Like she wasn't my captive.
"You look hungry," she said, her voice light. "Sit."
"How the fuck did you get out those cuffs?"
She responded easily.
"You ain't the first man to cuff me to a bed. You ain't special."
She chuckled.
I wanted to hear that story.
"Get dressed," I said.
It was pissing me off how much I wanted to touch her but couldn't.
She chuckled.
"Nah, I'm fine. I haven't had a chance to be this free in a while. I made you a plate."
I didn't even argue.
I hadn't had real food in days.
I sat down, the chair creaking beneath me as I reached for the plate she slid in front of me.
Chicken breast.
Alfredo pasta.
Spanish rice.
I didn't have much in my fridge, but she'd made do.
Before she sat down, she slid a glass of my good bourbon across the table.
I raised an eyebrow.
She had made herself right at home.
"Drink with me. You need to relax," she coaxed.
I ate.
And I mean ate.
Like a man who forgot he needed food to stay alive.
And drank.
"What are you gonna do with me?" she asked suddenly, her voice dropping a little, a slight pout playing at the edge of her mouth.
She looked up and leaned in close.
I wanted to reach out and trace the outline of her dark areola.
I fisted my fork tighter.
