, but the heat and steam from the extensive shower has made me lightheaded so I press a hand to his chest to prop me up.

That’s when he stuns the ever-living crap out of me.

Those long, lean, slender fingers aren’t finished—he slides them between my thighs.

Yelping, I dart backward, wincing as that ‘shelf’ digs into my ass cheeks, but he moves nearer to me, entering my space and looming over me, seemingly uncaring that I don’t want his help withthis.

It’s bizarre but I’m not scared, more angry by his presumptuousness. I know what a man looks like in the heat of rage, know when I’m at the epicenter of a storm that’ll see me being backhanded or kicked or punched in the stomach.

This stranger shows none of those signs.

Still, I shove at his shoulders, uncaring that I’m feeling woozy, and when he moves deeper into my periphery, I try to knee him in the balls.

That’s when a flicker ofsomethingflashes over his expression, snagging the scar that’s sliced through one eye, marring what I can’t deny is the perfection of his face.

His fingers retreat.

He doesn’t give me time to sigh in relief as he signs, “It’s likely that you haven’t showered in days. You are safe. I will not hurt you.”

Before I can even think to respond, and in less than a minute, I’ve been twisted around, held firmly against his body, his dick prodding my butt cheeks, one of his thighs positioned between my legs, his calf settling over mine with his foot holding me in line.

One of his hands captures both of my wrists and glues them to my waist while the other carries on as if I didnothing.

His fingers move between the folds of my sex, rubbing soap here and there with a thoroughness that I don’t think I’ve ever graced my pussy with in a lifetime.

And yet, it’s not sexual.

At all.

He doesn’t focus on my clit.

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