by Monica James
Saint grips the crease of my elbow and leads me off the boat, hauling me down the dock. I don’t even bother fighting him because I’ve run out of fight. When I see a bloody Kazimir, he tries to mask his anger, but I can see it. He’s furious Saint came to my rescue.
However, I use the term rescue lightly because when he continues jerking me roughly, I’m afraid of where he’s taking me.
Kazimir and the other Russian follow, keeping their distance as Saint’s anger is explosive. I choke on my raspy sobs, but Saint shows no mercy. We continue hustling until we reach a smaller sailing yacht than the one we arrived in. Saint all but pushes me onto it, never letting me go.
He screams in Russian, barking what I assume are orders, and when Kazimir gets behind the wheel and starts the boat, I know my punishment has only just begun. He glares at me, and I’m left breathless because an epiphany hits.
The other Russian punched him because…this was a setup. He said he would see me soon, meaning, he was planning on joining me on that boat. He would tell Saint I hit him, which wasn’t the first time, and that I escaped.
But what he wasn’t expecting was for Saint to come back quicker than he’d hoped.
He was hoping my captors would flee, where he would surely meet them at a designated spot. The only way he would get away from Saint would be by killing him. This tangled web just doesn’t end.
And I’m about to uncover that in its truest form.
Saint drags me down the stairs and slams the door, revealing a small galley even more claustrophobic than the one I was in earlier.
A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. The floor was once upon a time a polished wood. There are a small stove and a sink but no tables or chairs. A shabby double mattress covered in faded purple flowers rests on the floor. An archway at the back reveals a toilet and shower. A single silver pole sits dead center.
I gulp.
Saint releases me, pushing me forward as he begins to pace. I don’t know what to do, so I instantly make a beeline for the mattress, but Saint stops me.
“Kneel,” he commands. By the harshness to his tone, I know defying him isn’t an option. So I quickly drop. He continues pacing, while I remain motionless, unsure what he’s going to do.
Beneath the robe, I am sweating profusely, and I want nothing more than to take it off. Our heavy breaths are crashing into one another like two tidal waves, and before long, I’m sure to drown.
“Why?” he questions as he stops pacing, back turned to me. “Why do you continually disobey me?”
“I-I…” I stutter over my words, afraid. “I didn’t want to g-go. I was forced. Kazimir—”
He scoffs in response, refusing to allow me to finish. “Forced?” he mocks, arms folded. “You have no idea what being forced feels like.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from retaliating because it won’t achieve a thing.
“You know”—he turns slowly—“tonight was the first time I ever saw you scared. No matter what I’ve done, I haven’t been able to trigger that response from you.”
“Why would you want to?” I whisper, not understanding.
“Because…it’s my job to.”
My heart begins to kick against my rib cage as he walks toward me, dangerously slow. He runs his hand over my masked head, examining me. Something between us is about to change.
“Strip.”
He’s asked this of me before, but this time feels different.
After what just happened, shedding myself of this getup is a welcomed comfort, so I slowly remove the niqab, exhaling when the fresh air brushes against my heated flesh. I shake out my hair, freeing it from sticking to the back of my neck. The security of hiding behind a mask is no longer, and I suddenly feel exposed. But Saint waits for me to continue.
I gather up the robe in my hands and slip it off over my head. Another exhale follows. I will never take a breeze pressed up against my body for granted ever again.
My skin instantly breaks out into goose bumps when the light air comes into contact with the sweat beads dotting my flesh. It’s heavenly. I wait for further instruction, but it appears I already have the manual.
“I said strip,” Saint says, while my eyes widen.
“What? No,” I reply, shaking my head firmly. But this isn’t optional. When Saint stands rigid, I sniff, holding back my humiliated tears.
My fingers tremble as I draw the tank over my head and toss it aside. I quickly cover my breasts with my arm. I’m wearing a bra, but regardless, my ample breasts spill over the tops of the cups as the size is too small.
“Aнгел, you’re not done.”
