If he even thinks about trying to piss on me, I’m damn well not going in unprotected.
His eyebrows climb at the sight—bright yellow rubber gloves yanked up to my elbows like I’m about to performsurgery. I don’t get too close to his head. One wrong move and he could knock me out cold with a twitch of his neck.
Focus on the task at hand.
This is not how I imagined my next close encounter with a man. It’s been… a while. And now, here I am, wrestling with stiff black combat trousers while he’s tied to a chair and breathing steadily like we’re doing trust exercises.
The buttons won’t budge, the fabric is rigid. Everything’s awkward—tactile and claustrophobic. His breath grazes my skin in a way that’s measured and infuriatingly calm, like he’s daring me to flinch.
I haven’t been this close to a man since Adam. And somehow, this feels more intimate.
Worse still—I think he knows it.
“Anytime today would be nice,” he jibes, shifting his hips in a way that erupts goosebumps over my skin.
“Hang on,” I throw back, working my way down to the next layer of fabric. It feels like I’m invading his personal space, like somehow in all of this I have become the bad guy, but he doesn’t seem to care as I man handle his dick out of his boxers.
Jesus he’s big.
Even on the flop it’s impressive. But I refuse to offer him any flicker of emotion that would give me away.
Instead, I take his dick between forefinger and thumb, like he might transfer a disease if I hold it too tight, and position it over the bucket, turning away as soon as I have him aimed to offer him as much privacy as I can.
This is so weird.
He wasn’t lying—he’s got the stream of a thoroughbred. It just keeps going.
And it’s so awkward, trying not to look him in the eye, or at his dick while he relieves his bladder.
When he finally finishes, I crouch to shift the bucket, but not before tucking him away—restoring a shred of dignity, I suppose. Then I steel myself, trying not to gag as I pour the contents into the toilet.
That’s his bucket now. I’ll be buying a new mop. And gloves. Definitely gloves.
But when I step back into the room, the illusion cracks.
Dried blood clings to his hairline, the bruises blooming in purples and blacks like a warning, stirring the guilt deep in my gut.
It was a fantasy, hunting him—thrilling, wild and unreal. Living it is something else entirely. Now that it’s real, all I feel is dread. Consequences I never planned for. I can barely manage to keep my cat alive… and now this?
What the hell was I thinking.
Caving to the guilt gnawing at me, I retrieve the medical kit from the wardrobe and spread its contents across the desk, brushing away the ball of my blonde hair that has settled on the wood. The moment I move toward him, he flinches back—eyes sharp with accusation, though he says nothing. Just stares.
“Hold still. I need to clean this.”
What kind of an irresponsible kidnapper would I be if I left him like this?
The gash slicing into his hairline is foul—clotted and swollen, the skin around it blooming angry shades of red. My stomach pitches, but I steel myself and press the sterile wipe to it, scrubbing gently to clear the blood.
He grunts, jaw tightening, a hiss slipping between his teeth as I catch his hair by the roots to steady him.
Who knew a rolling pin could be so effective?
13
Cam
Talia’s going to think the worst.
