by Jasmin Quinn
Her spine tingled as she thought of him, of Jack Creed. She remembered her 23-year-old self in awe of this man, older, experienced, intense, demanding. Their affair was so brief, but she was crushed when it ended. It was laughable now, the silly girl she once was. It was a good thing it ended when it did. She would have derailed her career, ruined her chances of getting a respectable job. And Jack Creed. He would have never married her. He had such pretty words back then, stroking her ego as he stroked her body, telling her how beautiful she was, how perfect. Her younger self imagined his undying love, wedding dresses, babies, and happy ever after. Five years later, she knew better.
But still, when he talked to her today, when he touched her, her body responded. It was like it remembered, even if her brain, at the least the evolved part of it, knew how bad this would play out. And she’d hit him, a first time with any man, but then no man in her life had ever referred to her body as ‘fuckable’. As she thought this, heat flared inside her and she knew she was getting wet. She told herself it wasn’t Creed himself, but his filthy words. She’d been smart to leave when she did, ignoring his invitation to dinner. How absurd that he thought that a good idea. Then she wondered what he really wanted. He wasn’t a man driven by lust; her fuckable body was dessert. He was far too intelligent to let primal urges get in the way of his cold, hard, vicious approach. He’d wanted something from her. She wondered what?
She sighed and shoved herself away from the counter, wine glass cradled firmly in her hand. She wished she had someone to talk to about her day, about her interaction with Jack. A girlfriend or a sister to dissect the encounter, his lewd reference, but neither existed. She was married to her job, had female colleagues for quick lunches or after work drinks, but none close enough to share personal confidences. And no family, an only child, an orphan now. She shifted her thoughts before they became maudlin. Her legs were tired, her feet sore. She needed the softness of her overstuffed couch.
She left the kitchen, this time letting the muted light guide her to the living room. But as she entered, her path was blocked by a large chest of steel, a tall hard man, she briefly noted before her brain started screaming at her. Her terror spiked as her hands turned to jelly and she lost her grip on the wine glass. It slid through her fingers, hit the floor with a harsh shriek and splintered. Shards scattered every where and wine splashed on her feet and the shoes of the man in front of her. Dread snaked through her, freezing her in place, barely aware of the broken glass. The primal part of her brain was screaming at her to run, and finally she did, turning toward the front entrance, but before she could take a single step, she hit another solid chest of muscle. For someone so large, the second man had managed to creep up on her, effectively sandwiching her between himself and the intruder at her back. She was not going anywhere.
She drew in a breath to give strength to the scream forming in her throat, but it never made it past her lips as iron arms encased her from behind, one brutal hand over her mouth and the other gripping her throat. The intruder in front of her gave her a quick punch to her stomach with his fist, forcing a whimper where her scream had once been, and then she lost her breath, gasping for it as her knees crumbled. But instead of falling, she was lifted off her feet by the vice-like grip of the man holding her. He carried her into the hall, away from the shattered glass and towards the front door, setting her down carelessly. Her legs buckled as she struggled to force air into her lungs and her knees cracked against the hardwood, but she barely registered the pain as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, rocking herself, trying to cry out, trying to scream but not even able to draw breath.
“Mira.” The man who punched her hunkered down beside her, talking to her as if she were an unruly child at a funeral. He splayed his hand across the back of her neck, fingers digging into her tender flesh. A subtle promise of pain if she got out of line. “This is what’s going to happen. We’re going to walk out of here together. Me and you, like we’re tight. Get in the car and leave your little shithole of a neighbourhood. Hector’s going to do the driving so I can keep you company in the back seat.”
Mira shuddered at his touch, at his words. Tears pricked at her eyelids and her stomach folded into itself. She thought she might vomit. Was this what it was like for victims of rape? The understanding that you were helpless. That you couldn’t win. That your soul was about to be ripped from you.
“My boss told me to bring you to him in one piece – to me that means your heart’s still beating and all your body parts are still attached and working. That’s all it means. Don’t draw attention to yourself while we’re walking to the car. If your neighbours come out, I have no such instructions not to hurt them. Got it?”
