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“No.”
“Good. Now onto the bed you go.”
“Wait. My clothes.”
“Let me worry about what comes next.”
My heart skips a beat in anticipation of the naughty promises to follow. Instead, the glaring horn of the ship pierces the air, the noise sounding more like a warning than an invitation to board.
“On the bed, honey.”
Honey? Not minx. Or beour. Or storeen. Or my name.
I shrug off my sudden bout of uncertainty. This is Finn, after all. Finn, who accepts me for me, from my dirty sex-talk, to my ambitious streak, to my love of a good challenge and ability to adapt to surprises like this.
I climb onto the mattress and come up onto my knees. The mattress shifts beneath his weight as he positions himself behind me. His hand slides beneath my shirt and over my stomach. His warm breath on my ear. “God’s truth is I want to bury myself inside you and never leave.”
“Then do it.” I look over my shoulder at him. “And Finn?”
“Yeah?”
I suck in a breath. Do I tell him now? Or later? “I’d like it if you stayed.”
Something flashes in his eyes before he gently nudges my head forward then fixes the silk blindfold over my eyes.
The ship horn blares.
Finn curses. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
“Make me come five times and I’ll forgive anything.”
The mattress creaks beneath us as he moves away. My imagination runs wild. Velvet handcuffs? Hot wax? What exactly does he want to be forgiven for.
I listen for the rustle of his clothing from behind me. The ship’s horn sounds again, two long, noisy bursts that drown everything out.
“Finn?”
He doesn’t answer me. He did much the same last night, playing with me, causing my senses of touch, taste, smell to heighten. The blindfold is soft, the rope comfortable on my skin. The air salty. The flowers on the bedside table fragrant.
The room silent.
“Finn?” I say more urgently.
Has he left the room? No. Why would he?
My sixth sense is what raises the alarm and has me struggling to free the rope binding me. A sinking sensation hits the pit of my stomach. It’s similar to the feeling of desperation that gripped me by the throat when the last foreign aid truck drove out of Aleppo.
Cursing, I struggle with the knots. Not too tight, but, evidently, expertly done.
“Finn,” I shout, just as the ship jerks.
I pitch sideways and land with a bounce on my side, still struggling with those blessed knots. For one crazy moment, I wonder if he’s watching me, wonder if this is part of a game he’s playing. But Finn wouldn’t stand around while I struggle, it’s not in his nature.
Dodge and avoid is more his style.
“Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he said. Holy hell, what has he done?
The rope slips free and I tear off the blindfold. Hands shaking, I slide off the bed and search the room for the document last known to be inhispossession—my passport.
