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I watched him go back to his suitcase—take out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt—which he handed to me.
“Let it rest for tonight. And tomorrow, we’ll talk.”
Tomorrow.
He took another pair of shorts from his suitcase and stripped out of the wet ones he’d been wearing.
And I lost every little bit of spit I had left in my mouth.
Holy hotness.
His ass was a piece of art—not that I had a lot of—or any real-life experience—but damn, he could give Michelangelo a run for his money.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. Great, just great. Now I was ogling and salivating after my captor’s body.
Hello, Stockholm syndrome—could you please leave me alone?
I hung my head and sighed.
“Let me.” He was by my side again, took the clothes out of my hands, then he helped me into the shirt.
Carefully.
First the arm he’d just stitched up, then the other one, then my head. He even pulled my hair out, combed through it with his fingers, and straightened it.
Then he squatted down, averted his eyes, and held the shorts out for me.
My heart throbbed, but again, he wasn’t leering or anything. Didn’t even look.
Why wouldn’t he look?
What the hell? Why would I even want him to?
This whole situation was twisted enough, I should be glad he didn’t treat me like his uncle had and used me to fulfill his depraved desires.
Instead, he was almost gentlemanly—that is, until he urged me to stand, pulled the shorts up over my ass—and took a deep whiff at my core while doing it.
I froze.
He froze.
His eyes snapped to mine. Dark, stormy, almost black. Pure unmasked desire.
My breath stuck in my throat; my heart suddenly galloped away like a herd of wild horses.
The moment ended just as abruptly as it had started.
He stood, walked toward the entrance to the room, then came back with…
Food?
I stared at him.
Who the hell was this guy? Who could go from sniffing me like a wild animal to providing food, like…
…A caring human being?
“When was the last time you ate? You’re skin and bones. Unhealthy.”
