Page 29 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Stubborn little Tabby Cat. Shaking his head, he rinsed the shampoo from her pale locks thoroughly, considering his response. She was effective at shutting down a conversation with that unarguable bluntness, so he took his time formulating a response.

Reaching for a towel, he pulled the plug and stood, lifting her from the receding water and covering her with the fluffy material. “Can you orgasm, little tiger?”

She jerked her chin up in challenge. “Don’t want to. It sounds…”

“Painful,” he supplied, snatching up another towel to wrap around her head. “I can’t tell you that they are or they aren’t. Some women orgasm so sweetly, they say it’s like riding a wave. Others come hard enough their pussies could crack walnuts while they scream the house down. An orgasm is different for everyone, every time. You don’t have to be afraid of it, Tabitha.”

If she’d been a dog, her hackles would be six inches tall and bristling. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Laughing—not unkindly—Grit rubbed the towel over her hair before bundling up the white-gold locks. “I can name two straight off the bat; sex and intimacy.”

“I… That’s not…” A furious flush blossomed in her cheeks as she stuttered. “They don’t count. I-I…”

“You said you’re not afraid of anything. Sex and intimacy do count as something, whether you agree or not.” He tapped a fingertip on the cute tip of her nose. “The fact you’re speechless right now proves I’m right.”

“Only because you addled my brain with hot water and bubbles,” she muttered.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” he commented dryly, holding out his hand. “Why don’t I addle it some more by feeding you?”

“I-I’m not hungry.”

“For someone who cuts the tongues out of liars, you’re skirting a fine line.” Capturing her wrist, he tugged gently until she padded forward on bare feet. Small, delicate feet finely bisected by pale, silvery scars. “Come on, before you fall asleep where you stand.”

“I’m not t—”

He made a warning sound in his throat, giving her a quick squeeze of approval when she recognized it for what it was: do not lie to me.

Leading her out into the living room, he was pleased to see room service had obeyed his orders down to the letter—the food was waiting on the coffee table rather than the dining table in the next section over, covered with a warming platter; there was a fluffy white robe draped artfully over the back of the couch, and they’d come in and gone out without Tabitha being aware of anyone else in the room.

Grit stopped by the couch, his hands going for the fold of the towel where he’d knotted it closed. With a couple of deft movements, it dropped into his hands, leaving Tabitha naked and uneasy.

“Breathe, little tiger, I’m not going to ravish you.” His gaze roamed over her, a smile quirking his lips. “Even though you are possibly the most exquisite thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. No touching,” he said when her arms crossed over her breasts, “but you need to drop those hands back to your sides, Tabitha. There is no hiding from me.”

Her arms lowered, as did her eyes. Shivering, she muttered something under her breath, over and over again. Thinking she was cursing him out, Grit tackled the not unattractive task of drying her off, making sure his hands didn’t come into contact with her skin without the fabric between them.

“…a child anymore, she’s safe. I’m not a child anymore, she’s safe.”

Jesus, Connie would have an absolute field day with Tabitha if she ever got her hands on her. The Mistress wouldn’t put up with any shit from her, regardless of what Tabitha did for a living, and would dig into the mindfuck Dominic and his fucking wife had planted in their project’s head.

When his touch skimmed over areas that triggered her, she scrunched her face up, her hands fisting by her sides. Her training obviously included forcing a willingness to obey over self-preservation.

Perhaps in her mind, they were one and the same.

“Safe, safe, safe,” she whispered, her breathing disintegrating into whimpers.

“Yes, you are.” Grit tended to her patiently, his heart breaking for both parts of her—the child who’d been raised without love, beaten and raped into becoming the woman who was mired in so much pain and fear that even her craziness couldn’t bury it. “Relax your hands, Tabitha. I’m not going to hurt you.”

There was a hair-raising moment when he dried between her legs, as clinically as he could manage, where he thought she might give ripping his throat out a damn good shot.

Her threatening snarl was borderline whine.

“Nearly done,” he said casually, moving around her to do her back. “Hold still.”

The scars… fuck, the scars. So old they were little more than silver lines running over her skin like the ones on her feet, yet they spread out like some demented spider’s web across all of her. Thick lines, thin ones, some that weren’t made by a whip or a cane but by God only knew what. The ones he’d felt earlier were from wounds he didn’t want to imagine, yet the proof she’d survived them were in front of him.

Evander and Elias’s Callie wore similar marks. She’d been belted and caned by her father, abused by a pseudo-Dom, but this… this wasn’t the result of a regimented beating or a punishment.

This was caused by inflicting pain for pain’s sake.

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