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I obey like a good wife, facing him with my arms held stiffly at my sides.
“Underwear too,” he says, raking a path over me with his gaze.
Swallowing what’s left of my pride, I push the thong down my thighs.
He studies me unabashedly, paying special attention to the spot between my legs where his mark is hidden beneath my curls.
“Shoes,” he instructs.
I kick them off and wait for his next command. Despite his earlier statement, the bulge in his pants says he wants me. As much as I try not to be affected, I can’t help the spark that ignites in my belly or the pulsing ache that grows between my legs. But then he douses the heat spreading from my lower body more effectively than a bucket of ice water dumped over my head when he says, “Get down on all fours and crawl to the bathroom.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He flicks his fingers and points at the floor. “Here. Now.”
My whole being protests. He observes me with the self-assurance of a man who knows I’ll obey. How can I not? My family’s lives depend on my actions.
Humiliation burns on my cheeks as I go down on my hands and knees. The floor is hard and the carpet thin. The thread digs into my skin as I crawl to the door at the back, which I assume leads to the bathroom. His footsteps are quiet, but I sense him following behind me. When I pause in front of the door, he walks around me to open it.
The bathroom is smaller than the cabin, and the floor is tiled. A shower and a toilet hug a small cabinet. Painfully aware of how exposed I am, I sit back on my heels, but he presses the tip of his shoe between my shoulder blades and pushes me down with a tsk of his tongue. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to swallow an insult and stay where he wants me.
“Go to the cabinet,” he says. “You’ll find your toiletries inside.”
I look at him from over my shoulder. “How did my things get here?”
“An attendant unpacked them before we boarded.”
“That’s an invasion of my privacy.”
Ignoring the complaint, he gives another order. “Put on your red lipstick.”
I frown. “What?”
“Stop asking questions, and do as I say.”
What is he trying to do? Make me look pretty so that he can stand to look at my face?
When I don’t move, he raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to do it for you?”
Clenching my teeth, I crawl over the floor and open the cabinet. As he said, the bottom shelf is stocked with my toiletries. I have to kneel when I open my make-up bag because I need both my hands. The lipstick Mattie applied this morning has long since rubbed off. Why does he want me to reapply it? What is he playing at?
Without a mirror, I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job, but I dab the lipstick on and cap the tube when I’m done.
“Good,” he says. “Put it away and crawl back to the room.”
I fucking hate him so much. I repeat the words like a mantra in my head, taking strength from my loathing as I crawl back over the floor.
“Stop there,” he says when I reach the foot-end of the bed. “On your knees facing me.”
I do as he says, glaring up at him.
He walks over and stops in front of me. When he reaches for his buckle, my mouth goes dry. He can’t be doing what I think he is, but my worst suspicion is confirmed when he pushes the button on his waistband through the hole, pulls down his zipper, and takes out his cock.
He slides a fist over his length, pumping twice. A drop of precum leaks from the slit in the broad head. Even now, even in these circumstances, I can’t help but be fixated by the sight of him naked. He’s the only man I’ve seen, the only reference I have of a male’s anatomy. I have a feeling he’s in a different league, that no other male can compare, and I only despise him for it more.
His voice is frosty, devoid of lust or desire. “Stay on your knees and spread your legs.”
What’s the use of fighting? If he wants to use my mouth as if I’m nothing but a whore, I’d rather get it over with.
