Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
For a long time, we just sit there, the two of us, with the rest of the world blocked out, while monsters lurk just beyond these walls, ready to torture us for anything less than total submission.
Chapter ten
Layla
Five minutes after dosing with ICE, my body calms, at least where the drug addiction comes into play. My body’s reaction to Jensen is a whole other story. I’ve never felt as sexually alive as I do with him, as charged and physically aware of another human being. I’d say it’s the drug, but I’ve always been this way around him—years ago in the library, standing in my own kitchen, astonished and breathless that he’d shown up at my front door. In truth, I’ve waited to feel that again with someone else, with “the” man I’d marry, but it just never happened.
And I wasn’t willing to settle.
A knock sounds on the door, and I’m on edge, fearful of what might follow. Was Tad unhappy with what he’d found when he visited? Is he back to take me away? Still sitting next to me on the edge of the tub, Jensen squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, Layla. I promise.”
I nod, but we both know that’s a feel-good promise, not a real one. I watch as he grabs his jeans, shoves his legs inside, and then disappears outside of the bathroom. I push to my feet and clutch my towel to my chest, barely daring. I really need clothes. This hanging out in a towel thing has a way of making me feel vulnerable. But I’m not hanging out long. Jensen returns with a bag in his hand.
“Supposedly, this has everything you might need in it,” he informs me. “Clothes, toiletries, and so on. There’s one for me, too.”
I press my lips together. “Almost as if we’re really guests.”
“There’s also this.” He hands me a note. “It was on top of a box of files.”
I glance down to read, GET TO WORK. “Such a gracious host,” I breathe out, a twist in my belly. “I need a real shower and clothes before my duty kicks in.”
He steps closer, the heat of his body washing over me, warming the chill our proof of captivity has created in me, stroking my hair behind my ear. “Take your time. I’m going to look through all that they dropped off for us.”
I nod, and he disappears out of the room and pulls the door shut while I contemplate the creeps that might be watching me, but I have to shower.
I dig in the bag and find shampoo and conditioner, body wash, make-up, and hair products. As for clothes, the selection is more limited. I end up choosing black leggings, a thick, soft black sweater, and Vans sneakers that are remarkably my size. It’s not until my products are in the shower and so am I, the spray just out of my reach, that I drop the towel and pray there are no cameras where the water flows. I’ve never showered so fast in my life. Please, let this be over, all over.
Chapter eleven
Layla
Finally, I’m fully dressed, pulling my clothing on under the towel until I’m able to toss it aside. I dry my hair to a silky sheet, and it’s clean for what feels like the first time in days when it’s only been a single day—I think, I hope. It’s really hard to know at this point.
I find Jensen at the kitchen table with files piled on the surface, one open in front of him. The moment he realizes my presence, he’s standing, shirtless, and all kinds of gorgeous. The man’s body is stunning—a work of art, a masterpiece of science—with defined muscle and rippling abs. And he was between my legs, licking me, his fingers inside me. My cheeks heat with the idea of it and with the reality of it. I barely know him, and all I could think about was him inside me.
I still am.
What is going on with me?
Is it the drug or just a lifeline addiction that reaches beyond ICE to him?
“Feel better?”
“Yes,” I say. “I felt dirty for all kinds of reasons.” Realizing how that sounds, I quickly hold up my hands. “All about them, not you. And—cancer.” That confession falls from my lips without the intention of actually speaking the words. “Sorry. I just—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says, rounding the table and closing the space between us, and it’s telling that I feel no need to back away. In fact, I’m on fire, anticipating his touch.
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm with a mix of comfort and intimacy that steals my breath. “It’s gone. I can feel it. I can see it when I look at you.”
I swallow hard, emotions burrowing deep and threatening to erupt. “You could see the cancer in me?” My voice cracks.