Mira nodded, her face a tight mask, her eyes lowered to the floor, her lungs still starved of air. A reprieve, a small space of time before whatever happens next. Her torturer moved his hand from her neck to her face, taking her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. “Nodding’s not good enough. Say yes.”
Mira searched his face for compassion, but his eyes were hard, the set to his mouth arrogant. “Yes.” Barely audible, her voice shaky to her ears. She wasn’t stupid, there was no possibility of her getting out of this. Either she complied or what? Her neighbours died? She got hurt? She doubted anyone would risk their lives to come to her rescue. She didn’t even know the names of those closest to her. Her fault, long hours, crushing workload, dinner at her desk or with colleagues or clients. Tears pricked at her eyes. No family, no boyfriend, not even a best friend. Who would miss her?
He smiled at her, maybe at her acquiesce, maybe at his victory. “I heard you were smart.”
Her arms protested his rough handling as he yanked her to her feet and she couldn’t contain a small squeak.
He furrowed his brow and glared at her. “Shut the fuck up.” A rough shake as a reminder. Then he pulled her through the door, unmindful of her lack of coat and shoes, his hand gripping her waist, his fingers bruising her flesh. The dark night stroked her with a cool breeze, causing her skin to pimple, her nipples to harden. She stumbled over small sharp pebbles, but she swallowed the pain, didn’t want to anger these men further by crying out.
As they neared the car, the driver, Hector, used the key fob to unlock it and then opened the back door. Mira was shoved onto the seat and then forced over awkwardly as her tormentor slid in beside her and slammed the door. She flinched and shrank from him as he reached across her and put on the seatbelt. Then he covered her head with a sack, effectively blocking her vision. She sat there passively, breathing in the smell of canvas, hands clenched together in her lap, letting this happen, hating herself for not being stronger, for not fighting even a little. But conversely, she also credited herself for her mental strength, her presence of mind. For knowing there would be time to fight back, but now was not it. She willed herself not to cry.
As the car pulled away from the curb, she recalled the times she’d interviewed victims of crimes. What did they see? What did they hear? What did they smell? This helped her focus, to concentrate on what was going on around her. Helped her to breathe, helped her not to scream. Stay in the moment. Quiet conversation between her captors. Nothing of value, just discussion of a future activity, what was to be after this. Lots of starts and stops. And then fewer as the trip progressed. Darker too, no more constant light leaking through the cover on her head, so they were out of the city. But flashes of light and car noise, smooth pavement, for a least a half-hour, maybe more. And then slowing down, turning, another road, not as well-paved, and she was jarred around. Another left turn, a winding road, uphill she thought, and then a few more minutes. The car rolled to a stop and she heard the driver’s window slide down, the rush of cool air. A brief discussion with who? A guard. All seriousness, no lightness or humour. She sensed, heard maybe? Gates opening, the car rolling forward slowly. A minute, maybe two. Then it jerked to a stop, Hector putting it in park. The asshole beside her opened the car door and moved to get out, pulli
ng her with him. The roughness of concrete under her bare feet, cool air brushing her underdressed body. She shivered, wishing she could cross her arms, but she was sandwiched between them again as they lifted her by her arms and carried her up a set of stairs and inside.
Two
As the entrance door slammed closed behind them, a rush of heat washed over Mira. Not soothing, but at least warming. They dropped her to her feet and one of them, the one who sat beside her in the car, maintained his grip on her arm as he pulled her along a few paces. They walked up another set of stairs, this time many, down a hall and then stopped. A rap at the door. The driver calling out, “It’s Hector, boss, with the lawyer.”
“Come,” a deep male voice growled, and they opened the door, pulling her forward. “Ah, nice work. Any trouble?”
“None.” The asshole’s voice. “She’s a good little girl.”
She could feel him step up to her, smell him, male musk and spice, heat emanating from him. She knew it was Jack Creed before he lifted the sack from her head. That knowledge didn’t stop her from gasping out when she saw him, black eyes boring into hers, a small smile playing at his lips.
