by Callie Hart
“Well?” he asks.
“Where did the scars come from?”
“I was stabbed.” He doesn’t ponder on whether he’s going to answer me; he just comes right out and says it.
“Did you nearly die?”
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
I let my hands fall from his shoulders and find the scars again, one, two, three of them. They feel jagged and terrible under my fingers. “What happened to the person who did this to you?” I almost don’t want to ask. Mystery Man’s been unnervingly candid since we began this bizarre interaction five minutes ago, and I’m afraid his answer will finally put the fear of God into me.
“He got what was coming to him,” he says softly. The bed sheets rustle when he moves, his stomach muscles contracting under my hands; when he touches my hair, tangling his fingers into it, I’m still trying to decide whether he means he killed whoever did that to him.
“I’m very particular about what I want. You need to do what I ask you without question and this will go nicely for both of us, okay?” he breathes.
A shot of adrenaline finally lights up my nerve endings—the appropriate reaction to my situation. What the hell have I gotten myself into here? Valium or no Valium, I know that sounded like a threat. I’m in way over my head, but there’s little I can do about it. Besides, Alexis. Always Alexis. “I can do that,” I whisper.
“Good. Lie on your back.”
I let go of him and suddenly I feel like I’m afloat in the middle of an ocean, drowning, with no way of saving myself. The sensible, smart part of my brain that still clings onto a vague sense of self-preservation is screaming that I should probably get the hell out of here, and for the first time the wrath of Eli almost isn’t enough to keep me pinned to the bed. But the thought of finding Alexis is. My muscles are jumping, ready to explode into action, when the guy gently takes hold of my right ankle.
“Did you touch yourself today?”
What the?! “Do…do you mean—”
“Have you made yourself come today? Have you played with your pussy?”
My cheeks heat up to an uncomfortable temperature. No one has ever asked me that before. “No. No, I—I haven’t,” I stammer.
“Good. Then you’ll taste so much sweeter.” Instead of hooking his fingers under the waistband of my panties and pulling them down, he draws them to one side. My legs lock up when I feel his hot breath skimming over my exposed flesh. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with my hands. This is untrodden ground for me in a very big way. When a guy gives you head, it’s usually because he’s done something very, very bad and needs to make up for it, or at least that’s what Pippa, my only friend in the world, says. I’ve never had a boyfriend to treat me badly in the first place, so I’ve never experienced it myself.
“Do you want me to lick you?” His voice is even deeper now, laden with the promise of sex.
“I want whatever you want,” I gasp. That’s what he’s paying for, after all. That’s what’s going to help me get Lex back. He grips me hard around the top of my leg, squeezing until I cry out.
“That’s not the game we’re playing, here. Own me, or I’ll own you. And trust me…you don’t want that.”
Shit. “Y—yes, I want you to lick me.”
He makes a satisfied grunt and immediately moves, pushing his way between my legs. When his tongue darts out and laps at me, my leg muscles tense up. It feels hot and…and good. What the holy hell? I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Embarrassment prickles at my cheeks. What sort of person am I, enjoying a complete stranger giving me head? And under these circumstances? I can’t help it, though. My whole body feels like it’s being caressed.
His tongue moves expertly, applying a subtle pressure to my clit, stroking up and down in a rhythmic pattern that sends wave after wave of heat crashing through me. I’m just letting go, letting the tension in my arms and legs relax, when he stops lapping and sucks.
“Fuck!”
He doesn’t stop. He growls when I push back against him, rocking into his mouth shamelessly. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It feels…incredible. I’m panting and moaning like an animal when he pulls away, running his hands from the very tops of my knees, down the insides of my thighs to my panties. He rips them off in one swift motion.
“How badly do you want me to fuck you?”
I’m not here because I want to fuck him, but it is my job to make him think I do; yet the lines between acting and the truth are so blurred when I murmur, “Really bad. I want you really bad.”
