Hell's Kitchen

by Callie Hart

  I could squirt shampoo at him. Nope, too messy and difficult. He’s taken the razor. Could I strangle him with a towel? Negatory. He’d strangle me with it. He seems to enjoy cutting off my air supply.

  I’m coming up blank when my eyes settle on the toilet cistern, and more specifically, the heavy porcelain lid that covers it.

  Excitedly, I grip each side with my fingers and pull up, testing the weight of the thick slab. I can definitely maneuver it.

  Lucky I’m a fucking actress, I think. I let the lid slide back into place and then wash my hands in the sink. I dry them off before going back for some more water—not much, just a little sip that I hold with my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I unlock the bathroom door and pull it open to see Sal leaning against the doorframe.

  “I hope you used air freshener,” he says with a smirk. I don’t respond, other than to put my hand to my mouth. Game on, motherfucker. I make my eyes go wide and rush back to the toilet, facing away from him and making a retching sound as I open my mouth, letting the water dribble out of my mouth and into the toilet.

  I continue to make the most disgusting noises possible with my throat, resting a hand on the cistern.

  Come on. Come on, Barbieri. Come and get me.

  “Bet you’re needing a drink right about now, you little vodka-soaked degenerate?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t move. Come closer.

  “Or maybe it’s those little white pills I found in your purse. Yeah, I think that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. You’ve got the bends.”

  I resist the impulse to fire off a witty retort or my standard Fuck You. I clamp my mouth shut.

  Closer, motherfucker.

  “Sal,” I say softly, looking up at him with my glassy eyes. Yeah, I can cry on demand as well.

  “Cat got your tongue, Scar?” he mocks me.

  “Can I please have some water?” I ask, in the most helpless voice I can muster.

  I can sense his hesitation. “I’m gonna pass out. Water. Please.”

  I can practically hear his face contort into a scowl. There’s already a glass sitting on the bathroom counter, which he fills with water and brings over to me. Two feet away. One. As he’s holding out the glass, I take the only window of opportunity I’ve got and pick up the heavy cistern lid, swinging it with every bit of strength in my body. It isn’t much, but it’s enough, and he’s taken completely by surprise as the porcelain smashes into his temple, sending him careening to the side, the glass of water flying through the air before smashing on the tiles between us.

  I eye the length of rope in the bedroom, beyond the open bathroom door, as a devious plan begins to reveal itself in my drug-starved brain. Yes. Of course. I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll give me back my medicine so I can breathe properly again.

  I wonder briefly about the girl I helped, probably huddled in my apartment right now, waiting to be found. Or maybe she’s already been found. Fucked if I know.

  I don’t really care, either. A good Samaritan act has turned into a fucking nightmare, and although it’s taken me this long to get my shit together and move past the detachment and shock to start fighting for myself, I’m pretty fucking pleased with my efforts to knock Sal out. A thin trail of blood leads from his temple down into his mussed-up hair, the violent reality of his wound oddly satisfying.

  I drag him into his bedroom. Fucker’s heavy. I prop him up and tie his hands behind his back, securing them tightly to one of the bed posts. I collect the gun from his waistband, the car keys and phone from his pocket. I take his ridiculous driver’s cap and put it on my own head, because I’m steering this motherfucking show right now.

  When I’m convinced he’s not going anywhere, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, the gun gripped furiously tight in my sweat-slicked palm.

  I’m getting myself a motherfucking drink if it’s the last thing I do, and then I’m getting the fuck out of this house.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m nursing a glass of bourbon and waiting for Sal to wake up. He’s taking his sweet time, so I eventually just tip a glass of water over his head. He comes to almost immediately, coughing and spluttering. I give him a big ol’ Fuck You grin, taking a sip of bourbon that tastes pretty goddamn satisfying right now.

  “Nice hat,” he grumbles. “I’ll make sure I bury you wearing it.”

  “Now, come on, Sal,” I say. “I know it hurts, getting your ass handed to you by a girl, but don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he says. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “I mean it,” I say, taking another gulp of my drink and delighting in the way it burns as it slides down my throat. “Just tell me how to unlock your front door, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  See, I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get out of this fucking place. And I can’t. Every door, every window, has this same fucking keypad stuck to it. The windows don’t open. And the elevator door we came in from the basement is the same—it only works if you know the code.

