The words, “DON’T HURT HER!” were strung across the walls like decorations. Banners for a reunion I wasn’t ready to attend. I took in the room, and my eyes found more words, “SHE’S HURTING, TOO.”
I stepped from the bed, the soft carpet cushioning the soles of my aching feet, still sore from my high heels.
I wobbled, and after getting up and out in a single second, my head screamed at me for the stupid action. I’d forgotten how alcohol tasted. I’d forgotten the aftermath. I only remembered the drugs. . . needles and pills and powders, given to me to corrupt me into the perfect slave.
I brushed those thoughts from my head as I rubbed at my temple, trying to disperse the headache building.
I continued towards the bathroom door, my eyes still scanning around, wondering how we’d explain the state of this room to the hotel staff when the maids arrive. When would that actually be? No one had been here since we arrived; they took the “do not disturb” notice on the door handle more seriously than most.
Deep mocha writing was everywhere, making my stomach somersault. Would we be fined? Arrested?
Oh, even the thought of another cell made me feel ill.
More thoughts came, and I began thinking if the police would be looking for Woodrow after the events at the dessert parlor.
The sound of shower water distracted me. And then I saw them. . . the words on the door. The writing not as perfect, less controlled, like everything else about him. The repeated words cut off mid-sentence. . . “Don’t hurt. . .” the word her, that always followed was replaced by, “Fuck you both.”
I tried the handle, my fingers shaking more than I’d have liked. To my surprise, it opened. I stepped inside, thinking that Hell would have blocked the door somehow if he didn’t want me to get in.
The idea of this being a trap terrified me.
I looked back, seeing nothing blocking the main entrance, and decided to proceed.
The room was misted and warm. . . the perfect definition of hot and steamy. Hell hadn’t heard me come in, hadn’t heard my breathing pick up as I stood in the room, watching what he was doing.
His back was to me, but it was obvious what he was doing by the way his left arm jerked.
His breathing was heavy, heard over the raining water that poured over his body.
He looked like a God here, and if he had woken up as another version of himself, I’d have happily bowed down and worshipped. I didn’t know what it was, but something about seeing Woodrow cry, about hearing what he’d done for our baby, brought back feelings I was trying to force from myheart.
I couldn’t hate him. . . or even stay mad at him.
I couldn’t even hate Hell, who I watched with a completely different feeling dancing around inside me. Lust.
His arm moved, the muscles in his back jumping up and down.
I looked around the room, to the tissues and towels thrown to the floor. He was following the orders of not hurting me, as much as he didn’t want to. He was releasing his frustrations in a different way.
I picked one up, confirming my suspicions.
The small rag was wet and sticky in my fingers. I kept it clutched tightly in my fist as I listened to the sound of growling, grunting, and the excitement of a man and his imagination.
I knew his eyes were closed without seeing them, and I knew whatever he was picturing in his mind was getting him close to his peak. I pondered over what he was thinking of to get off, and despite everything, I hated the idea of him doing this to the image of other girls. . .
But Hell’s standards were probably higher than Woodrow’s.
“Jolie. . .” my name moved through his lips on a sensual drawl that dropped me to my knees.
My fingers clutched the rag tighter, pulling it to my naked chest and holding it there, feeling his essence on my skin. I should have probably dressed, but clothes weren’t a priority. He was.
I looked up, my eyes on the condensation dripping down the tiles as I tried to see around him to the look on his face. But his back was still to me. His hand on his length, vigorously milking it.
If I didn’t feel I was risking a black eye, I probably would have advised he give himself some leniency.
But then my name came again, in a low rhythm that did something to me. The demon from hell had cast a spell. He’d enchanted me into doing something I couldn’t believe I was doing, even as I moved to do it.
I put the rag between my legs; the blood from my short period had already eased. I rubbed at the arousal I was feeling, and my own breaths came faster.