My lower lip quivers as I look up at him, pleading. “Why?”
“I won’t ask again,” he warns, inhaling heavily.
The cross against my throat burns, announcing my sins, but what choice do I have?
With an arm still locked around me, I reach around with the other and unclasp the bra. With great difficulty, as I refuse to remove my arm, I finally maneuver myself out of it, and it drops to the floor with a victorious thud.
I’m kneeling before my captor topless, but this is only the beginning because when his wicked gaze drops to my shorts, I know I’m only halfway done. “Don’t be like them,” I beg softly. “You’re not like them. You’re different.”
“You’re right,” he affirms with a nod. “I am different. Unlike everyone else, I don’t want to fuck you.” My cheeks blister as I chew my bottom lip. “I want to break you. But it appears the two are clearly linked. So I ask you again…strip.”
“No, please, don’t,” I beseech. His detachment begins to scare me, which is exactly why he’s doing this.
This is a different form of torture, and it’s working.
“You have three seconds,” he warns, stepping forward, and I instantly leap to my feet. “One.”
“No!” I cry, backing away, but he only advances forward.
“Two.”
“Don’t do this, please.”
But Saint is way past my pleading.
“Three.”
He lunges forward, intent on stripping me himself, but I refuse him the honor. If he wants me naked, then so be it, but it’ll be my own hand.
“Fine!” I scream, baring my breasts to him as I spread my arms out wide. “Is this what you want, you sick bastard! To see me humiliated? Fuck you.”
I tug my shorts down my legs, kicking them aside, anger overtaking me. My underwear are still on. For now.
Saint hisses and takes a small step back, but his retreat only spurs me on as I hastily advance. “At least I’m not the one hiding behind a mask! Look at you,” I mock, a fierceness spurring me on. “You’re pathetic! All you are is someone’s dog…jumping to command.”
I’m walking a very dangerous line, but I have nothing left to lose.
“You think you’re big and strong, but you’re not.” I saunter toward him, my near nakedness suddenly making me feel like a goddess, dancing under a full moon. “You’re a fucking coward.”
Saint rushes forward, gripping my wrists, stopping me from moving an inch. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His grave tone reveals I’ve struck a nerve, and it inspires me to continue.
“You can’t even show me your face.” I laugh, mocking him. “If that doesn’t spell coward, then I don’t know what does.” Standing on tippy toes, I level him with pure hatred. “Maybe you’re afraid of what I’ll see. It’s easy to hide behind a mask…but being honest, that’s what a real man does. He doesn’t hide.”
We are caught in a deadlock as Saint’s heavy breathing and heaving chest reveals I’m moments away from being gagged forever. But so be it. “So it’s safe to say, you’re not a real man…Saint.”
Oh…shit.
The already small room grows impossibly small as Saint shoves me backward and does something which rips the air from my lungs. He claws at the bottom of his ski mask and tears it from his face, throwing it across the room.
Time
stands still.
My brain is unable to process the sight before me because for eight days, I’ve only been given a glimpse into those hypnotic eyes, but now that I’m faced with the entire picture, I don’t know where to look first.
I start with his hair; the long, wild, dirty blond locks that frame his chiseled face. I instantly think of the surfers down at Venice Beach because his thick waves appear sun kissed and windswept, embodying the perfect mussed style.
His eyebrows are thick and dark, giving shape to those unusual green eyes and also emphasizing those angular cheekbones. His upturned nose only adds to his arrogance. His mouth is a succulent pink. His top lip is not overly thick, but it is slightly bowed in shape. However, his bottom lip is plump and undeniably fierce.
His sharp jawline complements his cleft chin. He has thick, unkempt stubble, but it only adds to his hardness.
I stagger backward, as Saint is entirely wayward and rebellious, but more than anything…he is absolutely epic. A bad boy every mom warns their daughters about.
