She stood next to the sink, her hands still wet from washing them. My gaze went upwards, from the four-inch heels, up her slim calves, tight navy skirt, up her blouse, past her generous tits, and finally resting on her face. My first thought was, oh shit.
Oh shit, because she wasn’t just some woman. She wasn’t the sixty-five-year-old Colombian woman Darcy had tortured three years ago, or Lai, the woman I had once married and promptly divorced a lifetime ago. And I didn’t know whether it was because I had become a fucking monk or if I truly had impeccable taste, but she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Long, wavy, dark auburn hair framed her oval face, piercingly dark blue eyes framed by elegantly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones and a mouth that gave me an instant hard-on. Her lips were generous and pink, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top, and I imagined sucking on it. Imagined her sucking… Fuck!
This wasn’t good.
She looked at me, bewildered, scared, and one-hundred percent more coherent than her brother. Her look was slightly defiant, and even though her clothes were somewhat tattered, her skin dirty and bruised in some areas, she was haughty, and it made my cock twitch even more.
I almost bent down and thanked God for letting me be the one to interrogate her. Rape was not a thing that had ever happened on this island, I was sure of it, but I knew too damn well how fucking twisted Darcy could be.
“Carys?” I winced inwardly at my question. Like I fucking knew her.
She stepped back half a step.
“Come with me.”
“Who are you?” she trembled. Her voice was deep and thick and full of emotion that would get her nowhere fast.
I didn’t answer but waited for her to take a fucking hint and walk the seven or so feet out the door. I couldn’t rightly tell if she was scared or defiant and without wanting to stare I couldn’t figure out her deal. When I became tired of waiting for her to move I hardened my resolve and levelled with her.
“Walk or I carry you.”