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A man protects what he owns.
And a certain kind of man does more than that, doesn’t he?
A certain kind of man avenges any damage done to what’s his.
And shit, it feels like I’m really his, doesn’t it?
Even though I know most of what Brock said must have been an act, a show of macho possessiveness to convince Kazi that he wanted to buy me for my pussy not my protection, because he wanted to own me not free me, that it was all lust not love.
“I love your hair like that,” he murmurs from above and behind me, gazing into my reflection’s eyes. He brings his hand up, his fingers teasing open a knot in my strawlike hair that looks like I rode in on a tornado. Then he kisses me gently on the head, sending a tremor through my body, pricking my nipples, tightening my thighs. “Shit,” he mutters, pulling away when he feels me flinch. “Wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right,” I say softly, blinking up at his reflection, flashing a shy smile. Suddenly I feel a tense awkwardness descend upon the two of us, and now the elevator is taking a horribly long time to climb three floors. It’s also too bright in here, the light exposing us to each other in a way that perhaps reminds us that we’re strangers, that none of what we think we’re feeling would hold up in the clear light of day, that these fleeting feelings of togetherness are an illusion, just the aftereffects of the day’s danger, the action’s adrenaline. “It’s fine.”
“If it’s fine then maybe I’ll kiss you again,” Brock says with a quick grin which doesn’t last long because suddenly the elevator bumps to a halt and the doors squeak open and there’s a maid with a cleaning cart right outside.
“Por favor,” she says, her brown face darkening with embarrassment as she picks up on the obvious tension between Brock and me. “Excuse me, Señor and Señora.”
We both smile and nod, stepping out from the elevator into the hallway. The maid pushes the cart into the empty elevator. The doors close and she’s gone. We look at each other. Brock is grinning.
“What?” I ask as we walk side-by-side towards the corner room, a suite with an attached living area that the receptionist assured us has a pull-out bed. Brock had decided that we should stay in the same room for my safety, but he asked for a suite with an extra bed, telling the receptionist we were expecting a guest tomorrow night. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”
“Because the maid called you Señora instead of Señorita,” he says with a wicked wink. “Señora is used to address married women. Which means even the maid knows you belong to me.”
I roll my eyes as Brock nudges me playfully, then walks ahead and slides the keycard into the slot. He pushes open the door, sticks his head through the crack, sweeps his gaze left and right, then gestures for me to enter behind him.
“We’re not in any immediate danger,” he says. “But better to be cautious. Let me check the bedroom closets and the bathroom.”
I take a breath, let it out slowly as Brock disappears into the bedroom, then emerges a few moments later with an all-clear nod.
“I’m going to take a long, hot bath,” I declare after Brock locks the front door and slides the dead-bolt across. “Oh, God, I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to a bath as much as right now. I feel so dirty. Absolutely filthy.”
Brock raises a sly eyebrow, drawing another eye-roll from me. That earlier tension has settled, but there’s still an edge in the air, and I’m not sure how to interpret Brock’s teasing.
Because how the hell can we interpret what happened just a few hours ago on that table at the auction hall?
Ohmygod, Brock fucked me like I was his, comes the sudden realization like it’s only just hitting me, like the dead-bolted safety of the hotel room and the comforting promise of a hot bath has released some of the blockages my brain must have erected to help me survive, to help me do whatever I needed to do to stay alive, to escape Kazi’s clutches.
Except now I’m in the clutches of a conflict that’s ripping me apart, splitting me in two, tearing me in half.
Did what we shared mean anything?
Do I want it to mean anything?
And if so, what do I want it to mean?
Because it sure as hell can’t possibly mean what it feels like it means.
Because it feels like forever.
It feels like together.
It feels like love.
Which of course it can’t be, I tell myself angrily as that tension ratchets up again as I stride into the bedroom and slam the door closed with far more force than I intended, not meaning for it to seem like I was sending a message that the bedroom is off limits to Brock, that maybe everything is off limits to Brock.
“Get a grip, Yolanda,” I mutter as I lean against the closed bedroom door and stare up at the ceiling. “You haven’t slept, eaten, or washed properly in days. You’ve been kidnapped and beaten, bound and gagged, sold to a biker who then fucked you on a wooden table while a perverted criminal and his mother watched. It’s all right if you aren’t thinking clearly, if you aren’t feeling clearly, if nothing’s clear at all.”
Except that’s not true.
