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Pulling a bottle out, he pops the top and squirts whatever it is into his hand.
My gasp of shock rips through the bathroom as his hands find my hair and the scent of floral shampoo hits my nose.
A blue blob of liquid hits my breast and I stare at it.
“Why’s it blue?” I ask, my confusion making me forget his previous demand.
“It’s for brunettes,” he informs me, his fingers massaging my head in the most delicious way.
The tension in my body from the night before begins to ebb away with every stroke of his fingertips.
He works in silence until a thought hits me.
“This is Sloane’s, isn’t it?”
He pauses and sucks in a breath that damn near empties the room of air.
Then in a flash, his fingers are gone and he’s pulling at whatever he bound my wrists with.
Relief floods me, but it only lasts a few seconds because the moment I turn and look at him, I know exactly what’s coming next.
And I don’t even try to stop him as he storms, dripping wet, out of the bathroom.