“You’re late for dinner.” His voice was soft, lilting, mocking.
“I wasn’t hungry.” She breathed, trying to keep her voice steady.
He grinned at her ferally, baring his teeth. “Cute, Mira.” Then he turned serious. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while. Let me look at you.” He tossed the sack onto the desk behind him as his eyes raked over her. They were in an office, his office, large and masculine, like him. Wood wainscoting, leather couch and chairs, a liquor cabinet. Jack looked past her and nodded to his men as they retreated from the room. “Stay close.” Jack told Andre as they closed the door behind them with a jarring finality.
They were alone, Jack standing in front of the massive oak desk, leaning on the edge of it. Mira in front of him, trembling, her legs threatening to give out, her stomach knotted, her heart thudding. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly as he stood up and circled her slowly, like a lion stalking its next meal.
“I’ve waited to have you up close for quite a while now. Watching you in the courtroom,” he paused as he drew a finger to her face and traced the curve of her cheek, “makes me forget I’m a gentleman.” Mira almost retorted but her words died on her lips as he leaned towards her, inhaling her. “You smell like a kitten.”
His eyes flitted over her, raking her from her feet to her skirt to her chest to her face. “Drop your arms, hands at your sides.”
Mira didn’t move. She needed a plan, fast, a way to mediate this situation, but her mouth was too dry to speak, and her brain was churning in concert with her stomach. It wasn’t that she wanted to escalate the situation, she just couldn’t make herself comply. Her brain wouldn’t let her. He gave her a minute and when she still didn’t drop her arms, he gently took her hands in his, unlocking them from her elbows and drawing them down to her sides.
“Are you afraid?” he asked softly, his hands caressing her forearms.
“Yes,” she whispered, visibly trembling.
“That’s good, Mira.” He said her name as if making love to it, rolling it across his tongue, letting it fall from his lips. “You should be afraid. I want you to clearly understand why you’re my guest this weekend. On Monday morning, I will think about letting you go home. If you’re well-behaved.” He gripped Mira’s chin with his hand, pulling her head up so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “Will you behave?”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Mira said tearfully. He was being so gentle, so careful, but she knew this was a game for him. She didn’t understand the rules, maybe he didn’t want her to.
“I see.” Jack replied dropping his hand from her chin, letting it glide over the curve of her breast and then resting it on her waist. “So you can’t promise me you’ll behave until you know what I want. That’s very practical of you.” He smiled at her as she shrank under his touch, a small smirk, then said. “What I want first is to take that skirt off you.” He circled her waist lazily with both hands, bringing them to the small of her back, fumbling at the button on her skirt, opening it, then sliding the zipper down.
Mira’s heart beat wildly and she could barely breath. “Jack, please don’t do this.”
“Shhh,” he said softly, pulling the skirt down over Mira’s hips and then letting go of it, watching as it fell to the floor and pooled at her feet. “Step out of it,” Jack ordered.
Frozen, confused, Mira hesitated and it cost her. Jack narrowed his eyes and frowned, then reached his hand up drawing his fingers through her hair and pulling her head towards his face. He leaned in and talked menacingly into her ear. “Mira, you cost me my brother and I’m not happy with you about that. Your current situation is tenuous. Over the course of this weekend, I’ll do whatever I want with you, including tying you up, fucking you however I want, treating you like trash. And that’s what will happen if you behave yourself. If you don’t behave yourself, after I am done with you…” he shrugged. “Who knows.” He tugged her hair gently. “But you’ll be good to me, won’t you Mira?”
Mira had been holding her breath as he spoke and barely registered the question. She nodded fleetingly, and he pulled her hair a little harder, “Nodding’s not good enough.”
“Yes.” Her voice shook as she gasped out the single word.
“Good girl. Now step out of the skirt.”
Mira complied, shifting closer to the hand that was holding her hair, easing the tension. He glanced down at the skirt, then reached out with his foot and kicked it out of the way. Then back to her eyes as he dropped his hands to the buttons on her white, collared blouse.
