eternity, she sensed him moving away from her and stepping into the shower stall. He didn’t close the door. When the spray of hot water hit him, he actually sighed with pleasure.
That was the instant she’d been waiting for. She shot to her feet, dumping the garments to the floor, and, hands outstretched, lunged for the shelf.
Only to find it empty.
“I figured you would try.”
Angrily, she spun toward the stall. He was casually working the bar of soap into a lather between his hands, water sluicing over him. With a smug smile, he tipped his head toward the narrow window high in the shower wall. On the tile ledge, safe and dry, were the pistol, the cell phones, the money, and the folded piece of paper.
With a strangled cry of despair, she launched herself toward the door and turned the lock. She even managed to yank the door open before a soapy hand shot over her shoulder and slammed it shut, then remained flat against it. He placed his other hand at her hip, the heel of it pressing against the bone, his palm and fingers tightly fitting themselves to the curve of her belly.
The wet imprint of his hand was as distinct and searing as a brand as he crowded up behind her, mashing her between him and the door. From the corner of her eye she had a close-up view of the barbed-wire tattoo, which looked as unyielding as the hard muscle it encircled.
She froze with fear. He didn’t move either, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her back. Her clothing acted as a sponge to his wet skin. Water dripped off him and trickled down the backs of her bare legs. Soap bubbles dissolved into liquid on his hand that was still flattened against the door.
His breath was rapid and hot against her neck. He bent his head downward toward her shoulder even as his hips angled up. It was an oh-so-subtle adjustment of two body parts, perfectly synchronized and corresponding. But it was enough to cause Honor’s breath to catch in her throat.
“Jesus.” The word was spoken in a barely audible groanthat came from deep within his chest and wasn’t in the least religiously inspired.
Honor didn’t dare shift her position, didn’t dare even breathe, afraid of what the slightest motion might provoke.
Half a minute ticked by. Gradually, the tension in his body ebbed, and he relaxed his hold, but only marginally. In a gravelly voice, he said, “We had a deal. You cooperate, you don’t get hurt.”
“I didn’t trust you to keep to the agreement.”
“Then we’re even, lady. You just lost all trust privileges.” He released her and backed away. “Sit down and stay there, or so help me God…”
He made his point so emphatically that he didn’t even bother locking the bathroom door again. Her knees gave way just as she reached the commode. She sat down on it heavily, grateful for the support.
He got back into the shower stall, and although she didn’t look in that direction, she sensed him picking up the bar of soap from off the floor, then washing and rinsing in cycles in order to get the filth off himself.
She smelled her shampoo when he uncapped the plastic bottle. Knowing he would have to duck his head beneath the spray in order to rinse it, she wondered if she dared try again to get through the door. But she didn’t trust her legs to support her, and she didn’t trust what he would do if she tried and failed again.
The room had become cloudy and warm with steam by the time he turned off the faucets. She sensed him reaching through the open shower door and whipping a towel off the rack. A few moments later, he picked up Eddie’s old jeans and pulled them on, then the faded purple T-shirt.
“My head is bleeding again.”
When she looked up, he was still working the T-shirt over his damp torso with one hand, and with the other was trying to stanch the bleeding from his scalp. Bright red blood was leaking through his fingers.
“Hold the towel against it. Press it hard.” She stood up and opened the
That was the instant she’d been waiting for. She shot to her feet, dumping the garments to the floor, and, hands outstretched, lunged for the shelf.
Only to find it empty.
“I figured you would try.”
Angrily, she spun toward the stall. He was casually working the bar of soap into a lather between his hands, water sluicing over him. With a smug smile, he tipped his head toward the narrow window high in the shower wall. On the tile ledge, safe and dry, were the pistol, the cell phones, the money, and the folded piece of paper.
With a strangled cry of despair, she launched herself toward the door and turned the lock. She even managed to yank the door open before a soapy hand shot over her shoulder and slammed it shut, then remained flat against it. He placed his other hand at her hip, the heel of it pressing against the bone, his palm and fingers tightly fitting themselves to the curve of her belly.
The wet imprint of his hand was as distinct and searing as a brand as he crowded up behind her, mashing her between him and the door. From the corner of her eye she had a close-up view of the barbed-wire tattoo, which looked as unyielding as the hard muscle it encircled.
She froze with fear. He didn’t move either, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her back. Her clothing acted as a sponge to his wet skin. Water dripped off him and trickled down the backs of her bare legs. Soap bubbles dissolved into liquid on his hand that was still flattened against the door.
His breath was rapid and hot against her neck. He bent his head downward toward her shoulder even as his hips angled up. It was an oh-so-subtle adjustment of two body parts, perfectly synchronized and corresponding. But it was enough to cause Honor’s breath to catch in her throat.
“Jesus.” The word was spoken in a barely audible groanthat came from deep within his chest and wasn’t in the least religiously inspired.
Honor didn’t dare shift her position, didn’t dare even breathe, afraid of what the slightest motion might provoke.
Half a minute ticked by. Gradually, the tension in his body ebbed, and he relaxed his hold, but only marginally. In a gravelly voice, he said, “We had a deal. You cooperate, you don’t get hurt.”
“I didn’t trust you to keep to the agreement.”
“Then we’re even, lady. You just lost all trust privileges.” He released her and backed away. “Sit down and stay there, or so help me God…”
He made his point so emphatically that he didn’t even bother locking the bathroom door again. Her knees gave way just as she reached the commode. She sat down on it heavily, grateful for the support.
He got back into the shower stall, and although she didn’t look in that direction, she sensed him picking up the bar of soap from off the floor, then washing and rinsing in cycles in order to get the filth off himself.
She smelled her shampoo when he uncapped the plastic bottle. Knowing he would have to duck his head beneath the spray in order to rinse it, she wondered if she dared try again to get through the door. But she didn’t trust her legs to support her, and she didn’t trust what he would do if she tried and failed again.
The room had become cloudy and warm with steam by the time he turned off the faucets. She sensed him reaching through the open shower door and whipping a towel off the rack. A few moments later, he picked up Eddie’s old jeans and pulled them on, then the faded purple T-shirt.
“My head is bleeding again.”
When she looked up, he was still working the T-shirt over his damp torso with one hand, and with the other was trying to stanch the bleeding from his scalp. Bright red blood was leaking through his fingers.
“Hold the towel against it. Press it hard.” She stood up and opened the
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