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“That side of me you do not want to know, understand? It’s not for you.” Just as you’re not for me.
It takes her a moment, but she steels herself and turns her narrowed eyes up to mine. “You can touch me, though? Any way you want.”
“To discipline you. To clean you.”
She tugs. “Let me go.”
“Do you understand?”
She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself, Judge. I can have any man I want.”
My jaw tenses, and I realize I’m squeezing her wrist too hard when she winces. I let her go, and she takes two steps away.
“Any man. Any time,” she says, then cocks her head and grins that arrogant, self-satisfied Mercedes De La Rosa grin.
I close the space between us, relishing in the fact that she takes two away before her back hits the wall and she’s out of room. I touch her chin and tilt her face up. “I have no doubt they drop to their knees on your command, little monster. But I’m not one of those boys you can wrap around your pretty little finger.”
She jerks her chin out of my grasp. “As if I’d want to.”
I grin. Good. This is good. We were moving into dangerous territory there. I turn to exit the bathroom, but before I’m even out the door, I hear her gasp, and I stop dead. Because fuck. I haven’t showered with a woman in a long time. Too much intimacy. What just happened proved that, didn’t it?
Without looking back, I continue into her bedroom.
She follows. “What is that tattoo?”
“It’s nothing.” In her bedroom, I see the tray of food Miriam must have returned. Still uneaten for the most part. Some of the bread has been picked at. It’ll grow mold soon. “Your breakfast is here, Mercedes,” I tell her as I reach the door to exit her room.
She’s right behind me. “Judge?” Her fingers wrap around my bicep just as I pull the door open. “What the…?” She touches the spot. “There’s a scar under there. What is this?”
I turn to face her. “The past. Get dressed, eat your breakfast, and think about why you’re here or you’ll be spending another day locked in this room.”
She searches my face, hers unreadable. “Who did that to you?”
Is she taunting me? Using my own words to play with me? “Go eat your breakfast. Now.”
“I’m not eating that. Tell me who did it? And why you’d hide it under a tattoo. Or can you ask me, but I can’t ask you? Like you can touch me, but I can’t touch you.”
“You will learn to do exactly as I say.”
“Fuck I will. You forget who you’re dealing with. I’m not some courtesan working the Cat House. I’m Mercedes De La Rosa. You don’t simply get to dismiss me.”
“Is that so?”
I turn to her and close the door. There’s a finality that comes with that sound. A shifting in the air, a weight to it.
I peel her hand off my arm and walk her backward to the wall, setting my hand against it and taking in the difference in size between us. I lean in close and scan her eyes, her flushed cheeks, and her mouth, noting the subtle signs of arousal. Both of her hands come up to grip the towel tight.
“You don’t want me to dismiss you?”
Her pulse thrums at her neck.
“Alright. You want my attention? You have it. Now drop the towel.”
She swallows audibly but doesn’t obey.
“Drop it. Now.”
Slowly, she does it, letting it fall to the floor and baring herself to me. I look down at her breasts and flat stomach. Then the slit of her sex. I return my gaze to hers.
