Page 6 of His To Claim

I try to push down all the whirring anxiety as I walk into the ensuite and strip.

I didn’t shower yesterday, but I sweat a lot last night since I wore my hoodie and sweatpants to bed, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

I step into the shower and let out a gasp when the waterfall starts automatically. It falls heavily over my naked body, but thankfully it’s already warm.

I settle into the flow and just stand there for a few moments, letting it slide down my body, clinging to my already hot nipples and making them hotter.

The sensuality of the shower isn’t doing anything to help the thoughts of Arturo which keep rising unbidden in my mind.

He. Is. My. Captor.

I roar the words in my mind, but they ring out without the conviction I’d need to take them to heart.

I turn, looking for the soap or body wash.

I want to make this quick so the heat of the shower doesn’t lead me to silly places, like imagining Arturo’s hands moving up and down my body instead of the water. I bet he’d do it hard, possessively, claiming my breasts in his powerful hands and then shoving me roughly up against the wall.

“You’re going to take this dick,” he’d growl, stroking it between my naked thighs. “I’m going to lead the way. Just do what the fuck I say. Okay, my little captive?”

It’s all a crazy, stupid fantasy.

I’m not a little anything, and if that happened in real life I’d probably be a stuttering mess.

Oh, and there’s the pesky matter of him being the last person I should be thinking about like that, too.

I don’t see any body wash on the small shelf, so I open the shower door and lean out, searching the marble sink countertop.

Then I spot him.

Arturo casually leans against the counter, his hands in his pockets, his intense eyes fixated on my breasts as they bounce in shock and water goes spraying everywhere.

For long moments – as I stand, stunned, as though pinned by his gaze – he just stares at me.

He smirks slowly.

I gasp as the reality of what’s happening breaks my paralysis.

I slam the shower door shut and stare at the steamed-up glass, wondering if he can still see any parts of my nakedness.

I can’t see him anymore, but maybe he can somehow see me?

My breathing comes too frenetically to make logical thinking possible.

“Something wrong?” he says casually.

I replay his smirk in my mind, trying to judge the quality of it if it was mocking or mean or … or excited, as though he was happy with what he was seeing.

I violently shut that notion down, both because it’s not true and even if it was, I shouldn’t be flattered by a stranger, my captor, staring at my naked body.

But I can’t deny the way my lips swell and tickle, grinding together hotly.

I can’t ignore my nipples beading so hard despite the blaring heat of the shower.

I can’t deny the dozens of steamy vignettes flitting scintillatingly through my mind.

“Wrong?” I snap. “Yeah, funnily enough. What the heck are you doing?”

“Getting a look at what’s mine,” he says, still in that couldn’t-give-a-shit tone.

“What’s yours?” I yell. “Just because you—Wait, no, I’m not having this conversation. Could you please get out so I can shower in peace, please?”

“You’re going to banish me from my own bathroom?” he laughs grimly.

“When I’m in it, yes,” I snap.

“Weren’t you looking for something? I’ve got some body wash over here if you need it.”

“You can leave it on the counter,” I murmur, something deep inside of me screaming to get out there and take it now, naked or not.

I ignore the insane urge even as a thousand sensations swell and contract inside of me, as though my body is preparing for something.

And then my mind leaps to even more surreal places and I imagine years ahead in the future, this man I should hate not smirking but smiling, all our children gathered around us.

What the heck? I scream silently, battling down the absolutely deranged images. You don’t know this man. You should hate this man.

“I’m not doing that,” Arturo growls.

His heavy footsteps pound across the bathroom floor, his shoes making the noise even louder. I stare at the shower door as he pulls it open, standing there with his eyes fixated on me, his smirk twitching into something like an animal grimace.

In his hand, he casually holds a plastic bottle of body wash, but the way he clutches it, it’s as though it’s a weapon, as though any second he’s going to attack me with it. There’s something feral and unhinged in his expression, some kind of monster trying to burst out of his skin.

“Get out,” he says sternly. “I don’t want to get my suit wet.”

My heart is pounding and quivers riot through me.

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