Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
That was it.
Liv had told her once that a legitimate Master could command a woman using the power of his eyes.
What Camila saw in his gridlocked glare was an indisputable leader. A dominant male. When he fought, he won. When he wanted something, he took it. And right now, he wanted her attention, her nearness, her obedience.
Something inside her clicked into place, her entire body vibrating with the pull of an unbreakable string that drew her to him. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe or speak.
She rose from the chair and closed the distance, her insides thrashing.
Wrought iron screeched against tile as he scooted back and tapped his inner thigh. A single tap and she was there, standing in the V of his legs, waiting for his next command with equal amounts of wonder and trepidation. What’s happening to me?
“Remove the shirt.”
Ahhh, that voice. He’d always known how to sweeten it to coax her and how to sharpen it in challenge. In three words, he achieved both.
She lifted the shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor.
He didn’t move, didn’t blink, but his taut inhale sounded like a whip cracking beside her ear. “Now the panties.”
Her breath hitched. No underwear meant no more physical boundaries. She squeezed her eyes shut, breaking the spell.
A breeze from the ceiling fan brushed across her bare breasts, hardening her nipples. He’d seen it all before, most recently on the plane, but now that he’d declared his intent to claim her, exposing her pussy would feel more vulnerable, more significant.
She stole a glance at the ruined microchip on the table. She was just one girl, raised on a poor Texas farm. Completely out of her league.
But how many Restrepo enemies had made it this far? Did the FBI, DEA, or Colombian Police even know how to find this place? No es probable. Yet she stood within the walls of the cartel’s lair, unrestrained and still breathing.
Steeling her spine, she resolved to see this through. For her survival. For the innocent lives they bought and sold.
She hooked her thumbs under the elastic at her hips, shoved the panties to the floor, and kicked them. The urge to curl inward and cover herself made her fingers tremble, but she fought it, adjusting her stance into one that had been beaten into muscle memory. Legs wide, hands behind her neck, back straight, tits out, eyes on him.
The heat of his gaze seared her pussy, and his fingers twitched against the armrests. She wished she hadn’t waxed off all her pubic hair. She felt so damn bare and unprotected.
“I miss your soft curls here.” He stroked the back of a knuckle across her mound. “No more waxing.”
She shivered. She couldn’t help it. It was the thick intonation of his voice, a subtle trace of Colombia. When she was sixteen, she’d clung to the gravely rumble of his timbre. And now, fuck, he still had the ability to make her wet with his voice alone.
He leaned forward, his lips a kiss away from her chest, warm breath on her nipples. She stifled a gasp as fingertips grazed her hipbones and roamed over her ribs, his hands shaking.
Shaking? She reared her head back. “Are you nervous?”
His expression hardened. He stood abruptly, snatched her wrist from behind her neck, and pulled her after him. Inside, through a sitting room, and down an enclosed hallway, they went.
“Do you know why I’m here?” She quickened her strides to keep her arm attached to her shoulder.
“Because I want you here.”
“No, I mean do you know why I showed up with the man in the Mustang?”
“Van Quiso?” He slammed to a halt, causing her to crash into his chest as he whirled on her. “The hueputa who tortured you for a year?”
Cords pulled taut in his neck. Muscles and veins strained against the skin on his forearms, and the fingers around her hand cinched so tightly it felt like he was seconds from snapping bones.
She’d obviously hit an overprotective nerve, which was hypocritical as fuck seeing how she’d spent the last however many hours in his restraints.
“Don’t hurt him.” There was no love lost between her and Van, but she’d been making progress with the man.
“Give me a reason not to,” he spat and turned away, yanking her into a massive bedroom.
“He’s not worth your time, he loves his wife, and he doesn’t give a shit about me. That’s three.” She glimpsed white walls, white bedding, and white woodwork before she was shoved into an all-white bathroom the size of her bedroom at home.
Oval glass tiles glittered like diamonds around the vanity on the wall to the left. Sunlight warmed her right side, spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling pane of glass that ran the length of the room. In the distance, a pair of blue and yellow macaws soared above the trees and perched in the leafy canopy. She stood there for a moment, contemplating the surrealistic beauty that enveloped her nightmare.