Unable to help myself, my gaze drifts down his hardened body as I know what lies beneath that long-sleeved shirt. Now that I have a face to go with his body, I am utterly speechless. I never thought he would look like a freaking…supermodel—a bad boy, no, scrap that, a bad Saint, as he isn’t groomed or pretty. He is rough, hard, and totally sinful—a perfect look for everything he encompasses.
He allows me to eat him up, clearly knowing the effect he has on people. But that only lasts a second before he swoops forward and drags me toward him. It’s the first time we’ve been this close unmasked, and it seems unfair that his good looks are only emphasized, up close.
Without the ski mask, he seems taller, and his shoulders broader somehow. “I’m not afraid…” he whispers in response to my claims. His wicked lips are in full view for me to see when they twitch, a lopsided smirk leaving me winded. “But you should be.”
His warning should scare me, but it doesn’t. It excites me.
When he yanks me forward, pressing us chest to chest, I whimper, my bashfulness of being this close to him slowly vanishing. I don’t know what happens now, but I dare not breathe when his eyes drop to my chest, savoring the sight.
He takes his time, in no real hurry, while I’m certain my skin is about to burst into flames.
“Kneel, Aнгел.”
A small mewl, that betraying bitch, slips past my lips, hinting what hearing him say that to me, unmasked, does. I’m basking in his fragrance, his touch, his entire makeup, and I’m helpless to stop it as I drop to my knees.
He nods once, clearly pleased.
My body is hypersensitive as everything is suddenly too much, too fast. Saint takes his time, walking around me, and I suddenly feel like prey as my predator circles me. When he comes to a stop behind me, I hold my breath.
He brushes the hair from my shoulder with a deliriously slow flick before running the back of two fingers down the side of my neck. A shiver surpasses me, and my nipples instantly pearl. “You’re very responsive. Are you sure you’re a virgin?” he says, insulting me.
“Go fuck yourself,” I say. Saint chuckles deeply.
“Choose your words wisely, Aнгел.”
It’s a warning, but it still doesn’t prepare me for what he does next. Saint drops to his knees behind me and leaves mere inches between us. I can feel his hot breath bathing the back of my neck. My bravado stands tall, refusing to buckle, but when he places his hands, or more specifically, a single finger on me, I know it’s only a matter of time until I concede.
He traces a line from under my ear, down the column of my neck. He comes to a stop at my racing pulse. “Are you scared?”
“N-no.” My falter divulges my lie.
He hums low, then continues his exploration of me. My collarbone feels his touch next. Who knew a simple collarbone was able to experience such pleasure? I gnaw on my cheek to mute my whimpers, but Saint is in tune with my inner turmoil.
He runs the tip of his finger along the bony ridge before coming to rest at the cross at my throat. He traces it, clearly intrigued as to why I never take it off. “Do you think your God will save you?”
“He isn’t my God anymore,” I reply in a whisper. “He died the day my father did. If a Baptist pastor couldn’t be shown any mercy, then there isn’t any hope for me.”
My confession has caught him off guard as his finger hovers over the cross. I think back to his tattoo and wonder if he feels the same way.
“I think He might make an exception”—he begins to trace downward, between the valley of my breasts—“for you.”
My legs tremble as he detours his slow touch to my left breast. He takes his time, outlining the shape with his finger, skimming back and forth along the outer side. He’s familiarizing himself with my body. I remain utterly still as I’m too afraid to move.
My cheeks blister, and I’m rendered speechless when he leisurely slithers across and circles my areola. My nipples are already erect, but when he comes within inches of them, they tingle and seem to grow heavy.
My chest rises and falls intermittently as weighty breaths leave me. I shamefully press my thighs together, but it doesn’t stop the burn. “I hate you,” I cry, quivering, desperate for more.
Saint gives into my silent pleas when he flicks over my nipple lazily. “Your mind may tell you that…” He begins a torturous rhythm, circling the swollen bud with his finger. I clench my teeth together. “But your body is telling me something else.”
Before I have a chance to prove him wrong, his large, warm hand cups my entire breast and squeezes slowly. My eyes roll to the back of my head because goddamn him…it feels so good. I’m helpless to stop this because deep down…I don’t want to. This is the first form of pleasure I’ve felt in days.
