Chapter 22 PLEASURABLE FINGERS
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
SAMANTHA’S POV
The moment his arms closed around me, everything else disappeared.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, carrying me out of the torture and straight down the shadowed corridor toward his room. No words. No threats. Just the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek and the dark, masculine scent of him wrapping around me….of a harsh fragrance and something warmer underneath, something that reminded me of Micky’s soft baby hair when she curled into my lap. It shouldn’t have felt safe. It shouldn’t have felt like anything except fear. But my body betrayed me anyway, going limp against his chest as if it had been waiting for this exact moment to surrender.
I hated how good it felt to be held.
He kicked the door shut behind us and laid me down on the massive bed like I was made of glass. I stayed perfectly still, eyes wide, trying to read his face in the half-light.
What was he thinking?
What came next?
The silence stretched so tight I could hear my own heart beat
“Sit still,” he said, voice low and even. Then he turned and disappeared into the bathroom.
I didn’t dare move. My wrists still throbbed from the ropes, my thighs ached from the cold stone floor, but the worst pain was inside sharp and confusing, a tinge of shame and relief and something darker I refused to name.
He came back with a bowl of warm water and a soft white cloth. Without a word he knelt beside the bed and dipped the cloth, wringing it out slowly. Then he lifted it to my face.
The first touch was so gentle it stole my breath.
He wiped away the streaks of dirt and dried tears, careful around my eyes, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth. Each stroke was deliberate, almost reverent. When he reached my hands he turned them over in his palms, studying the raw red rings the ropes had left behind. He cleaned them without flinching, even when I hissed at the sting.
Hot tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
He paused, cloth hovering near my chin.
“Why are you crying?”
His voice was calm. Not the cold, cutting tone I was used to. This was quieter. Almost… human.
I pressed my lips together hard, refusing to answer. How could I explain that the gentleness hurt worse than the ropes? That his hands on my skin felt like a different kind of punishment, one I didn’t know how to survive?
He didn’t push. He just kept working, moving down to my fingers, tracing each one slowly, as if memorizing them. I watched his face, searching for the monster I knew lived there. But all I saw was concentration. Focus. Something that looked dangerously close to care.
And that terrified me more than anything.
“I wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t run,”
he said quietly, eyes still on my hands.
“You’re a Mutate, Samantha. Your life isn’t supposed to be anything else. No freedom. No choices. Just pain. That’s the rule. Do you understand?”
I swallowed. My throat felt raw. “Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes,” I whispered, hating how shaky my voice sounded.
“Good.” He set the cloth aside and reached for the hem of the thin linen shift Nanny had dressed me in before i was tied up. He lifted it slowly, bunching the fabric at my waist, exposing my thighs to the cool air.
My stomach clenched.
He didn’t look at my face. His gaze stayed on my skin as he dipped the cloth again and began cleaning the dirt from my legs. Long, careful strokes up the insides of my thighs.
Higher. Closer.
Heat low in my belly sudden, traitorous, impossible.
I shifted, trying to close my legs. He didn’t let me. One large hand settled on my knee, firm but not bruising, holding me open while he continued.
My breathing turned shallow. Every brush of the warm cloth sent sparks racing up my spine. I bit the inside of my cheek, desperate to stay quiet, but my body wouldn’t listen. My hips twitched. A soft sound escaped my throat before I could trap it.
He paused.
He looked up. His dark eyes locked on mine….intense, unreadable, burning.
Then he dropped the cloth.
His hand slid higher, fingers trailing fire along my inner thigh until they reached the edge of my panties. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might break free.
He hooked one finger under the fabric and tugged it aside.
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Ahh!”
“Quiet.”
The command was soft. Almost tender. And somehow that made it worse.
He slid one finger inside me…slow, deliberate, testing.
I gasped. My back arched off the bed before I could stop it. Heat exploded behind my eyes, bright and overwhelming. No one had ever touched me this way, not even myself. My body didn’t care that it was him. It only knew it wanted more.
He moved slowly at first, watching my face the whole time. Then faster. Deeper. The slick sound of it filled the room, obscene and intimate. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand, mortified, but another moan slipped out anyway.
He added a second finger.
The stretch was perfect. Too much and not enough all at once. My thighs trembled, falling open wider without my permission. I was shaking, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the pressure that kept building and building ready to explode.
And then he stopped.
Just… stopped.
His fingers slipped free. Cool air hit my overheated skin. I stared up at him, dazed, aching, empty.
He stood without a word, walked into the bathroom, and I heard the water run as he washed his hands. When he came back, he didn’t look at me. He simply turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
The silence rushed back in.
I lay there, chest heaving, legs still trembling, the evidence of what he’d done slick between my thighs. My panties were crooked, shoved to the side. My body throbbed with unspent need. Humiliation burned through me, hot and bitter.
He’d done it on purpose.
He’d given me just enough to remind me he was capable of controlling every aspect of me. He had punished me. Not with pain but with denial. With the cruel reminder that even my pleasure belonged to him now.
I curled onto my side, dragging the pillow against my chest like it could shield me from the truth. Tears slipped silently down my face, soaking the linen.
I didn’t know how long I lay there hating him. Hating myself more.
Eventually exhaustion won.
I fell asleep still aching, still wanting, still trapped in the cage of his scent on the sheets.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, terrified part of me wondered how long I could keep pretending I didn’t want him to come back.