Page 44 of Mine

My top is still wet, so saturated with that worm’s blood that it hasn’t completely dried yet.

The sight is both proof of how far I will go to have her and a reminder of how much she consumes me.

I need to clean us up.

Michael has yet to come in here. He is probably cleaning the truck first. Maybe it’s his way of giving us some alone time, which I do not intend to waste.

Stepping away from her takes every ounce of self-control that I have left. Reaching behind my head, I grasp the top of my sweater and pull it over my head, tossing it aside to the concrete floor, where it lands with a wet splat.

Charlotte gags at the sound, her eyes unable to look away from where it lands.

Placing my finger under her chin, I force her focus back on me to distract her. I want to feel her eyes as I undress. I want her to watch, to see what she does to me.

Quickly, I loosen my laces and kick out of my boots. Her gaze moves, her eyes tracking my hands as I unbutton my pants.

There’s no preamble as I shove them down, my cock springing free.

I hiss as the cold air of the room hits my sensitive flesh. Even in the frigid air, my arousal cannot be deterred.

I kick off my pants, the small pile of clothes now growing, waiting for hers to join.

Throughout my strip tease, Charlotte has remained still, her eyes taking everything in as it is revealed. The minute I step closer, her body reacts. Her breath stutters as if she can’t decide. My good girl is stuck between fight or flight.

And then she chooses.

Her feet hit the ground with little sound despite the small jump she has to take to get down from the table.

She has forgotten her feet are bound. I don’t let her even try taking a step before my arm winds around her waist and hauls her back.

“Please, please, Daniel,” she cries.

I don’t know what she’s begging for—her freedom, her friends, or more of me—but I suspect she doesn’t know either.

Her hands push at my chest, and she tries to turn away.

Holding her steady proves tricky, so I pull her close, plastering her chest to mine. Her struggling instantly stops, and I’m able to slide my hands under her sweater.

She is soft and creamy beneath my palms while the yellow wool is rough against the back of my hands, now hardened with dry blood. I push until it bunches under her arms.

“Up.”

Her body may want her to fight, but her mind doesn’t. Charlotte was made to follow orders. Doing as she is told, she reaches her arms high toward the ceiling, and I rid her of the crusty wool.

She leans into me when the discarded clothes make another squelch, and a sob lands on my bare chest.

While stroking the back of her head, I hum to soothe her like I did back at the camp.

I pull at the back of her bra. How the fuck does this thing open?

I growl in frustration as the clasp refuses to release. After a particularly hard tug, small hands join mine. I watch as her nimble fingers simply flick the fucking thing, and it opens . . . she didn’t even look.

I glare at the contraption when I throw it to join the rest of our clothes, making a mental note to burn it along with any others she may have.

I feel her laughter more than I hear it. Huffs of warm air caress my skin, making me tremble, and I know the fight has left her.

My hands slide between us, and it’s Charlotte’s turn to tremble as the back of my fingers graze her stomach. I gently dip them inside her pants, and feeling the top of her lace panties causes me to jump.

I fumble with the brass button for a minute before deciding that being careful clearly isn’t my thing. Grasping both sides of her pants, I pull, and the button flies off quickly.