Page 38 of Unhinged

Staring up at me, something like fear sparks in her eyes. “Owning me, right, right.” She winks at me. “Just like that guy in Paris…”

And then she smirks. The smirkdestroysme, and I snap. I don’t think.I act.

One second, she’s standing there, all cocky and defiant as fuck, and the next? She’s over my fucking shoulder. I smack her ass so hard she howls. She kicks and fights, and it’s satisfying as fuck, spanking her again and holding her in place.

“You want to test me?” My voice is low, lethal. “Go ahead.”

I slide her down my chest, one arm wrapped around her back like a vise, my hand against her throat. I could bruise her soft, creamy skin. I couldbreakher, and she knows it.

I press closer, my mouth against her ear. “Tell me about Paris. Tell me his name.”

She doesn’t.

Smart girl.

“You sure you’ve got nothing else to say?”

She could be bluffing, or I could be making a list of men who need to be erased from the face of the fucking earth.

Her gaze flicks to the bolted main entrance and the locked windows lined with security glass. She presses her lips into a thin line. “That’s what I thought.” I push an errant hair behind her ear. I blink, and I can see clearly again. Then I bury my nose in her hair and breathe, and my heartbeat settles.

“Now that we’ve got that cleared up, let’s get cleaned up before we order dinner.”

She’s quiet now but not defeated. She’s thinking… planning her next move. I could strip her naked and chain her to the bed, and she’d still be ten steps ahead, planning her next move.

So I don’t mind taking my time. I’ll let her play her little games, let her think there’s a way out of this.

I hold her hand, take her upstairs, and lead her to the bathroom, where I turn the water on warm. She watches me warily, but this isn’t a time when I’ll hurt her. Slowly, methodically, I strip her. I run a hand over the fading welts across her ass, and she hisses in a breath. I can’t help it. I drop to my knees.

Holding her hips on either side, I run my lips across the welted skin, committing it to memory. I bite her ass, earning me a scream.

My fingers skim her ribs, her waist, her hips. She shivers but lets me.

Maybe she’s brave. Maybe she’s resigned.

Maybe she wants this.

I get to my feet and lead her into the shower before I undress and join her. Water sluices over her skin, washing away sweat and dirt. I lather her scalp and rinse it, then use conditioner on the ends. I take a washcloth and slide it down her breasts, over the swell of her stomach and the curve of her hips.

I imagine her belly pregnant with my baby. We’ll get there.

Fuck. She’s so fucking gorgeous.

“You take care of all your prisoners like this?” she asks, her eyes tracking my every move.

“No,” I say simply, wiping between her thighs, spreading her slick with the soap as if there’s nothing at all sexual about this. Her breath stutters. “Not every prisoner will have my baby.”

My cock aches. Her gaze grows deadly, her voice tight. “Lucky me.”

Will she feel like she’s lucky when she’s pregnant with my baby? When she’s tethered to me, our DNA knit together? When we’ll be aligned as parents to our child, whether she likes it or not?

Then—to my surprise—she reaches for the soap.

I watch her long, thin fingers as she pours some into her palm and then lathers my hair.

Next, she rubs it on the washcloth and spreads it across my shoulders and down my chest.

My cock throbs.

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