  Sal’s eyes light up. “She set the alarm,” he says, grinning. “That dumb bitch finally listened.”

  “Good for you,” I say, feeling slightly uneasy at the fact that blonde playboy bunny could get herself out of this house, but I can’t. It’s infuriating.

  “Here’s the thing,” Sal says. “I’m not giving you the alarm code, unless you tell me where Kaitlin is.”

  I pull the gun from my apron pocket and point it at him. “Here’s the thing,” I say, mimicking his tone. “You’re telling me exactly how to unlock that door, asshole, or I’ll redecorate this room with your fucking brain matter.”

  TWELVE

  ZETH

  A pineapple sits on the kitchen counter. A pineapple. It’s just not something you see everyday. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night, that’s for sure. I’m all for eating fruit—you don’t get a body like mine by shoving Twinkies down your throat twenty-four seven—but this thing looks like it requires preparation. It’s fucking spiky. I stand in the kitchen, staring at it for a while, contemplating how to proceed, and then I figure, fuck it, I’ll wing it and go on a mission to find a knife.

  Sloane’s still asleep upstairs in our bed. Our bed. I never thought I’d be thinking those words. It gives me insane pleasure to run a playback of what took place in that bed yesterday in minute detail as I carve up the fruit for my girl’s breakfast. There was a lot of spanking involved. And a tiny clamp that I hooked up to Sloane’s clit, firing electrical charges into her sweet pussy that had her clawing at my skin and screaming out my name. I fucking love when she does that.

  It’s one of those rare sunny mornings in Seattle. Like a damn finger of fate pointing straight down from Heaven, a pillar of light is shining straight through the glass doors at the front of the house, landing directly on the drawer where I stowed a small, velvet covered box three nights ago. A gift for Sloane. A gift I’m not ready to give her yet. Seems as though every time I walk past that goddamn drawer, I can feel the box inside humming like a freaking signalling beacon. I really need to move it. Take it down to the gym or something. Leave it in my locker there. She’d never find it amongst all my sweat-soaked work out clothes, hand wraps and boxing gloves. But then, no. That just seems fucking wrong.

  I carry the sliced pineapple upstairs on a plate, along with the eggs I’ve made and some fresh orange juice. Very fucking domesticated. I would never have done this for anyone else. The stars would have collided and the universe collapsed in on itself before I bowed and scraped to any other chick. I don’t see taking care of my girl as bowing and scraping now, though. I see it as making sure she’s fed. Making sure she’s content. Making sure she’s safe. Making sure she’s fit and healthy enough for me to fuck her the way I like, and for her to demand more.

  She’s still asleep when I enter the bedroom. Her dark hair is spilled across her pillow in loose waves around her head, her almost black eyelas
hes like charcoal smudges against her pale cheeks. She looks like she’s been drawn or something. Created out of thin air. I find myself thinking that a lot—that someone has crafted her, this mythical creature who’s turned my life upside down—because how else can she be real? It makes no sense. The universe just isn’t this kind to anyone, especially guys like me.

  Placing the food down on the bedside table, I move up the bed, pulling the covers back from her body as I climb. She’s naked underneath—so fucking perfect. Her breasts lay heavy, crushed between her arms as she lies on her side. I can already feel my cock stirring in my shorts. Nothing new there. Poor Sloane’s eggs are going to be cold by the time she gets around to eating them. I haven’t even made any food for myself. I knew she was all I was going to want to eat. Placing my hand on her hip, I gently turn her body so that she’s on her back. Unlike my cock, her perfect nipples aren’t erect yet, but I have plans on changing that. Slowly, carefully, I lower my mouth to her skin and I lick across her collarbone, moving down until I trace my tongue across the swell of her tits. So. Fucking. Amazing.

