Maybe he’s the one that’s forgotten, because his magic fingers work between my legs as if he can read my mind. He strokes me with the expert touches of his fingertips, and I already feel swollen and heated. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones, or more blood flowing down there than normal, but I’m immediately hot and bothered, panting as he strokes me harder and faster, dipping one finger lower between my legs to finger the edge of my channel. My legs part. And his hand stops. He rolls over and scoots away from me, tugs down his pajama bottoms and fists his cock.
“Let me…”
“No.” He looks at me with cold, ruthless eyes as he jerks his cock, watching me the whole time. It takes long minutes before he nears release, gets to the end, throws his head back, and comes. I watch, mesmerized at the torturous look on his face. He’s not doing this at all. He cleans himself up, then walks to the bathroom. I cry when the shower comes on. Try to reach my own fingers between my legs, but he’s restrained me in such a way that I can’t. He did this on purpose. The first stage of my punishment.
He won’t whip me or hurt me in any way. He wouldn’t, because his loyalty to the child within me is stronger than his loyalty to my punishment. But he’ll find other ways, and I will regret what I’ve done.
Breakfast is a somber affair. I sit up in bed, and I don’t know if it’s the nerves I’m dealing with or the pregnancy hormones, but everything makes me queasy. He plies me with Nonna’s scones and pastries, breakfast sausage and bacon, and it all turns my stomach.
“No, please. I’m going to be sick.”
With a scowl, he holds up the wastebasket next to the bed. I lift my head just in time and vomit. I spit bile and spittle into the basket, then grimace and wipe my fingers—my wrists still fastened—across my mouth. Still scowling, he walks to the bathroom to clean out the basket and returns a few minutes later with a clean, damp washcloth, a towel, a toothbrush and a glass of water. With a tenderness belying the furious look in his eyes, he cleans my mouth, then dots my forehead with the towel.
He places his hand on my feverish cheek, then up to my forehead.
“You’re burning up,” he says angrily, as if I conjured a fever as part of the ruse.
“Probably just because I was sick,” I say in a weak voice. I turn away from him. The pillow is cool, and now that the nausea’s passed, it feels good. “I just need more sleep.”
I close my eyes and sleep comes quickly.
The low murmur of voices drift from the doorway as I doze in and out of sleep, my stomach rumbling. I have a vague notion of lifting my head only to be sick, but every time Orlando’s there to hold my hair then tuck me back into bed. I lose track of the time, and wake when the sun sets outside the window.
Have I slept all day?
Elise.
I sit up in a panic and reach for the bedside table, bound wrists and all.
“Did you really think I’d leave that there for you?”
Orlando sits in the dark recesses of a corner of the room, tucked into an overstuffed chair. He’s got one ankle across his knee. I should’ve known.
I slump back in the bed and don’t reply. If I speak, I’m going to cry.
“How are you feeling?”
I shrug. I still don’t want to talk. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I made the vow earlier on that I would never, and I’ve broken that now a few times.
No more.
“Answer me.”
I jump at the harsh tone of his voice.
“I’m a little better,” I whisper, still trying to prevent myself from crying. “Anything change today?”
“You mean are you still my prisoner? Yes. Are you still bound as my prisoner? Also, yes. Am I still staying Romeo’s hand from ending your life? Of course, because you’re pregnant with my child.” I hate the feel of his anger, even though I earned it.
I don’t look at him, I don’t want to see him right now. I swipe my bound wrists at my eyes, dashing at my tears so he doesn’t see.
“Why are you crying? We’ve taken it easy on you.”
I don’t know what to tell him.
Because I thought I loved you?
Because I fear for my friend’s life?
Because I hate the thought of being nine months in a room with a man I love who no longer loves me back?
I just shake my head. He pushes himself to his feet and stalks over to me, his heat hitting me from across the room.
No, not now. I can’t. Another wave of nausea hits and I sit up quickly, gesturing for the trash can which he brings to me just in time. There’s nothing left in me. I haven’t eaten all day, and I feel wrecked. My mouth tastes sour, and my stomach feels so empty it hurts.