Page 25 of Executing Malice

Aroused.

I can’t be sure if it’s from the low murmur of his voice — which sounds deliciously husky and dangerous without the helmet — or the drag of the fork along my ribcage. The tease of the prongs over my nipples. The sweep of meat dipping into mashed potatoes. But something about this fucked up situation has me shifting to ease the pressure building between my sprawled thighs. The restraints clink and bite tighter.

“That’s enough,” he decides with an almost knowing drawl. “I want to give you your gift now.”

I love getting gifts.

I love surprises.

But I’m severely concerned about what his might be. Everything so far has been so strange.

Still, I say nothing as he sweeps the lingering bits of leftover food off my body. As he runs a warm cloth over my skin, cleaning the juices. The table around me and under me are also scrubbed with me still fixed in place.

Everything he does is methodical and precise. There is no hurry in his process. No urgency. Just the focused duty of a soldier completing a task. There is nothing sexual or provoking in his process, but he’s thorough. Wiping and washing multiple times as if determined to leave nothing behind.

He’s slower around my middle, almost loving. He runs the rag along the soft flesh with the care of someone handling a baby.

Still, even with his thoughtfulness, I shift with unease. My muscles coil to stop myself from trying to cover up. My weight may be proportional to my height and only something I’m sure is only an issue in my head, but I notice. I’m very aware that my stomach bulges when I wear tight outfits. I know I struggle getting jeans over my hips. I actively go out of my way to find clothes that flow over or stretch. It’s been a big comfort not ever having a boyfriend, someone else who gets to see parts of me I can’t change.

Only now, I have this guy touching me like he’s been given free access to a priceless piece of art.

I don’t like it.

It’s made worse by the fact that I can’t see what he’s actually thinking. Words without visuals are useless. It’s all in the other person’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Can’t give you your gift on a dirty canvas.”

I try to process his remark, but my brain falters. “What?”

He says nothing, but I hear him move away again. The wheelie thing from earlier is pushed away. I hear a scuffle, then he’s back. Something hard and plastic nudges my hip.

“I love your breasts,” he breathes. “I love your whole body. Every fucking inch is perfect.”

The mounds in question strain at his praise. The nipples pucker like they are preparing for him. My entire body goes pliable. Every inch of skin hums with anticipation for something it should have zero knowledge of.

“What ... what did you put in that food?” I pant.

His answer is the sweep of his finger over my left nipple. The single, simple gesture has my back arching off the metal slab. It sends my head back when he repeats it and follows it up with the lightest kiss to the right one.

“You have the body of a Greek Goddess, Leila. The full, perfect silhouette depicted in statues and paintings.” He sucks and teases and ignores my restless thrashing as my entire being responds like it recognizes him. Like it needs him to never stop. “You have a body I want to sink my cock into every night until I put a baby in you.”

What the fuck?

I wait for the burst of outrage, the indignant fury, but he swaps his torment, adding gentle squeezes of both mounds that does something to the pit of my stomach, floods my core with heat.

“Hold still for me, okay?” he prompts, still tweaking my peaks, teasing them. Pinching them until they’re so sensitive I sob. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make it better when I’m done.”

“What are you doing to me?” I pant.

I hear the squeak of rubber. The distinct snap of gloves. The blood is pounding too loud between my ears to hear the next steps until the sterile stench of alcohol burns my nostrils. I am given no chance to question, to demand ... anything when he swipes the cold pad over each nipple.

I tense as realization slams into my gut.

“No ... wait...”

“Shhh.”