“I don’t like these shirts on women,” he murmured as he undid the top button. “Little girls trying to be like the boys. It’s not sexy.” He undid the next button, then moved the shirt aside to look down to her chest. Then back to her eyes, assessing her. She tried to, but couldn’t hold his gaze, he was too dark, too dominant, she dropped her eyes to his chest. He chuckled derisively as he continued undoing the buttons until there were no more. As he slid her shirt open, his eyes feasted on her body, his hands roaming over her from her shoulders to her breasts to her waist, coming to rest on her hips. His heat seared into her through his palms, branding her. And she stood there, letting him do all of it, trying to breathe.
“You’ve lost weight, Mira. Since we were together. You were curvier back then, more malleable, I think.”
Mira said, whisper soft, “Sorry you’re disappointed.”
“Oh, don’t take that as a rebuke. Five years ago you were a girl, sweet and eager. Now, everything about you screams woman.” He moved to her cuffs, opening one, then the other. He gazed into her eyes as he did this. “How are you doing, baby? Feeling okay?”
He was toying with her, a lion and a kitten. She didn’t know how to answer. She was not doing okay. And he was waiting for her, his eyes locked onto hers. She needed to say something, fast. “No.” Her voice was hushed and shaky. He was playing a game she couldn’t win.
“You’re not? What’s wrong? You used to like my touch. Do you remember, Mira?” He drew a finger to her nipple, circled it, pinched it softly. Watched as it hardened, watched as she shivered.
“Please, Jack,” Mira whispered. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. She remembered how she’d loved his height, an inch over six feet and leanly muscled. Next to him, Mira had felt small and petite, a good ten inches shorter and small enough to curl into him like a cat. He’d told her he loved everything about her – her pouty lips, her long untamed coffee-brown hair, her cinnamon eyes. But that was then. Five years later, she was less soft, more angular, professionally cut hair reaching just past her shoulders, and brown eyes that had lost their lustre. She was not the same person.
As if Jack knew what she was thinking, he grinned, toothy and menacing like a wolf, and drew a finger up her neck, to her
ear, tucking a loose strand of hair behind it. “I like how polite you are. I’ve always liked that about you. I thought maybe after five years as a prosecutor you might have lost a little bit of who you were, but when I watched you in the courtroom, I knew. Inside your little tiger costume was a lamb.” His gaze stroked her face. “I might keep you, Mira. I’m a little selfish and you’re so seductive. Maybe…” He brought his hands to her shoulders and slid her shirt down her arms, letting it fall to the floor.
She was in her underwear – matching bra and little boy panties, soft white lace hugging her curves. Jack inspected her body, eyes lingering, hands stroking her exposed flesh, fingers tracing the edges of her ribs, forcing another shiver, forcing her nipples to harden, forcing a small fire in her belly. Jack smiled as he saw her reaction, then brought a hand to her breast, squeezing it until she gasped. “I’ve missed you, Mira.”
Those simple words caused Mira’s eyes to flood with tears, the 5-year old hurt engulfing her like a tidal wave. She thought she was over him, thought she’d moved on years ago. So where were these emotions coming from?
Jack caught her tears with his thumbs, wiping them off her cheeks. Then he leaned into her and captured her lips with his, pulling her face to his, pressing her mouth to his. Mira leaned into him, her body deciding what it needed, even as her brain rejected what was happening. She let him kiss her, opened her mouth to his, let him sweep her with his tongue. He dropped his arms to her waist and pulled her into an embrace, held her head to his chest and rocked her. “Ah, Mira,” he said quietly. “Have you missed me? Thought about me?”
Mira didn’t know what to say; this was all too late. Her younger self would have stayed with Jack despite his criminal activities, would have given up her career for him. But not now. Not anymore. Her career was her life, and she wasn’t going to risk it for a roll in the hay with Mr. Mafia. His words helped centre her and she stiffened in his arms, her spine rigid, her resolve hardening.
