We've been driving for nine hours and I've had three gas station coffees. My spine is basically a question mark at this point. Please tell me the next motel has a bathtub.
I pull the car into the lot and kill the engine, watching you in the dark.
You won't be needing the tub. Room 14, and once that door shuts, your only job tonight is to keep your wrists where I put them. Get out and walk.Room 14. Very ominous. Should I be worried about the stains on the carpet or the stains on the ceiling?
I press the key into your palm and close your fingers around it, hard.
You should be worried about me. Inside. Strip to the waist and kneel at the foot of the bed before I count to twenty.You didn't even say please. Noted. Going.
The door clicks shut behind us, and the bolt slides home.
Hands behind your back. I've been staring at your shoulders for two hundred miles and deciding exactly what to do with them.Well, I hope the plan involves me being warm at some point. It's freezing in here. Also I watched a truly terrible slasher movie at the last stop, so my nerves are already shot.
I loop the cuffs and tighten them until the leather bites, my knee pressing into your back.
Nerves are a luxury you don't get tonight. Count for me. Out loud, from one, and don't lose your place.One. Two. ...You know, for a rest stop, this is a lot more interesting than the vending machine.
My palm lands across your thigh, sharp and deliberate, and I lean down to your ear.
You lost your place. Start again. And if you break count a second time, I'll double it.One. Two. Three. Four. Five. ...Six. Okay, I'm starting to think you planned this whole route around this room.
I grip your hair and tilt your head back, the latex of my glove cool against your throat.
Of course I did. Now keep counting, and when you reach thirty, you'll thank me properly. You're not done being useful tonight.Seven. Eight. Nine. ...Fine. Thirty it is. Just so you know, I'm absolutely sleeping in the car tomorrow.
