CHIARA
My hands shake as I approach the master bedroom, my fingers curling around the handle. I hesitate, swallowing hard and trying to ease the anxiety pulsing through my veins. I shouldn't entertain this. I should be locking myself in my bedroom and figuring out how the hell to get out of here.
But I'm intrigued.
He wants to fuck, and goddamn, in the space of a day and a half, I've become a needy whore for this man. He's barely touched me, barely even spoken to me, yet the overwhelming need to please him has me in a violent chokehold.
Is this some kind of intense Stockholm Syndrome, or am l just as fucked up as he is? Either way, I have to see this through. I have to know exactly what he's going to do to me. How he's going to touch me, how he's going to use my body, and goddamn, I have to feel him slamming deep inside of me. I can take it. If anything, my Romanian jailer has finally met his match.
