and turning on the bath’s taps.
How many times are we going to shower and bathe? I don’t think I have ever been this clean!
“Get in,” he tells me, taking my hand and helping me step over the ledge of
the tub. “Sit and relax. The hot water will be good for your cunt.”
“Okay,” I say, sinking deeper into the water, letting the warmth cover and relax me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s right. The warm water feels good against my tender skin.
I hear a loud knock on the bathroom door, and I jump. My heart begins beating faster, and I reach up to grab his hand. This man’s presence is no longer frightening, but reassuring.
“Don’t worry, Princess,” he growls, crouching down and kissing my temple
gently. “They’re just here to strip the bed and deliver more towels.”
“Sir?” I breathe out.
“You’re not getting rid of me,” he states, fisting the back of my hair and pulling me into a rough, possessive kiss. “Stay in here until they leave.”
He rises and leaves the bathroom, his loud, demanding voice carrying through the door.
I sink back and let the hot water slowly envelop me as the tub continues to
fill. For the first time since the man entered the room this evening, I truly let my mind wander, trying to puzzle out his conflicting behavior.
On the one hand, he’s sweet and gentle, on the other, he’s gruff and coarse.
He scares me, but I’m not afraid of him. I know he would never physically hurt me. Yet his gruffness and anger can be unsettling at times.
Then there is the sex. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I willingly slept with this man, that I asked him to have sex with me. Not only that, but that I enjoyed nearly every second of it. Despite my initial nervousness, having him watch me masturbate was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done. I still can’t believe I went along with it. Or how much it turned me on.
There is movement coming from the other room, followed by the low
murmur of voices; it is punctuated by the man’s impatient response, all of which I cannot understand. Sinking lower into the tub, I tune out my surroundings and
focus on what just occurred between the man and me.
How it had felt to touch him, to have him watch me, taste me, touch me, fuck
me. How it had felt when he came inside of me. I push aside the fact that he wasn’t wearing a condom and all those life altering repercussions. Instead, I focus on his body collapsing against mine with spent pleasure, and the knowledge that I had done that to him. There’s an odd power in knowing I did
that to him. That he enjoyed sex as much as I did. He’s not a man to say things he doesn’t mean, so when he says he thought it was amazing I have to believe
him.
I wonder if he would take me with him, help me escape. Or at least come back to see me.
Suddenly the doorknob turns and begins to swing open. I wrap my knees against my chest, shielding my naked body. The man’s angry voice sounds and
the intruder backs out quickly. I release the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding in.
The shiver that runs through me has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the men outside the bathroom door.
Straining my ears, I can hear the others depart the room and the man’s heavy
footsteps striding toward the bathroom.
“It’s just me,” he says loudly, knocking once before pushing the door open.
Looking up as he enters, I see his face is set into a scowl. His eyebrows are scrunched up into a thick angry line. His fists tighten around the towels he is holding.
“Relax, they’re gone,” he says in a low growl, which has me pushing back further into the corner of the tub. I no longer fear this man physically, but my whole body is a live wire of nerves. I can’t help but be set on edge by the angry and annoyed vibe he is projecting.
I watch as he turns toward the vanity and begins pulling open the draws and
rifling through them, clearly looking for something.
“What are you looking for?” I find myself asking.
“A fucking hairbrush,” he mutters tersely.
Letting myself relax under the effects of the hot water, I reach up and touch
the mess that is my hair. Although clean thanks to my frequent showers, it’s a mass of unruly tangles.
“I could use one,” I tell him, trying to finger comb it as best as possible.
“This cheap plastic comb will have to do.”
