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Okay, deep breaths. I totally have this.
I blush, trying to look away from him as he stands before me in all his glory. God. He’s so, so fucking fit and trim. And rude. So fucking rude to stand before me in the nude when I didn’t even ask him to. In fact, I asked him to leave the room. And instead of turning around to go, he dropped trou.
My eyes widen. Is that a damn tattoo on his dick? Look away! Abort! Abort!
My eyes fall to the side again, where I focus on the fancy tile on the walls. It’s a pretty blue, mixed with black, bringing the whole room together. It's beautiful and fancy. And so not a dick. It even has five lines that run through it. Maybe. I count again, ignoring the man with the raging hard-on.
“Your turn,” he rasps, wrapping his fingers around his length and pumping it a few times until precum glistens over his slit.
Okay. So maybe I didn’t focus on the tile well enough. Somehow my eyes keep falling on his massive fucking dong. I groan, getting myself together. Of all the things that happened tonight, this is the one that sent me into a tailspin.
He kidnapped you, Journey. Kid. Napped. You. Say it with me now and breathe. Before you have a damn panic attack from a veiny, thick dick.
I shake it all off and remember my exit strategy. Focus. Be good. And then, get the fuck out with your dignity intact.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth, yanking at my stupid outfit's buttons and letting them fly throughout the bathroom. Cold air rushes over my bare chest and abdomen. “But I can wash my own damn self.” Through pure determination, I yank the jumper down my arms and over my legs, kicking it to the side in his pristine bathroom along with the pair of socks on my feet. His jaw tics at the mess, but his focus on the piece of clothing doesn’t last long.
The thing they don’t tell you when you go to jail is that everything you have on that isn’t white gets confiscated. Panties? Bra? Not white when you get booked in? Well, the jail seizes them and gives you county-issued pairs. Or, in my case, they didn’t fucking have any. Usually, when you’re bailed out or released, they give you everything back. Something the Devils claim to have. I have no doubt in my mind that they burned it all without a second thought—especially that dress. And hopefully not my phone. Even if they wanted to go through it, they couldn’t.
So, here I stand under the bright lights of this freakishly large master bathroom, under his intense gaze, entirely and utterly naked.
Goosebumps pucker over every inch of my bare flesh. My face heats at his stare. His eyes greedily take me in like he can’t get enough. Every imperfection. Every inch. Standing before him in nothing but my birthday suit, has every insecurity rising to the surface. My scars. My sins. Especially when his gaze darkens on the tattoo between my breasts, locking on it with interest. My war wound. The infinite mark, holding my ghosts. His jaw tics, anger taking hold and swirling in his eyes. Like he’s ten seconds from losing his shit.
Shit. My breath stalls. It’s a part of me that I don’t usually show off, hiding it with the underbust I usually wear. I may have tattooed over the knife wound scarring me there, but it’s still a reminder I like to hide away. He doesn’t have a clue what I’ve been through. If he did, he’d have more to say on the subject.
Stepping forward, I don’t dare flinch when he rubs between my breasts, examining the tattoo hiding my pain. Thick, callused fingers trace the slightly raised mark, hiding the sins of my past. Over and over, my flesh tingles from his touch, taking me beyond this room, so I almost forget I’m naked and vulnerable in front of him. My body shivers when he brushes the side of my breast, continuing to trace the outline of the vines and flowers on the side of the key.
Until he steps back with a grunt. My eyes fly open, greeting his empty stare.
“Get under the water. Wash the stink off your body,” he demands, wiping away the momentary moment of serenity.
I’d love to say it’s the only part of him affected, but that would be a lie. Maybe if I distracted him a little, I could…
“Shower, Little Chaos,” he hisses, grabbing my arm and hauling me forward.
Okay. Never mind. A distraction is not in his future. Even without the cuff, he’s a controlling asshole, pulling me along like I weigh nothing.
I gasp when the warm water falls over my flesh, and the glass door shuts behind us. Maybe I needed this more than I thought. After the party and drinking and destroying a car, I’m sure I’m filthy and, yeah, smelly. But that gives him no right to manhandle me to wherever he wants me to be.
“Would you fucking stop!” I shout, wiping the water from my eyes. I growl when he smirks down at me, dipping his head back under the spray of a second shower head. Fuck it. I push at his chest, making him stumble back, and he laughs at me. Just fucking laughs in my face no matter how many times I punch him until I’m out of breath.
“Stop fighting me, Little Chaos. It’ll do you no good. Wash your hair, and then we can rest,” he says it nonchalantly as he lathers his hair with shampoo, humming a tune.
He’s a goddamn psychopath. And I’m stuck with him.
Once we’re out of the shower, Jericho insists on drying me off. He even runs the towel through my hair and then scrunches it like I would to maintain my curls near the counter where he had folded his dirty clothes.
“Be a good girl, Little Chaos. And we’ll make all your dreams come true. Don’t fight this connection we have.” As he says connection, a rough handcuff falls on my wrist again, clinching shut. This time, though, he doesn’t connect it to himself, leaving it hanging.
Right. Connection. If that’s what he wants to call it.
“Now, it’s past your bedtime,” he hums, pulling me by the forearm toward another bathroom door and pushing it open.
“I didn’t realize I had a bedtime,” I huff when the lights turn on, and my jaw drops. “What the…”
“This is your closet. It’s filled with everything you might need.”
That’s an understatement. Rows and rows of dresses, nice pants, T-shirts, and everything in between line the space.
