of water ran a path from his sleeve end to his shoulder. The splash saturated the fabric, darkening a dozen tiny circles of the gray blue shirt.
His earlier words haunted her. If I wanted you, I could’ve had you for the cost of a condom six months ago . He didn’t want her. She should’ve been relieved. Again that empty feeling nestled in between her rib cage damn near her heart.
In the past men wanted her, especially since she wasn’t easily had. She’d been so hell bent on her career, and simultaneously terrified of getting pregnant or contracting an STD, that she hadn’t given them much thought. When she watched her friends’ relationships and marriages splinter and crumble she patted herself on the back for dodging the bullets. Why have a man when you can have dildos in every shape, size, and speed setting?
As though his mind followed her naughty path his lips pressed together. A hint of a smile curved one of his lips.
“When I was older I used them for different things.” He said it so quietly had she not been watching his mouth she’d have missed it completely.
Greer swallowed. Part of her wished she had missed it.
He set her up and handed over a bar of soap and a rag.
“I’ll come get you in a few. Don’t drown.” Zach moved to the door, snagging her soiled clothes off the floor, without a sideways glance at tits nor twat. He drew the door behind him, but stopped with it a few inches from the frame. His gaze swept her top to bottom.
Greer’s pounding heart stilled.
“It’d be a shame to waste all my hard work.”
If she’d had the strength to throw the large bar of lavender soap at his head she’d have given it her all. Her tongue lay like a dead fish in her mouth. Not that it mattered. Her brain couldn’t conjure a comeback to save a saint.
Zach closed the door with a quiet click of the latch.
“Asshole.” Greer buried her face in her hands, not knowing who she called asshole-him, or herself for wanting his admiration.
4
T he bathing process had been a hell of a lot easier when she’d been unconscious. Less pushback. Way less…temptation. Jesus H. Christ. Out cold she hadn’t reacted to his assistance.
Great, now he lied to himself. Sure she’d made tiny mindless noises of pain the first day and pleasure the second when the drug’s effects began to lose their hold. But she hadn’t known her own name, much less that he was the one scrubbing the filth away. Today though... Her eyes had been open. Her acumen returned.
She’d reacted to his attention with embarrassment and irritation. And to his touch. Bloody hell. She’d responded with unadulterated lust.
Zeke stomped his way down the stairs, dumped the sullied clothes and sheets and several clumps of damp hay into the burn barrel with the ashes of the others he’d destroyed yesterday. He’d thought then that she’d be back to normal today, but he wasn’t that lucky. Never had been. It had taken too long to get her right, and even still she couldn’t bloody walk. He hadn’t planned on her being doped.
At least she could do the actual scrubbing herself.
Zeke adjusted his pants, cursed, and hustled upstairs to see what he could salvage for breakfast. Judging by the charred smell when he’d walked through with the clothes, something hadn’t survived.
He’d wanted a full English fry-up, but he’d learned a thing or two during his time in the States. One, Americans thought black pudding came in a snack pack. Two and three, fat as they were, they preferred their bread toasted, not fried, and they usually only ate one meat at breakfast, not three. So, he’d settled for bacon, eggs, salt and pepper tomatoes, and toast.
“Minus the toast.” He rescued the slightly over-crisp bacon from the pool of warm fat inside the pan, and then placed it on a paper towel. The yolks of the sunny-side eggs had cooked through. At least the bottoms weren’t scorched beyond recognition. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for the
His earlier words haunted her. If I wanted you, I could’ve had you for the cost of a condom six months ago . He didn’t want her. She should’ve been relieved. Again that empty feeling nestled in between her rib cage damn near her heart.
In the past men wanted her, especially since she wasn’t easily had. She’d been so hell bent on her career, and simultaneously terrified of getting pregnant or contracting an STD, that she hadn’t given them much thought. When she watched her friends’ relationships and marriages splinter and crumble she patted herself on the back for dodging the bullets. Why have a man when you can have dildos in every shape, size, and speed setting?
As though his mind followed her naughty path his lips pressed together. A hint of a smile curved one of his lips.
“When I was older I used them for different things.” He said it so quietly had she not been watching his mouth she’d have missed it completely.
Greer swallowed. Part of her wished she had missed it.
He set her up and handed over a bar of soap and a rag.
“I’ll come get you in a few. Don’t drown.” Zach moved to the door, snagging her soiled clothes off the floor, without a sideways glance at tits nor twat. He drew the door behind him, but stopped with it a few inches from the frame. His gaze swept her top to bottom.
Greer’s pounding heart stilled.
“It’d be a shame to waste all my hard work.”
If she’d had the strength to throw the large bar of lavender soap at his head she’d have given it her all. Her tongue lay like a dead fish in her mouth. Not that it mattered. Her brain couldn’t conjure a comeback to save a saint.
Zach closed the door with a quiet click of the latch.
“Asshole.” Greer buried her face in her hands, not knowing who she called asshole-him, or herself for wanting his admiration.
4
T he bathing process had been a hell of a lot easier when she’d been unconscious. Less pushback. Way less…temptation. Jesus H. Christ. Out cold she hadn’t reacted to his assistance.
Great, now he lied to himself. Sure she’d made tiny mindless noises of pain the first day and pleasure the second when the drug’s effects began to lose their hold. But she hadn’t known her own name, much less that he was the one scrubbing the filth away. Today though... Her eyes had been open. Her acumen returned.
She’d reacted to his attention with embarrassment and irritation. And to his touch. Bloody hell. She’d responded with unadulterated lust.
Zeke stomped his way down the stairs, dumped the sullied clothes and sheets and several clumps of damp hay into the burn barrel with the ashes of the others he’d destroyed yesterday. He’d thought then that she’d be back to normal today, but he wasn’t that lucky. Never had been. It had taken too long to get her right, and even still she couldn’t bloody walk. He hadn’t planned on her being doped.
At least she could do the actual scrubbing herself.
Zeke adjusted his pants, cursed, and hustled upstairs to see what he could salvage for breakfast. Judging by the charred smell when he’d walked through with the clothes, something hadn’t survived.
He’d wanted a full English fry-up, but he’d learned a thing or two during his time in the States. One, Americans thought black pudding came in a snack pack. Two and three, fat as they were, they preferred their bread toasted, not fried, and they usually only ate one meat at breakfast, not three. So, he’d settled for bacon, eggs, salt and pepper tomatoes, and toast.
“Minus the toast.” He rescued the slightly over-crisp bacon from the pool of warm fat inside the pan, and then placed it on a paper towel. The yolks of the sunny-side eggs had cooked through. At least the bottoms weren’t scorched beyond recognition. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for the
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