One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. ” The conversation hung for a moment. Little more’n a week. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. He was sickeningly aroused by their hands as he slipped in and out of consciousness. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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