  Sloane groans, body writhing a little as she surfaces into consciousness. Waking her up this way is the best goddamn part of my day. I know she’s aware of what I’m doing when I feel her legs press together underneath me. She’s been so good recently whenever we fuck, doing as I tell her when I tell her to without hesitation or question, that now I feel like being bad for her. She’s earned it. I bite down on the now hard, tight bud of her nipple, sending a jolt of pain through her, waking her up properly. She reacts quickly, sucking in a sharp breath, her body tightening underneath me.

  “Morning, Angry Girl. Dreaming about me?” I whisper.

  Her fingers wind into my hair, which is longer than it’s ever been. Not hipster long. Just long enough that she can get a good fucking handful of it and pull when she wants to. She moans, which is a good sign. There aren’t many women you could wake up after a twelve hour hospital shift with a bite to the nipple and have them appreciate it. This is why we’re fucking perfect together.

  “You planning on backing that up?” she mumbles.

  “What? This?” I bite her again, this time on the other nipple. Her eyelids fly open wide, her back arching off the bed. “Stay still, Angry Girl. Don’t you dare fucking move unless I tell you to. If you’re good, I’ll make you come. Would you like that?”

  “Yes,” she says breathlessly. “I’d like that very much.”

  I hold myself over her, lowering myself a little more so that I can speak directly into her ear. “Okay. Spread your legs for me, Sloane,” I growl. She shivers in that way she does. The way that lets me know she likes the sound of my voice, rough and right up close in her ear like that. She likes feeling my breath on her skin. Like the good fucking girl she is, she widens her legs for me, and I change positions, moving so I’m inside her legs now. My dick is so hard I’m pretty sure you could break rocks with it. I catch sight of her pussy and my balls begin to ache like they haven’t been emptied in months, instead of yesterday morning.

  Fuck.

  “You’re so fucking perfect,” I groan. “God. Your pussy is beautiful. So pink. So sweet.” I can smell her, that peculiar yet addicting scent that drives me absolutely crazy. I just want to bury my face between her legs and go to town. Not yet, though. “You want me to make you wet, Angry Girl?” I ask.

  Sloane looks up at me with those big brown eyes of hers and nods. “I’m already wet,” she whispers. She used to sound ashamed of the fact when she admitted that to me, but not anymore. She knows how much it turns me on to see her dripping wet and ready for me. As if to prove the point, she rocks her hips upward, giving me a better view.

  “You’re breaking the rules,” I inform her. “I didn’t say you could move.” Palming her right breast, I squeeze hard, tightrope walking that boundary between enjoyable pain and real discomfort. Sloane’s hips press back down into the mattress in an instant, her eyes closing as she breathes through what I’m doing to her. “That’s better. Yeah. Good girl…” I let my other hand trail down the side of her body, my fingers slowly working toward the apex of her thighs. I don’t go straight for her clit, though. I run my fingers up the insides of the legs, over her hips, up her stomach, breasts, neck, over her high cheekbones and over her lips.

  “Suck,” I tell her.

  She obeys, opening her mouth, allowing me to slide my fingers inside. Her mouth is hot and wet, and has my cock throbbing so hard. She’s so good at blowing me now. She had no clue what she was doing the very first time back in that darkened hotel room, but her inexperience and her tight mouth had almost been enough to make me come on the spot. Now that she knows what she’s doing with that tongue of hers, she has the power to rob me of all fucking common sense.

  She grazes her teeth against my knuckles and I can imagine all too well what that would feel like if it were my cock in her mouth. I can’t help but hiss as she sucks harder. “You’re being so good,” I whisper into her hair. I let go of her breast and prop myself up on one elbow so I can slide my fingers from her mouth and place them between her legs, wetting her with her own saliva.

  “Fuck, Zeth.” Her head kicks back, rocking to one side as I work my fingertips in small, tight, purposeful circles over her clit. She’s staring at me, beautiful, so turned on I can see it in her eyes, when I lift my fingers to my own mouth and slide them inside. She tastes so fucking good. Guys say that about girls all the time, but I really fucking mean it. The taste of her pussy on my tongue is enough to send the blood roaring through my veins like combustion fuel in a high-powered engine. I feel like I could do zero to a hundred in less than a second.

