Page 83 of Sinful Honor

That evening—I needed to find the moment my captive told me about.

Did she really save my life?

And if she did. Why?

My eyes went up to the deck when I heard a rustling noise—keeping a steady rhythm with my pull-ups.

I watched her stick her head through the potted cypress trees, guaranteeing complete privacy on the deck, then she flung a makeshift rope—made out of bedsheets—over the barrier.

Fuck me.

My beautiful captive was trying to escape.

She didn’t look my way since I was at an angle, and I hung silently back until she disappeared again.

The bedsheet rope caught on one of the potted trees, and I could only see her hands as she untangled it and lowered it farther.

Would she really try to escape?

With bedsheets, like in a bad prison-escape movie?

Would she kill herself trying to do so?

My heartbeat sped up—and not from the exercise. No amount of exercise could have the same impact as just looking at her had on me.

I continued my pull-ups for good measure.

Fascinated.

Finally, I could see her squeeze through between the wall and the potted plant.

Ass first.

And what an ass.

My dick stirred.

I hadn’t pegged her as overly athletic—thin or frail yes, but maybe I was wrong about the athletic part.

She dangled on her makeshift rope, and when she let go of the guardrail, I stopped breathing.

Please let her have it attached properly.

I dropped down from my branch and hurried to where she might land if the rope didn’t hold.

She didn’t see me since I stayed slightly behind her and enjoyed her ass swaying slowly from side to side with her downward movement.

When she was finally securely on the ground, she turned around.

Our eyes met.

Hers grew big and round and shone with guilt—like those of a child caught stealing cookies.

“Going anywhere?” I folded my arms across my chest, then looked back up to the beginning of the rope before I settled on staring her down.

“No?” she said, her voice wobbly, her eyes glimmering with insecurity.

“Well, then, care to explain.” I arched one eyebrow—which was trigger enough to wake her inner rebel.

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