Page 8 of Dirty Grovel

She gasps, her eyes flashing to mine, her cheeks flushing pink underneath the indigo bruise. “H-how…?”

It’s all the confirmation I need.

“Is it mine?”

Her eyes grow even wider. Then she turns her face away pointedly, refusing to answer me.

“The truth will come out sooner or later, Sutton. It’ll be better for you if you tell me the truth now.”

“You don’t care what’s best for me,” she mumbles to the soapy water. “And that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“I care about what’s best for my child. Now, I’ll ask again—is it mine?”

She presses her lips together tightly and I know I won’t get anything out of her now. I have so many different urges pulling me in different directions.

But in the end, I rise slowly and leave her to her bath.

If I stay, I’ll only say something I’ll regret.

3

SUTTON

Portholes are cute and all, but they’re shit for seeing the world.

The deep, lowkey terrifying blue of open ocean has given way to a turquoise with a white, sandy bottom as we approach the harbor. On the horizon, I can see a slew of boats.

I turn my phone on long enough to send Sydney a text message. We’re down to eleven percent charge and it’s dwindling fast.

I’m surprised I even still have possession of the thing, honestly. I thought for sure Oleg was going to snatch it out of my hands and jettison it overboard.

But, for now at least, it remains with me.

Wrapped in my towel, I search the stateroom for my clothes. Oleg took them when he left me alone to soak. He came back to leave me some food and then disappeared again.

But now, my clothes are nowhere to be found, not in the bathroom or the bedroom.

I’ve just about given up when the man himself steps in, his face as hard as the muscles I can see peeking out from the short sleeves of his white button-down.

Now that I’ve been washed and fed, my body is aware of other desires.

Like the desire to reduce him to a smoking hole in the earth.

Also, the desire to jump his bones.

It’s super annoying, really. I had hoped that the last few days would have rid me of those feelings for him.

But one look at his granite pecs, the way his hair brushes the stateroom ceiling, his bulging arms and I can feel that familiar stirring in my gut…

… and in other places that shall remain nameless.

“Where are my clothes?” I ask.

“They were filthy. I took the liberty of throwing them overboard.”

I whip around. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he says with a perfectly straight face. “Even the fish veered wide around them as they sank to the bottom of the ocean.”

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