But I didn’t believe him.
How could I?
“All you’ve done is hurt and humiliate me.” I whimpered.
His hands finished their work on my T-shirt and moved to my jeans. His nimble fingers began their tortuous work on the buttons before pushing them down my thighs to my feet. His hands moved down my legs, and I cringed because there was no way I smelled good, like a woman should—sexy, feminine, floral. Instead I smelled of piss and sweat, frustration and anger.
It should have been the last thing I was thinking about—how I smelled to him—and yet the thought was there regardless, coming unbidden into my mind as his hands skimmed down my calves and he gently lifted my foot to pull my tight jeans off. He did the same with the other leg and then his hands trailed back up my legs.
My core was vibrating with need and desire, heat spreading through my body. I hated that he had this control over me, that he made me feel this way. But him being gentle, was better than him being cruel. I wanted his touch to be soft not painful. The realization that I wanted his touch at all startled me enough to make my knees shake.
“That’s enough,” I said, my voice a whisper.
“You’re dirty,” he growled. And we both knew he wasn’t talking about the sweat on my skin anymore. There was so much more in that reply.
His callused hands stroked the skin on my back, rubbing over the aches and pains until they unclipped my strapless bra and it fell to the floor at my feet, and my heart raced, panic, fear, and something else—something more primal—flaring to life inside me.
My stomach clenched and my nipples hardened as the air hit them. Agony, desire, fear. They all crawled over me and into me until I was two seconds away from sighing. His thick fingers hooked around the edge of my panties and he slid them down my trembling thighs until they too landed at my feet.
His breath was warm against the back of my neck and his rough hands were splayed so tightly across my stomach that I expected he could feel the butterflies beating their delicate wings against my insides. I could barely breathe as he tugged me closer still, his front so close to my back that I could feel his hard length pressing against my ass and the heat pouring from him. He was like the sun, a ball of fire that burned bright and strong and destroyed anything in its path, and I was naked and completely at his mercy, ready to be engulfed by his flames.
“Bath time,” he said, guiding me toward the warm water. “Step,” he ordered, and I did, stepping one foot and then the other into the deliciously warm water.
For once in my life it didn’t even cross my mind to say no to someone. To defy them. I complied immediately. Completely. Obediently. I was so grateful that he was finally being kind that I didn’t care that this was probably what he’d wanted all along.
The water moved around my calves as he climbed in behind me, splashing against the sides of the claw-footed tub as he sat down and pulled me to him.
I sat upright, my body rigid and my arms crossed over my breasts. My chin was high but my eyes were downcast. Shivers trembled across my pale skin as he reached out and wrapped his arms around my middle and pulled me back against his hard chest. His damp fingers lay across my belly and his cock twitched against my ass.
I lay there, frozen against his body, wondering what the hell was happening. Where had my fight gone? Where had the side of me that clawed and spat and fought for my independence vanished to? I needed her then—that animalistic side that never let me down. I needed her, but she was gone. I felt weak, frightened of his touch. And yet the darker side of me desired it; his touch. It needed his rough hands on my skin, bruising me, holding me steady. I needed his calmness, his coldness; I needed it to steady myself against. He was like my anchor in my troubled and turbulent ocean.
I took a breath, the warm water rising higher on my body and making me shiver in his arms. His cock twitched again and I swallowed. I focused on our feet at the end of the tub, his large ones surrounding my small ones. His muscular thighs fencing me in, trapping me against his body. His fingers were strong and steady on my belly, and I stared down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, wondering what he’d done to make them like that. Who he’d beaten, killed perhaps.
“What are we doing here?” I asked quietly. Because this wasn’t necessary. This was a choice he was making. And for some reason I wasn’t fighting him. That was my choice.
That was what this dark angel was doing to me—making me question myself, my sanity, my loyalty.
I hated it.
I hated him.
“Cleaning you,” he grunted, his breath tickling my neck.
I huffed in annoyance. “So where’s the soap?” I bit out, knowing immediately that that was the wrong thing to say.
I felt his chest rise and fall on a silent laugh. “Just go with it.”
I waited a beat, willing my tongue to not lash out at him. He was being kind for the first time. I should have been happy with that, if nothing else, and yet we can’t fight who we are. I was fighting, not just him, but myself. This new side that he had awakened in me. The obedient girl who complied with this monsters demands. I wanted him to be gentle with me, yet a dark part of me desired his bruising touch.
“Just go with it?” I scoffed incredulously. “Get out and let me wash myself.” I tried to sit up but his grip on me tightened, which only made me angrier. “I said—”
“I heard you.”
“Then get out and let me wash myself. I’m a big girl.”
His chest rumbled with laughter, making me furious, and I tried to shrug out from his grip, growing more and more frustrated when he wouldn’t let me go.
“Oh my god, I hate you!”
