So, I exit. “But I guess that’s your decision.”
If she forces my hand, I can pay the other women in the house to either take on her client list or source another worker. I can buy out her share at such a high cost that they’ll never renege on the deal.
And if I say any of those things, I’ll scare her a thousand times more than she is right now. The opposite of what I’m intending.
“I don’t even know how to explain it to them,” she says in a tiny voice. “This isn’t how I pictured my retirement going.”
The relief is immediate and strong. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll talk to them while you’re at uni and make sure everything’s organised with no ill feeling.”
And the relief isn’t just about her safety. I can’t bear to think of someone else laying their hands upon her, not when I’m in the process of making her mine.
Rosa leans forward to kiss me and that’s all the invitation I need. I take her hands and press them above her head, rolling my weight onto her, pinning her to the bed. From there, I’m more cautious. Unsure if I should even try after what I put her through yesterday.
“Can I undress you?”
She wriggles her feet. “You can take my socks off.”
“You’re sure?” I drift down the length of her body, pressing kisses against whatever bits of her present in front of me on the way. “I’ve had complaints in the past about tickling.”
“No,” she tries to draw her legs up while I restrain them easily, barely exerting any strength. “No tickling.”
“Mm. I’ll try.”
I peel off one sock, throwing it in the general direction of the laundry hamper and missing by a mile. I seize the foot and hold it steady, massaging her instep with my thumb. “Any tickles yet.”
“No, you’re good to proceed.”
The next sock comes off, the foot underneath getting the same treatment. The longer I massage, the less she twitches or tries to jerk away. The behaviour reminiscent of the lady herself.
When I’ve massaged them bright pink, I leave her feet alone and start the trek up to the waistband of her jeans. Her hands come down, whether to help or hinder me I don’t find out. I slip off the edge of the bed, returning to the drawer, and taking the fasteners out in clear view of her curious eyes.
“Isn’t it your turn in restraints?” she asks, then winces when I roll up my sleeves and show her my bruised wrists, even more colourful than my swollen knuckles.
“It’s your turn until I tell you otherwise,” I whisper, expecting her to issue one of her knee jerk contradictions. Instead, she turns on a confused smile.
“Is this part of the deal?” she asks in all seriousness. “Is this… am I still bartering for you to kill my uncle?”
The question hits me like a gut punch. That she’s having to ask at all is on me because I didn’t explain myself and she’s been left, struggling to understand.
While I formulate the right words, I secure her wrists to the headboard, testing the bindings won’t hurt her unnecessarily; her wrists are also bruised from twist ties. Once she’s restrained, I straddle her, leaning forward so my weight is on my hands, my face level with hers.
“There isn’t a deal. You’re my girlfriend because I love you and I think you have feelings for me. Your uncle is a dead man because nobody gets to do what he did to you and get away with his life.”
She doesn’t answer but at least she’s not instantly in defence mode—a vast improvement from normal. Her expression is cautious, but I can handle that. I can handle anything except outright rejection, contempt, or disgust.
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted, for real, and I’m sure I’ve already made a million mistakes but I’m going to try as hard as I can not to make any more.”
I lean down for a kiss, and her lips are responsive, firm at first, then yielding a little more with each second. The longest kiss on my record, and I can’t stop, opening my mouth and thrusting my tongue into hers, feeling the push and pull of resistance and acceptance, the heat spreading out from where we’re touching, the shock of it so good that I abandon myself to it, threading my fingers into her hair to keep her where I need her to be, my mind spiralling out of control as her hips buck up to grind her pussy against me.
When I finally pull away, her lips are swollen, the split from where Andy hurt her red and raw. It hurts me to see that, to see the harm someone else inflicted. Different from the marks where I pulled the tie around her neck so hard she passed out, different from the bruises on her hips where I sank my fingertips deep into her flesh.
“I’ll kill anyone who hurts you,” I promise her, mumbling the words against her skin as I move down her body, pushing up her shirt to kiss the soft skin of her abdomen, fumbling at her waist to undo her jeans before sliding them down, sliding them off, my kisses marking each new inch of flesh I expose until they’re off and thrown on the floor behind me. “Anyone who isn’t me.”
Her shirt is shoved up to where her wrists are bound, and she wraps her legs around my waist when I try to move away.
“Where are you going?”
“To get condoms and take my clothes off,” apparently muttering the magic words to have her release me, eyes trailing my every move until I rejoin her on the bed.
