Page 40 of Chicago Sin

I go still.

After what you gave me.

Armando’s face hovers inches from me, his hazel eyes sparking. There’s frustration in him. Passion. I feel it through his skin, but it doesn’t harm my body this time—it feeds it.

“If you fucked another woman tonight, I’d cut off your dick.” I may be his prisoner at the moment, but I’m still going to make myself clear. I’m not stupid enough to believe our sex today meant anything—I didn’t take it as a promise or a commitment. It just happened. But I would take huge offense to him dipping his wick elsewhere after what we did.

“I didn’t, Hannah. I didn’t even want to be there. I swear to Christ.” He suddenly looks so weary. His eyes, ancient. “And you had me worrying about a fucking fire the whole time.”

Well.

That’s sort of satisfying, too.

I’m still pissed but growing mollified.

He pulls the wrist with the tights still wound around it to the bedpost and starts retying it.

Fresh alarm rings through me. “What are you doing?”

“Rinsing the smell off.” He pulls my other wrist up and secures it, too.

For me, a little voice whispers.

“You are such an asshole.”

He’s back to cool and indifferent, his face the brutal mask. “Been told that.” He heads to the bathroom and leaves the door open while he strips out of his clothes.

I watch. He’s not putting on a show for me. He probably left the door open to make sure I don’t scream or try anything, but it’s a show worth watching, nonetheless. I saw him naked earlier, but that was up close, and I was half out of my mind with lust. Now, I can observe him clinically. And he’s even more impressive the second time. He’s solid muscle. Six-pack abs, the kind you could climb. He’s not shiny. Not tanned and waxed and all-American. He’s hairy, brutal, and strong. He’s grit and manliness.

My dad is a kind, working-class man whom I deeply respect and love. He’s a big, strong guy who can fix anything with his hands. He works in construction as an electrician. Union guy.

Even though Armando is more of the slick Italian suit type, there’s something about him that resonates for me. Some similarity between them that hits me on a biological level. My brain imprinted my father as the archetypal man. Armando fits the archetype. He’s strong. Take charge. He gets shit done.

Armando steps into the shower. He’s quick about it, soaping everywhere and rinsing off in no more than two minutes.

He pulls on his boxer briefs after he dries off and returns to the side of the bed. He doesn’t speak as he unwinds my tights from the bedpost. He doesn’t untie my wrists, though.

Maybe he thinks I’ll try to punch him again.

I still might.

He climbs in the bed beside me. I keep my back to him, my shoulders hunched. I’m still nursing my piss-off.

When he molds his body to mine and wraps an arm around my waist, I swing my bound arms back to elbow him. He’s too fast. He catches my wrists and ties the loose end of the tights to his own wrist. Ah. Now I understand. He wasn’t trying to spoon me. He’s attaching himself to me.

I imagine he considers it to be kinder than keeping me tied to the bedpost. I guess it is. This position’s better, anyway.

And I secretly enjoy the feel of his arm draped over me, the weight of it. It’s centering. Comforting in ways it shouldn’t be. It’s been a long time since I’ve been held by a man, and I forgot how much I love it. The scent of soap and clean skin enters my nostrils.

His cock twitches against my ass.

“We’re not having sex again,” I say firmly. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.

“Understood,” he rumbles.

“I mean, ever.”

“Shh, Flowers. Go to sleep.” He wraps his big hand over the top of my bound ones, almost like we’re holding hands.