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Tonight she was wearing one of her own designs. A sexy low cut dress, in black, which showed off her ample bossom to perfection. It was quite short, about six inches above the knee with a small slit up one side, showing off her silky smooth thighs as she sat cross legged on the bar stool. Tonight though, she looked troubled and sat sipping her drink pondering her problems.A man who had been sitting by the window had not taken his eyes off her since she entered the bar. Now he walked over to her and said, "Can I get you another? You look as if you need it". She looked up. She hardly heard him, too busy concentrating on her own problems. "What?" she said. "A drink" he said, "you look like you could do with another".What the hell she tought. He was a good looking guy. "Sure. Thanks." she said. The bartender brought over another Jack and coke and then moved away again back to rearranging bottles."You looking for business?" the man said. Candice was taken aback by the sheer forwardness of. And he’d waited; he was very, very good at waiting. Had it been three days? Four? She’d looked up at him, her eyes dry and pleading, and she’d asked, her voice rusty and polite, if she could speak. There had been fire in her then, Blake thought now with a reminiscent smile. Burning, banked. Nerves and confusion had poured off of her, hatred and fear had still pumped off of her in waves. Even then, Blake had known her better than she'd known herself, had anticipated her words. He hadn’t expected them to be so eloquent, so rational and controlled. Powerful, really, for one so young. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t made skin to skin contact with her since he’d dragged her into the house that very first night, after he’d secured the shackles, but when she’d made her argument for her release, he’d cupped her cheek, ignoring the way she’d flinched, and he smiled with regret. And informed her that she was not going anywhere, ever.She’d raged. Lunged, kicked, lashed out. She’d.
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