Page 183 of Bad Attitude
He lowers my arm and leans across me to reach for the other one. “Options,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t like to be forced into things.”
Vague, yet understandable. Hypocritical, too. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the irony of the moment.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Sore.” Replete. Content. Confused.
His lips twitch. “Just sore?”
“Among other things.”
“Did I go too hard?”
He asks me thatnow?
But it doesn’t change the answer. “No, you didn’t.” Not really.
“Could I have gone harder?”
Jesus.Couldhe have gone harder? “I’m not sure I want to imagine that.” I can’t help but imagine it anyway, and the shiver is real, despite the warmth of the water.
He gives a soft chuckle, falling quiet. The loofah runs over my shoulders, then gently down my chest, over my breasts. In many ways, it’s more intimate than tying me naked to a vault horse.
“Did Tasha do that?”
“Do what?” It takes me a moment to notice the direction of his gaze. “Oh, my tattoo? Yes.” He does seem to like it. He touches it often.
“And the one on your shoulder, too?”
“My stooping raven? She did them both.”
“It’s good work.”
“Yeah.”
Our conversation dies again. It’s me, I think. I’m too pent up. This should be relaxing, but it isn’t. My thoughts are spiraling. How I came to be here.Wherever the hellhereis. Who Declan is. Really is. Because if I’m certain of one thing, it’s that there’s a lot more to him than he lets on.
Why is he so interested in the ‘package’?
Where is that little black box now? The one I promised Kurt I wouldn’t let out of my sight.
Chances of it still being in my jacket pocket, the diamonds untouched in the other?
Zero. Of that, I’m certain.
Declan’s taken it, when Kurt explicitly told me not to give it to him.
I suppose I could ask him. Watch him go still. Watch him deflect.
But I don’t want to.
He finishes bathing me, then holds a towel for me. I step out by myself, feeling stronger. The water has soothed my skin and tired muscles, but I know I’ll be sore tomorrow. And have bruises on my hips from where his fingers dug in. Some marks on my wrist from his ropes. That’s to be expected, I suppose.
Worth it?