He continues sampling me, humming low when he pinches my nipple.
I whimper as I feel like a million volts of electricity have zapped me. Everything throbs. Wetness gathers between my legs, and no matter how hard I press my thighs together, it doesn’t stop my arousal from coating my sex.
I know this is wrong, so very wrong, but I’m detached from my body, and the line between right and wrong begins to blur. The line blurred the moment Saint told me my husband sold me to some Russian mobster.
My breast is hot and heavy, and each squeeze and pinch transports me closer to hell. I’m trying to remain unaffected, but it’s laughable. His touch mingling with the fierce breath on the back my neck is too much.
He tweaks my nipple one last time before he continues his journey. He uses his hand this time and slides down my stomach slowly. Peering down, I gasp as the sight is so foreign. I’ve seen those hands do some callous things, but pressed against my skin, I soon forget them because his touch is nothing but tenderness.
He circles my belly button before skimming along the waistband of my underwear. My stomach ripples and goose bumps butter my flesh when he dips low and traces over my sex. It’s the wake-up call I needed, and I instantly buck my hips back, reality hitting hard.
What the fuck have I done?
“Don’t touch me!”
“Shh, shh,” he hushes calmly, wrapping his arm around my waist to stop me from moving. But I wriggle wildly as I can’t believe I allowed this to get so far.
I just allowed my kidnapper to fondle me, and I liked it…I liked it a lot. I’m ashamed and humiliated, but more than anything, I am so turned on. Guilt overcomes me, and I hang my head in shame.
“Still hate me?” Saint huskily asks.
And the answer is no because I hate myself more.
I remain silent, unsure what to say or do, but when Saint presses his chest to my back and slithers his hand over my hip, it’s evident I’m no longer in control. I should fight him, but I don’t. I don’t have the strength to.
He cups my heat, undoubtedly feeling my arousal. Air gets trapped in my throat, and I gasp, tears stinging my eyes. I am angry with myself for being such a fucking weakling, but wh
en he slips his warm hand into my underwear, those feelings soon turn to yearning.
I disengage from everything and simply…surrender.
He runs a finger along my heat, hissing when he feels how wet I am. My sex pulses, wanting more. So I disgracefully part my legs slightly. He traces along my entrance, using my arousal as lubrication to slide along my feverish flesh with ease.
“Stop,” I whimper, but it’s weak as my actions are not reflecting my demands. My plea is met with Saint sinking a finger into my sex.
I slump forward with a winded cry, a thousand emotions overtaking me, but Saint ensures I stay upright when he drapes an arm around my middle and holds me prisoner in every sense of the word. He works his finger in and out deliriously slow while every part of me blushes.
“No,” I moan, attempting to dance out of his hold, but the fight just has Saint nudging in deeper.
“Stop fighting me. You won’t win…because you don’t want to.”
The sound of my ripe flesh sucking him into my warmth embarrasses me because it confirms my body is a traitorous whore. This man has caused me nothing but anguish, but when he increases his rhythm, I forget everything because the pleasure suddenly overrides the pain.
I am helpless, a gluttonous fiend because when he flicks over my swollen clit, I want so much more. I part my legs wider, allowing him deeper access, and he takes what I give. He works me sluggishly, exploring every part of me while I yield, allowing him to be my puppeteer.
I am no longer the same Willow because my body rules me. After feeling nothing but misery, I just want to feel good for a small fraction of time. I know this is wrong, but fighting him is pointless. He always wins. And this time, I want him to.
When he senses I’ve surrendered to his touch, he inserts another finger. My eyes bulge from my head as I’m stuffed full. “Oh, Aнгел.” He sighs low, sinking in deeper. “You really are a virgin.”
I’m too lost to argue for my virtue because he slowly plunges his fingers in and out…in and out, and before long, I’m arching back, leaning into him to deepen the angle. He is composed and completely in control as I come undone in his hand.
