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Authors: Christine Edwards
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is no door, just a six inch tiled step.
As I’m taking everythin g in, he addresses me in his commanding voice. “Take everything off and shower. You need to clean those cuts. You have exactly five minutes.”
With that curt command he turns and disappears around the corner. I’m relieved to hear his heavy footfalls move back across the room, soon becoming imperceptible.
I’m hesitant to get naked, but he’s right. Who knows what type of infection could be setting in? I gently unravel the stained remnants of his t-shirt and place them in the small steel wastebasket that rests between two square, white sinks suspended by mahogany bases. According to Mr. Bossy, I only have five minutes, so I purposefully avert my eyes from the gore until I’m inside the shower. There I can assess and tend to my wounds.
It takes me a minute to undo the tie on my dress with only one hand but I manage. It pools at my feet. Next I shimmy out of my lace Tanga panties and drape them across one of the sinks.
It takes a second to figure out the foreign dials and levers , but soon a steaming cascade of water pours down from the fabulous showerhead. I cringe as the water hits my scrapes and bruises and I watch, detached, as swirls of blood disappear into the steel grate. As I inspect everything, I see that there is really only one cut that could use stitches, but my wrist is my biggest concern. It is quite swollen and feels very warm as I gingerly touch the joint. The sprain most likely needs to be tended to by a physician, but I can’t imagine that Mr. Cordial will be taking me to an ER anytime soon.
I reach for a bar of white soap that smells like ocean air. It’s a daunting task to lather but I manage and gently clean the myriad of cuts to the best of my ability. Next I tip a bottle of what I believe is shampoo onto my damp hair and go to town, doing my best to remove the dirt and matted blood.
Several times I catch myself swaying like a drunken freshman, clearly exhausted and low on fluids. Bracing a hand against the glass, I try to steady myself because I need to be quick. I really don’t want to give him any incentive to seeing me stark naked, so fainting isn’t an option.
Turning off the water, I peek out and spy a carved wooden ledge embedded in the stone wall nearby. Helping myself to the stack of fluffy white towels, I do my best to wrap up my torso. I hear movement in the room through the constant sound of rushing water, which must be coming from a river or waterfall. I go motionless as he rounds the corner and stares at me.
I watch him warily , fighting the urge to slink away. I’m in no position to throw sass or even to flee … just yet. So I wait as his scorching gaze rakes over me, traveling down to my bare feet and back up. The towel provides little protection, but I clutch it as if it’s my last lifeline.
His gravelly voice cuts through the air. “Come to the bed.”
Noooooo!
I refuse to see where this might be leading. Is this why he wanted me to shower? To be clean for him? Could he be so ruthless as to have his way with me hours after a car crash? What a sick bastard!
When I remain still, clearly defying him, he takes one large step into my personal space. With a firm downward tug, he rips the towel clean off me. I gasp and grab for it, but he’s faster and flings it behind him. I let out a single, shocked cry as his thick fingers harshly pinch my left nipple.
The pain is so searing and unexpected that it causes me to immediately yell, “Oh, okaaaay!”
I step forward quickly, right into him, trying to show that I’ll listen. He’s watching me with a displeased frown on his painfully handsome face, yet he says not a word. Only when I fully comply, blinking rapidly to fight the tears, does he release my throbbing little bud.
N early racing the fifteen feet to his bed, I turn to face him. Once I reach the end of the huge frame, I’m not sure if he wants me to climb up onto the mattress or not. The fact
As I’m taking everythin g in, he addresses me in his commanding voice. “Take everything off and shower. You need to clean those cuts. You have exactly five minutes.”
With that curt command he turns and disappears around the corner. I’m relieved to hear his heavy footfalls move back across the room, soon becoming imperceptible.
I’m hesitant to get naked, but he’s right. Who knows what type of infection could be setting in? I gently unravel the stained remnants of his t-shirt and place them in the small steel wastebasket that rests between two square, white sinks suspended by mahogany bases. According to Mr. Bossy, I only have five minutes, so I purposefully avert my eyes from the gore until I’m inside the shower. There I can assess and tend to my wounds.
It takes me a minute to undo the tie on my dress with only one hand but I manage. It pools at my feet. Next I shimmy out of my lace Tanga panties and drape them across one of the sinks.
It takes a second to figure out the foreign dials and levers , but soon a steaming cascade of water pours down from the fabulous showerhead. I cringe as the water hits my scrapes and bruises and I watch, detached, as swirls of blood disappear into the steel grate. As I inspect everything, I see that there is really only one cut that could use stitches, but my wrist is my biggest concern. It is quite swollen and feels very warm as I gingerly touch the joint. The sprain most likely needs to be tended to by a physician, but I can’t imagine that Mr. Cordial will be taking me to an ER anytime soon.
I reach for a bar of white soap that smells like ocean air. It’s a daunting task to lather but I manage and gently clean the myriad of cuts to the best of my ability. Next I tip a bottle of what I believe is shampoo onto my damp hair and go to town, doing my best to remove the dirt and matted blood.
Several times I catch myself swaying like a drunken freshman, clearly exhausted and low on fluids. Bracing a hand against the glass, I try to steady myself because I need to be quick. I really don’t want to give him any incentive to seeing me stark naked, so fainting isn’t an option.
Turning off the water, I peek out and spy a carved wooden ledge embedded in the stone wall nearby. Helping myself to the stack of fluffy white towels, I do my best to wrap up my torso. I hear movement in the room through the constant sound of rushing water, which must be coming from a river or waterfall. I go motionless as he rounds the corner and stares at me.
I watch him warily , fighting the urge to slink away. I’m in no position to throw sass or even to flee … just yet. So I wait as his scorching gaze rakes over me, traveling down to my bare feet and back up. The towel provides little protection, but I clutch it as if it’s my last lifeline.
His gravelly voice cuts through the air. “Come to the bed.”
Noooooo!
I refuse to see where this might be leading. Is this why he wanted me to shower? To be clean for him? Could he be so ruthless as to have his way with me hours after a car crash? What a sick bastard!
When I remain still, clearly defying him, he takes one large step into my personal space. With a firm downward tug, he rips the towel clean off me. I gasp and grab for it, but he’s faster and flings it behind him. I let out a single, shocked cry as his thick fingers harshly pinch my left nipple.
The pain is so searing and unexpected that it causes me to immediately yell, “Oh, okaaaay!”
I step forward quickly, right into him, trying to show that I’ll listen. He’s watching me with a displeased frown on his painfully handsome face, yet he says not a word. Only when I fully comply, blinking rapidly to fight the tears, does he release my throbbing little bud.
N early racing the fifteen feet to his bed, I turn to face him. Once I reach the end of the huge frame, I’m not sure if he wants me to climb up onto the mattress or not. The fact
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