Page 21 of Property of Chux

So, I do the only thing I can do.

I retreat.

I pull back, playing weak, playing small, hoping he’ll drop his guard. Then again, maybe the only person I’m playing is myself. In this situation, I am weak, I am small. He has all the power, I have nothing but instincts and intelligence. I pray neither fail me now.

I press a hand to my temple and sigh. "I have a headache," I say softly. "I just… I need to lay down." Afterall, evening has come in. The skylight windows around the top edges of the walls went from letting in a beautiful bright sunlight, to the bold oranges of sunset, to now the black of the night with only a soft moonlight glow coming through.

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, I think he sees right through me, but after a long moment, he simply nods.

I stand slowly, my legs feeling unsteady as I move toward the only bed in the room. It’s bigger than I expected, the dark charcoal gray sheets neatly pulled over firm pillows, the space far too intimate for what this situation should be.

I climb in, keeping my movements careful, controlled. If I do this right, I can pretend to be asleep and wait until he leaves. Because there’s no way in hell he locked himself in here with me for the night.

Which means there’s a way out. If I stay quiet, when he leaves, I can find my own way out. I know the other man locked me in because I checked the door before I fell apart. Now, though, I’ve had my time to panic. It is time to plan. I’m facing the wall, my back to him, when I hear the rustle of leather.

Curiosity gets the best of me.

I shift slightly, just enough to peek over my shoulder, and what I see makes my breath catch in my throat.

Chux stands at the edge of the bed, his hands moving with slow precision as he strips out of his clothes.

First, he pulls off his leather vest, laying it over the chair with care—like it’s sacred.

Then comes the black t-shirt, revealing a body built for sin—thick muscle, defined abs, and tattoos that turn him into a living, breathing work of art.

Ink sprawls across his chest, crawling up his neck, stretching down both arms in intricate patterns that look both violent and beautiful all at once.

I should look away.

But I don’t.

He unbuckles his belt, sliding it from the loops slowly, as if he knows I’m watching.

When he pushes down his jeans, kicking them off to the side, I swear to God my facecatches fire. Because boxer briefs do nothing to hide what’s beneath them.

I go completely still, my throat so dry I can’t swallow.

Chux smirks, his voice thick with amusement. "You like what you see, sweetheart?"

I hate that my body reacts before my brain can shut it down. A sharp shiver rolls through me, something hot curling in my stomach, something I refuse to acknowledge. I whip around so fast I nearly tangle myself in the sheets, turning my back to him as I squeeze my eyes shut.

I hear him chuckle.

Cocky.

Why are men like this?

Smug bastard.

The bed dips, the air shifting around me as his heat moves in close.

And then before I can think, strong arms pull me against him.

I stiffen, my breath catching as his solid chest presses against my back, his body heat wrapping around me like something dark, something dangerous.

He shifts slightly, stretching onto his back, but he doesn’t let me go. One of his arms slides beneath me, tucking under my head, while the other moves up, his fingers finding my scalp. He starts massaging my head.

Gently.

---