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Calls for a drink, right?
Leaning over, I start to pull out a bottle of vodka before pausing, my eyes finding their way to the man chained across the room from me. He is looking directly at me, making no effort to hide the fact. I can see his finger twitch against his thigh in a nervous tick, the hunch of his shoulders betraying the desperation I’m sure he’s feeling.
Sitting back in my chair, I take him in. The words catch in my throat, but I manage to say, “Thank you for not making that harder on me.”
The corner of his eyebrow twitches, but otherwise, his expression doesn’t change.
I chuckle, bringing my hands to my face before rubbing.
“Fuck me,” I laugh, shaking the bottle in my hand. “I need a better drink.”
I stand up before kicking off my heels and padding across the room in my stockings to the small liquor cabinet. I bend over and rifle through the bottles until I come up with a bottle of bourbon. Parker Heritage, one of my favorites. Vasily used to criticize the stuff, but I’ve always had an affinity for it. I start to pour a glass before pausing and grabbing a second.
I down my own and refill it before taking the second glass and walking over to Sin, stopping a few feet in front of him. He doesn’t seem to take his eyes off me the entire time. I hold up the glass.
“A small token of thanks,” I tell him, hesitating only a second before stepping up to him. Even chained and seated, I’m only at his eye level. Heat seems to radiate from his body, and I smell a hint of sweat and something vaguely metallic.
Our eyes meet, and I see hate and lust shining through. I raise the glass, never letting my eyes leave his. After a moment, he tilts his head back, mouth open.
With care, I pour a mouthful of the amber liquid, marvelling at the contractions of his neck. I’ve never been so close to a man so large. His muscles seem to have muscles, and even though his body is scarred and flawed, to me it’s somehow infinitely more attractive than the cliché, smooth male body.
Giving him a moment to swallow, I find my other hand coming up behind his head to support it while I repeat the action. He tenses at my first touch but relaxes into my palm, finishing the last of the whiskey. His hair feels coarse in my hand, and I resist the urge to grab it, pull it back, and use my mouth to give him his earned reward.
His head lowers to look at me, and we’re close enough I feel the hint of his breath on my face, the scent of whiskey still floating in the air. He gives the tiniest nod, almost imperceptible.
“You’re welcome.” My voice is quieter, more breathless than I’d like, so I clear my throat. Turning, I put the glass down then grab my own while I get my bearings, my body still tingling from just the proximity of him.
You’d think large, scary men would be the last thing I’d want given my past, but go figure. It’s the pretty ones who hurt me the most. Men with charming smiles who know how to pretend and to lie. The monsters you don’t see coming.
I may not know Sin’s story, but enough of it shows on his skin and on his face. He’s a man to be feared and a man who knows pain. Anyone with eyes can see that.
I think back on the day and the varying reactions of the clients who came and went. I left Sin’s hood off after Huntske. Although it was probably unwise to let Sin see the clients’ faces, I don’t expect to let him go to make use of the information. And I will admit that it was useful to have him here. Every man who walked in here took one look at the giant chained up in the corner then at little old me in my Dolce & Gabbana suit and smarted right up.
“You used me,” his rough voice says from behind me, interrupting my thoughts. I turn around slowly, leaning back against the bar.
“I did.”
He nods as though appreciative of the acknowledgement.
“Will you do it again?”
At this I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly, not having gotten that far. He nods again as I take another sip of bourbon.
“Did it bother you? You could have made that a lot harder on me,” I acknowledge, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth turn up for a split second.
“How? Curse and call you a cu—”
The look on my face gives the warning not to use that word again, and his eyes twinkle with mirth as he looks down at the chains.
“These ones aren’t electric,” he says. “And that doesn’t count as calling you a cunt. All I said was that I could have done that, but I didn’t.”
I sigh, putting my head in my hand. I really don’t like that word.
“Why didn’t you then?” I ask through my hand, already exhausted by this conversation.
“It wouldn’t have helped,” he replies. “It wouldn’t have made anything harder for you. Those men were all pissing themselves at the thought of being the one chained up in your office. If I’d gone off on you, it wouldn’t have changed that.”
