Page 50 of Hostile Secret
I whimper, my insides flooding with heat when he dips so close that I can smell that distinct scent of his laced with violence.
“Now you’ll spend the night in this cell and think about how differently tonight could have gone. How another man could have ruined your pretty little cunt.”
I try to back up only to feel his other hand sink lower, the expanse of it cupping the flimsy fabric between my thighs, now unforgivably wet. I’m completely secure against the bars, so tight to him that I can hear his sudden intake of air when I groan.
“You’re actually going to leave me here––on my birthday?” I barely manage to grit out the words.
He hums in agreement, rather than offer a response.
“In the dark?” I swallow against his palm as I try to sound in control of myself. “I’ll tell, Dré.”
The hitch of his thick brows tells me I’m close to touching a nerve. “I’ll leave the light on. And you won’t say a thing to Dré.”
“Yes, I will. You can’t treat me like this, Gio.”
He tilts his head to the side and laughs. “Like what?”
I swallow hard, too aware of his fingers grazing my panties and how I’m breathless because of it. “Like a prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner, baby.” He winks. “You’re just a bad girl who needs to be taught a lesson.”
All contact ceases and he takes a step back, grabbing a t-shirt from the only chair in the room. Passing it through the bars, he adds, “When you’re sober, we’ll talk about your punishment and your birthday present.”
Chapter
Giovanni
“Everything okay?” Lola pulls the cord on her dressing gown tighter. “We expected you to be away until tomorrow afternoon.”
India’s shiny coated Doberman puppy sniffs my ankles, clearly smelling his owner’s scent because it won’t fuck off.
“Have you let the dog out?” I ask, stalking over to the liquor cabinet in my moon drenched solarium that boasts a breathtaking view of a midnight-colored ocean and matching sky.
“I had her outside half an hour ago. She’s a little unsettled this evening.”
Lola quietly moves to the archway that leads to her living quarters. “It wants the girl.”
It’s not the only one.
I unscrew a bottle of Jack, pour a big measure into a glass tumbler, and turn to face her.
“She’s a woman, Lola.” The whiskey burns on its way into my belly, unfortunately failing to dampen the crawling lust I have for my teenage prisoner. “India is all woman.”
“Of course she is.” Lola nods, mindful of my position in this household. “Is the woman okay?”
I sigh heavily and stare at the stars through the large windows. “The troublemaker is fine.”
Lola chuckles. “I’m sure you can handle her.”
“Indeed, I can.” I smirk.
When I take another warming gulp of liquor, I hear her fluffy slippers scuff the tiles underfoot as she starts to walk away. But then the noise stops and I glance over my shoulder to find her.
Chestnut hair intermittently woven with strands of gray is neatly braided, the length of it draping her shoulder, and those friendly, coffee-colored eyes of hers find mine.
“Spit it out, Lola.”
“Are you going to tell her?” she asks, trying to reveal the invisible elephant in the room––the reason why the middle-aged woman lives with me.
