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“That’s good enough for today,” he clips the words out with a finality that makes me question if he will still punish me. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t stop thinking about the possibility.
I turn toward him slowly, my head almost too heavy to lift. At the moment, it’s painfully obvious that I don’t have an ounce of pride left. As his eyes rake over me, I’m certain I’ll see some satisfaction as he realizes that, but instead, there’s mounting concern when he notices the rashes and scrapes all over my body.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were allergic?” He frowns.
I glance down at the red welts on my body, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not. My skin is sensitive, and I had no protection from the straw.”
“Come.” He joins me in the stall and grabs me by the arm, but this time, his touch is gentle.
I follow him into the center of the stables, where he unchains me from the large metal arm holding me hostage. After that, he carefully removes my collar and tosses it into the corner, along with the locks. For a second, I consider the possibility of running now, but realistically, I know he’d catch me before I even made it twenty feet. I’m too exhausted. My muscles are aching, and my head is throbbing. And all I want to do is fall into bed and cry.
Judge retrieves the sheet he hung on a hook outside the stables and wraps me up again before scooping me up over his shoulder once more.
“I can walk,” I groan.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t fight.
We make it to the safety of my room, and I’m hopeful that he’ll just leave me to wallow in my misery, but of course that doesn’t happen. Instead, he leads me into the bathroom and turns on the shower, testing the temperature of the water before he gestures for me.
“Get in.”
It’s one order I can’t protest because I’m filthy, and I think it’s very likely I’ll probably need three showers before the day is through so I can feel like I actually washed it away. I step into the stone shower and under the spray, blinking through the steam as I wait for Judge to leave. Only, he doesn’t.
Instead, he tugs off his shirt and kicks off his boots. When he reaches for the zipper on his riding breeches, I swallow so loudly, I’m convinced he heard it. But he doesn’t seem to notice or care. And then before my eyes, he yanks off his breeches, leaving him standing there in nothing but a pair of black briefs.
I swallow again when he approaches, shaking my head infinitesimally. “I don’t need any help.”
He sighs. “For once in your life, just do as you’re told, will you?”
He doesn’t give me an opportunity to decide for myself, but rather he turns me in his arms and reaches for the soap. I’m frozen, my nerves unsettling me as I anticipate his touch. I don’t know what it will be like. Nobody has washed me in a very long time. The last time was when Antonia tended to my wounds in those weeks following the beating that left me with my scars. But Judge isn’t Antonia, and I feel the presence of his fingers on my skin in a way I’m certain I’ll never feel anything else.
They are rough and large but gentle at the same time. Like everything else he does, he washes me with a thoroughness that ensures he doesn’t leave a single spot of skin untouched. I’m almost grateful that he started at my back so he can’t see the expression on my face. But I’m certain he can still feel the soft shudder of my skin as his hands glide over it. My ass is still sore as hell, undoubtedly marked with his handprints, which he lingers to examine for a few moments before cleaning them tenderly.
I close my eyes and try to take myself to another place, but my mind drags me back to the present. To the hands touching my body. To the strange feelings stirring in my belly when he pulls me against the hard plane of his body and his fingertips edge around my ribs. I suck in a sharp breath when he washes my belly and then stop breathing entirely when his hands glide over my breasts, pausing there for a moment longer than what I’m sure is necessary. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I heard him biting back the sound of a groan, but I can’t see his face. I can, however, feel his cock against me, even through the material of his briefs. It’s warm and… huge.
For a second, I find myself wondering what it looks like. What it would feel like in my palm. Or more importantly, buried deep inside me. Would it hurt? Of course, it probably would. But it would also feel good, I think. A good hurt.
My face flames with heat, and I shake my head again, silently cursing myself. Judge doesn’t acknowledge my strange behavior. He continues to wash me, not shying away from any of the areas on my body. When his palm glides down between my thighs, I almost buckle in his arms, and I don’t know why. But the gentle caress of his fingers in such an intimate place is doing strange things to me. Things that shouldn’t be happening. If Santiago ever found out he even did this much, my brother would murder him.
Still, it gives me a secret thrill I can’t deny. We might hate each other, but there’s no arguing a part of him wants me too. And I find myself wondering if a part of me wants him? Or am I just reaching for comfort in a terrible situation, even if it is from my captor?
That question is laid to rest when he releases me momentarily to let me rinse. When I’m done, he moves on to shampooing my hair, which is a whole other sensory experience. My hair is long and thick, but he takes his time working through each strand, even pausing to massage my scalp when he notices the way it gives me goose bumps.
He rinses me again, and, to be extra thorough, washes my body one more time. I’m grateful for that small gesture because I would have done the same. But I’m also slightly relieved that it’s not over yet.
God, there is seriously something wrong with me. By the time he releases me, my legs feel like jelly, and I can barely stand.
“Go dry yourself off,” he says. “I’ll be out to join you in a minute.”
I do as he bids, stepping out to towel off, lingering in the bathroom for far too long. I’m curious if he’ll undress completely, and I can admit that maybe a part of me wants to get a glimpse. Just to see what he’s packing down there. To see the weapon between his thighs.
Judge turns away and doesn’t acknowledge that he knows I’m still there. He yanks off his briefs and tosses them onto the wet floor, then turns the spray to cold. I freeze, unable to move as my eyes survey the perfect globes of his muscular ass.
Holy shit. It really is… beautiful. That’s such a stupid thing to say about the man I hate more than anything right now, but I can’t pretend it’s not true. He has a gloriously sculpted body, like a piece of art. You can’t help but stare at it. While my eyes are roaming over him, I catch a glimpse of some dark ink wrapped around his side and onto his back. At first glance, I think it must be the brand of the IVI tattoo we all have inked into our skin. Then he turns and catches me gawking, raising a brow as my eyes instinctively head south. And there it is in all its glory. The long, hard cock jutting out from that dark patch of hair. He doesn’t even try to hide it, and I wonder if this is a test. If he wants to see how I’ll react.
I want to believe I have a good poker face, but when I glance at him again, I can tell he knows. He hasn’t missed the way my nipples have tightened or my belly has clenched. He can see that I’m curious. More than curious.
I’m… I don’t know what the hell I am, actually.
