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His lips twitch into a smile. “You shower. I’ll wait for the food.”
I don’t ask him what he ordered. It wouldn’t matter. Whatever it was, I would probably puke it up anyway. I’m so damn nervous about everything. About every minute of every day and what the future holds. I didn’t think I would be this nervous about it, until this morning when everything seemed to change, like a switch had been flipped.
As I move down the hall, he continues to stand in the middle, his eyes on mine, and doesn’t shift to the side to let me pass. When I stop in front of him, the hallway not being wide enough for me to move, he lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around the back of my neck, and tugs me a bit closer to him.
He dips his chin, and I watch him, take him in as he lowers his head and touches his mouth to mine. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m always thinking that, but I can’t really gauge this man and his personality. I don’t know him. I’m standing in front of this stranger, so unsure of myself, of this situation.
“Go and get clean just to get dirty,” he murmurs against my lips.
This is what I know. Sex. Granted, I’m technically a virgin, but Cyrus made sure I knew how to pleasure a man. He drilled certain things into me, countless times, and giving pleasure was on the top of the list.
I hate Cyrus and everything he stands for, but at least he taught me something. If there’s nothing else that was good about Dutch handing me over to this man who trained women for sex trafficking, there was this.
Leaning forward, I melt toward Itch and moan against his mouth. “Okay,” I exhale.
He swallows the sound, then releases me. I almost fall forward but am thankfully able to catch myself and straighten my back as I stand in the small hallway, just inches from him.
I hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to say anything else, if he’s going to give me any other instructions, but he doesn’t. He just walks down the hall, the towel around his waist as he moves through the house, away from me.
Making my way into the bedroom, I move through the space to hang up my dress in my closet that is too big for all my things. My clothes look sad in the open white space. They only take up about an eighth of the shelving. It’s pathetic.
Although, as the white dress hangs in the far corner, I’m glad it blends in with the wall. Maybe it won’t be a stark reminder of the day—and more specifically—that night.
I take my time showering, washing all the makeup from my face and the products out of my hair. I’m sure that I take too long, but Itch doesn’t tell me to hurry or even knock on the door to check on me at all.
The hot water beats down on my sore muscles, and I close my eyes, inhaling the warmth before letting it out. Sex is coming soon. It will happen after we’ve eaten. There is no way that a man like Itch is going to go without having sex with his virgin wife for more than a few hours after she is finally his.
Yesterday, I was excited at the possibility of having sex with this man. This man who seemed so kind, considerate, and caring. But now? The version of him I woke up beside this morning, I don’t really want much to do with him.
I’ll do what I need to. I’ll put on a performance the way I was taught. I’ll ensure that he enjoys every second of it so I am not a disappointment to him, because that’s what really matters, right? He took this chance on me. He’s contracted to me, and my life stays good as long as he’s happy.
Though, the wordgoodis all personal perception and subject to change at any given moment.
Forcing myself out of the warmth, I turn the water off and dry my body before wrapping the towel around my wet hair. Before I started the shower, I grabbed a matching pair of sleep shorts and a bralette. They’re a soft satin fabric, deep sea-green color. I love them, and I made sure not to choose lace, a fabric that for whatever reason Itch doesn’t care for.
After combing out my hair, I hang my towel on the hook, then open the bathroom door. He’s there. Sitting in the bed, the remote control in his hand. The television on. Itch lets me have control over everything in the house, except televisions.
He wanted full control of the TVs in the house. He made an announcement and said he would handle it, and handle it he did. We have four big screen televisions—one in the garage, one on the back patio, one in the bedroom, and the biggest of them all in the living room.
“Food just got here. You hungry?” he asks, not looking away from whatever is on the TV.
I have no idea what he ordered. He didn’t ask me what I wanted, but it doesn’t matter. My stomach doesn’t feel like it could handle even a bite of food, let alone a whole meal. I’m far too nervous.
Moving toward the bed, I climb in next to him and lift my gaze toward the TV. I still don’t know what he’s watching, but that’s not surprising because I’ve never really watched much television. I find it odd that he wanted so many, but I know that it must mean something to him.
“Do you like your TVs?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he grunts as he tosses the remote down and reaches beside him.
I didn’t see the bags of food on the nightstand, and my entire body stiffens at the idea of eating in bed. It’s going to be a mess, and the comforter is brand-new, two days ago I just washed the sheets, and nobody has even slept in them.
But I don’t complain—it’s not my place.
ITCH
Food is consumed, though I can tell Piper did not like eating in the bed, yet I didn’t offer a different place because this is something she’s going to have to get used to. I’m messy. In a lot of different ways, but in that messiness, there is freedom, and she needs that.
So, we ate in bed.
