Page 25 of Beautiful Secrets
“Over there.” I point to the bathroom door, and then scan her. “What size are you?”
She scowls, but the expression slides off her face a second later. “I’m not sure.”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “I won’t judge.”
“My clothes are tailored.”
I huff out through my nose. “Spoiled brat.” I grab her shoulder, turn her around. She goes stiff on her feet, but doesn’t fight me when I shove a hand down the back of her hoody. I feel around for the neck of the vest and pull it out a little so I can read the label.
“I’ll go with a small,” I tell her, and then grab the hem of her sweatpants and do the same.
If I’m perfectly honest, I pull the elastic much further than I need to to get at the label. And I’m rewarded with a tasty glimpse of her curvy ass skimmed by a pair of white panties. “Another small, who’d have thought.”
When I turn her back, her cheeks are much rosier than when she woke up. But as I watch, the color drains again, and she presses a hand to her stomach.
Without a word, she turns and heads for the bathroom.
She can lock it from the inside, of course, but what would that accomplish? She’d starve.
Speaking of…I could eat a fucking horse. Raw.
I order up a full English breakfast for both of us, some treats, and extra bacon. A pot of coffee. And a newspaper.
I don’t read the news, but I’ve always loved sending photos of my captives holding up the paper. It’s a nice touch. Always sends the families scrambling to get me whatever the fuck I want.
Especially if I add a gag and a blindfold.
With little Mika…I might just add a few extra touches.
All the better to scare the bejesus out of Dimitri.
I also sent out for some clothes for the girl. That’s what I love about this hotel—I throw a little money their way, and they’re bending over backward to please me.
Mika comes out wearing the clothes I gave her—one of my black tank tops and a pair of black boxers.
Everything’s too big for her, of course, even more so than the shit she was wearing originally. She tried to work around this by knotting the tank’s sleeves, but one is already unraveling, giving her outfit a lopsided look.
It’s fucking adorable.
“You’re looking a little pasty,” I tell her. “Low blood sugar?”
All she does is frown at me, and then cross her arms over her chest. “So?” she demands.
“So…?”
“What are you doing with me?”
My eyebrows quirk up a little. I slide off the kitchen stool and stalk up to her like a lazy jungle cat. “What would you like me to do with you?”
That puts the faintest tinge of color in her cheeks again, but not for long. “Have you called my father?”
“Aye, about that.” I reach for her, and she steps back like a skittish horse. “We might as well wait until after breakfast.”
“Why?” Her grip tightens, pushing her breasts against the vest’s thin fabric.
Am I pissing her off, because her nipples are getting hard and it’s distracting as fuck. The sight of them poking at that fabric is making me want to rip off that shirt and suck on her until she’s moaning for me to do more.
Thankfully—for her—the intercom buzzes.
