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It just looks very cozy. Normal. Inside is the same. It’s clean, uncluttered, if simple but well-built. There’s classic quarter sawn oak trim and Craftsman-style built-ins.
The shower is a slick green and black veined marble. Obviously updated, but with the same comfortable style as the rest of the house. Gleaming stainless fixtures contrast with the dark marble and make me want to know if he just bought the place like this, inherited it, or if it is his hand and eye that created a place where I could see raising a family.
That last thought has a little yelp catching in my throat as I make out Chain’s outline through the steam. He’s not moved, his eyes straight forward watching me and deep down I’m pretty sure it’s just part of the job.
If he’d wanted, he could have held me down in that room and taken what he wanted. In fact, they all could have, and I wonder why they didn’t. Would seem fitting. I know grifting from MC’s is risky. I weigh up that risk against the fact most aren’t that bright, or are so high or drunk most of the time, taking is easy, but it’s still there.
The near scalding water feels like it’s renewing me, and I turn and close my eyes, running my hands down the front of my body as I lean my hair back into the spray. I know I can’t stay in here forever, but when I get out, if I see the look of desire in Chain’s eyes, I’m not sure that is a good thing.
But, If I don’t see it, that would be worse.
I shore up my courage and reach the handle to turn off the water, feeling refreshed but still unsure—not only of what is going to happen on the other side of this glass, but what is going to happen to me in general. I have to make good on my promise to pay my restitution to the club but my instinct, as always, is to run.
I step out of the glass door, the enormous white towel Chain provided hanging over the top of the door. As I pull it down, I swear I hear a growl or moan coming from where Chain is sitting.
I bring the soft terrycloth to my eyes, wiping down my face and then push it back, squeezing the water from my hair and letting the cooler air of the room raise goosebumps on my wet flesh, knowing I’m on full display to this stranger that has both become my captor and my lifeline.
The air around me is heavy and I swear I hear Chain’s breathing.
When I finally open my eyes, the fire that was already flickering around my feet shoots upward as I find him standing right there. The t-shirt that covered his torso is now in a pile on the floor and he has his right hand rubbing the deeply inked wings that cover his chest.
He swallows, making no effort to hide that he’s looking me up and down like a lion deciding just where to sink his teeth into the lamb.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s forgotten, this lamb has teeth of her own.
I take my own moment to look him up and down. His boots, heavy, black. I’ve already memorized how they sound when he moves. His jeans, just the right amount of loose, low on his hips, showing the indents that lead downward, a six-pack—or eight—defined, but without the hard edges that say working out is all that important.
He’s natural, just the right balance of hard and real, and then there’s the ink.
Damn.
I’ve never cared one way or the other about tattoos. But on Chain, it’s as though he was born with them. I can’t imagine his body without the décor that seems to be alive on its own, reaching out to grab my gaze and pull it to each area of his body that tells a story on its own.
“You like what you see?” He steps forward, still rubbing his chest, as only a man can do, not knowing that it’s driving me crazy to see him touch himself even in such a simple way.
Our eyes crash together and I challenge him, dropping the towel and letting my arms hang at my sides, my hair half down my back, the other half stuck to my skin down my left side, ending just above where the swell of my breast starts.
In his other hand, I notice the leash, and instead of a sense of defeat, another rush of arousal surges through me as the electricity between us buzzes and Chain eases forward until I can feel the warmth of his breathing and the intoxication of his scent.
I want to say something, my mouth is hanging open, but before I can get my brain and my mouth to cooperate, he brings the hand from his chest to the back of my head, fisting a handful of my wet hair as his other hand swoops up and I hear the click of the clasp once again, connecting me to him.
