Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
He slams another cabinet door, grumbling to himself as I enter. My head is held high, but the show of confidence is only skin deep. My ability to maintain composure is another skill I've mastered in my short lifetime. Freaking out will get me nowhere. Darting to the front door is hardly a blip on my radar. It has the same type of lock as the bedroom door and my fingerprint would never open it.
I come to the shocking reality as I watch his back muscles twist and bunch, that there's a real possibility that I don't run to test it out because maybe I don't want to escape. The thought frightens me. It angers me because being held captive isn't something that I want either.
I swallow before opening my mouth to speak, but the words never come out. He's grumbling, clearly irritated, and although he's the one who left the bedroom door open, an invitation for me to leave, I doubt he'll be happy that I've joined him. He looks up at the ceiling as if there are answers there to questions he's not asking out loud. I take in the kitchen. It's small but efficient, clean, devoid of clutter.
“If you're making an omelet, I want egg whites only,” I say.
He turns slowly to face me, but there's no surprise in his eyes. I have no doubt the man knew I was standing behind him the second I entered the room. His eyes skate down my body and I've learned it’s something he can't control.
I fight back a smile because he makes it very clear he likes what he sees. I've stopped hiding my body from him. There's honestly no point in it. If I'm not on full nude display, he'd command it from me. If I refused, he’d force it out of me, and I'm picking my battles.
I'm tender between my legs as I shift on my feet, waiting for his response. He never moves his eyes like he's gonna argue, like he's going to choose this moment to once again assert his power, control and dominance over me. His annoyance with me is clear in his eyes. Well, that makes two of us. I'm annoyed as well.
He seemed annoyed when I told him about my experiences with my college professor and how he didn't provide the things I needed. He wasn't happy at the idea of another man leaving me wanting. But then he did the exact same thing in the bathroom.
I climbed into the shower, needing more from him but not in a sexual way. What I did, the performance I gave him in the bedroom, left me raw and needy. I didn't want him to touch me. I didn't want him to embrace me and tell me I did a good job, but I was exposed. All he wanted was more of that.
It's stupid of me to think of this as more than what it actually is. He doesn't care for me. His goal has always been to use me and that's something I need to accept. I need to stop visualizing him as anything more, as anything more than the monster that he is.
I orgasmed so hard it blurred my vision. He came without touching himself, and as much as I thought that was a victory, that I had done something right, it wasn't enough for him. I wasn't enough for my professor and I'm not enough for my captor. And what does that say about me?
He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t tell me that I'll get what he sees fit. “Do you want it spicy or mild?” he asks.
I blink at him, surprised. “Is there a middle ground?” I ask. “A little spicy but not too hot?”
He nods before turning back to the stove. And as much as I want to explore, I take a seat at the table and wait. I try for a relaxed look, so he doesn't turn around and think that I'm waiting in an expectant manner, but slouching in the chair hurts my back.
I fiddle with my fingers on the tabletop, picking at the manicured tips of my fingernails as he cooks. When he places the delicious looking omelet in front of me, I fight the urge to dig in, waiting until his is done and he takes the seat opposite of me.
“This is weird,” I say after swallowing my first bite. He looks from the plate in front of me to my mouth.
“Did I put too much cayenne in there?”
I shake my head, a small laugh erupting from my throat.
“Not the omelet. The omelet is perfect, thank you. It's weird sitting at this table, the both of us eating, as if this is a completely normal situation.” He hums in agreement but doesn't say anything else. We spend the remainder of the meal in silence. No words come from my lips but my head is a mess of questions I know I’ll probably never ask.