  “Fuck, Sloane. You’re incredible. Lift your knees for me. Now.” She bridges her legs, feet pressed flat against the bed, and holds them there. I know she wants to let her knees fall to the sides, opening herself up for me, but she’s good. She waits.

  That clamp from yesterday enters my head, stowed safely back in the black duffel I keep in the bottom of the wardrobe, but I reject that idea. I do want to make her moan. I do want to make her twitch. But I want my head between her legs, too, and I can’t lick her with that thing in the way.

  My eyes catch on the plate I brought up here with me and I know what I’m going to do. Reaching over, I pick up a piece of the pineapple and throw it into my mouth. Tastes so sweet it twinges at the sides of my tongue. “Mmm, yeah, baby. You’re gonna like this, and so am I,” I say. Sloane fights back a surprised smile as I take another piece of the pineapple and I head down between her legs.

  I’m not in the mood to be careful. Fuck that. Shoving her knees apart myself, I get down there and take hold of her ankles, throwing her legs over my shoulders. “Are you ready, Angry Girl?”

  She bites her lip, her head rolling back. I know she wants to arch her back off the bed again, lift her hips up to meet my mouth, but she knows there’ll be consequences if she does. I’ll tease the fuck out of her for hours and I won’t let her come, and that’s not something she enjoys. Me, on the other hand… Torturing her like that gives me a particular thrill that no amount of breakfast making and domesticated life will be able to tamp down.

  I bite carefully down on the piece of cold pineapple and press it into her pussy with my mouth. She gasps, hands tightening as I work it up and down, slowly tracing it from the entrance to her pussy all the way up to her clit. I want to pump my fingers inside her. I want to make her fucking scream. I can be patient when the situation calls for it, though. Instead I tease her with the piece of fruit, enjoying the flavor of it mixed in with the slick juices of her tight, amazing pussy.

  I can’t help myself. I have to touch myself. Reaching down, I slide my hand inside my boxers and I take hold of my cock, squeezing the tip. Feels fucking amazing, but I know sinking myself balls deep into the woman in this bed is going to be a million times better. I’m already planning where I’m going to come. Over her tits. In her mouth. Her stomach. Her back. I want to mark her all over with my
come, rub it into her skin. Into her pussy. Claim her as mine.

  I swallow the pineapple, and then I set to working my tongue over Sloane’s clit. The fruit was fun, but I don’t need it anymore. I just need her pussy in my mouth and her come on my tongue. And I’m gonna make it fucking happen right now. Carefully, I push my index finger inside her, teasing myself as much as her with how slowly I do it. She’s trembling violently by the time I’m knuckle-deep. She’s so tight. I’ll never get over how incredible her body is. How tightly she squeezes my cock when I’m inside her.

  I can’t wait to get to that point. First, I let myself pump her with my fingers, knowing she’s imagining they’re my cock. I go slow at first but then pick up speed, matching the motion with the sweeps of my tongue over her swollen clit. I could suck on the hot bundle of nerves and make her explode, I know I could. But I refrain. This is just too much fucking fun.

  She’s begging me to let her come by the time I give in. And she really does fucking explode. I lick and suck at her, groaning like a goddamn savage as she comes all over my tongue. So. Fucking. Hot. She buries her hands in my hair and grinds up against me, her body shaking, falling apart as she climaxes.

  I have absolutely no self-control after that. As soon as the tension falls out of her body, her muscles sinking heavy into the mattress, I grab hold of her hips and spin her over, throwing her onto her front and then lifting her hips so that her ass is in the air. “We’re not done yet, Angry Girl.” I lay my hand against her skin, making a sharp cracking sound as my palm connects with the soft curve of her ass.

  “Fuck!” She gasps out, instinctively grabbing hold of the bed sheets, like she knows how hard I’m about to fuck her. Like she knows she’s about to be seeing stars. I lose the boxers, and then there’s nothing between me and my angry girl. I trace my cock from her clit upward, gauging her reaction, seeing where she wants me to stop…where she wants me the most. I don’t even make it to her ass. She’s pushing back against me, panting hard as I tease the tip of my dick against the opening of her pussy.