“Spread your legs,” he commands. I spread them, wondering what’s coming next. The room is like a black void, so dark I can’t even make out the shadow of him as he moves quickly around the bed. I hear a zip being undone and then the rattle of metal, like a buckle being undone. Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I wait for him to do whatever he’s about to do, worryingly piqued with curiosity. He restrains my left leg first, strapping something wide and tight around it and then affixing it to the bed. My right leg is next, and then he carefully does the same to my wrists. I’m star-fished on the bed and completely vulnerable. His restraints aren’t the kind for show; they’re the kind made to stop people from getting away, and I’m sure as hell not going anywhere. Six months ago, I might have said a prayer. Now I just whimper, half out of fear and half out of anticipation.
He climbs up onto the bed, kneeling at my side, his breath still playing across me. I tense when I feel something cold and hard press against the skin of my stomach. “Are you still a brave girl?”
“Yes,” I exhale.
He doesn’t reply or tell me what he’s going to do. The cool, sharp object he’s leaning into my skin travels slowly upwards until it’s poised directly under my breasts. I gasp lungful after lungful of air into my lungs, trying to keep still, because I know what it is he’s got in his hand: it’s a knife. A really fucking sharp knife.
His fingertip lifts the underwire of my bra in the middle, and then in a single, clean sweep, it springs apart, freeing my breasts. He cut through my bra! This is the most exposed, terrified, exhilarated I’ve ever felt. My Mystery Man straddles me, and the material of his pants, rough, slides up against my sides. He lays the flat, cool edge of his knife against my right nipple, sending a bolt of panic through me.
“Don’t move,” he whispers. I don’t move. I am the stillest still thing ever. He leans down and touches me, his hand finally finding my breast. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes. “So well behaved.” And then his mouth is on my nipple, licking and sucking, hotter than anything I’ve ever felt before. My back arches up off the bed, and he chuckles. “You want me inside you?”
“Yes.”
“You sure? Be careful what you wish for.”
I wish for death on a daily basis. I wish for pain and suffering and blood and misery upon the heads of those who took my sister. Wishing for this feels just as dangerous but somehow safer than all that at the same time. He wanted to me to own him, and despite the fact that he’s tied me up now, I still think that’s what he wants. I brace, hoping this is the right thing, and I demand, “Do it. Fuck me now. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
The knife vanishes from my skin. He shifts off the bed, and I hear him undoing his pants; slipping them off; the swish of him drawing something hard over something soft. Panic sings through me again when I hear another buckle.
“Ready?”
There’s no backing out of it now. “I’m ready.”
And he does something I hadn’t even considered. Not even for a second. He threads a loop of leather over my head—his belt—and cinches it tight. I’m in trouble now.
“Open your mouth.”
“I—”
“Do it.” The tone of his voice is firm yet gentle at the same time. He brushes a hand down the side of my face, a reassuring gesture—this is scary right now, but trust me. Trust him? I’d be fucking mad to trust him. And
yet I do what he tells me to. He pushes forward and guides his cock into my mouth. I’ve never done this before, so I’m basically wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. He’s rock hard and tastes clean and slightly musky…and he’s massive. I can barely fit him inside my mouth. I can tell he only fits half the length of him inside before he hits the back of my throat.
“Shit!” He hisses as I suck, forming a vacuum around him. I think I got that part right. His hips rock back and he slides out of my mouth causing a wet popping noise. “Still think you want me inside you?” He knows just how big he is; he’s fucking smug about it. This is going to hurt like nothing else, but I don’t want him to realize I’m a virgin. Even Eli doesn’t know that part. I’m sure he would have charged this guy a whole lot more if he did, and that thought just turns my stomach.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, I want you.”
“Good. But let’s do this first.” He fists a handful of my hair and lifts my head closer to him, and then he pushes back inside my mouth, thrusting in and out while applying a gentle pressure to the back of my head. I writhe on the bed, surprising myself with how much this turns me on. I’m floored when he tugs on the belt strap, though.
Floored.
My eyes, even in the dark, see stars. I can barely breathe with my windpipe cut off and his cock pulsing in and out of my mouth. “Stay with me, okay?” he grunts.
Fear and excitement pool in my stomach. It’s the same sort of sensation I used to get when I was a kid waiting to ride a rollercoaster, only amplified a thousand times. And a whole lot scarier. Between my legs, my pussy tightens as he works his hips back and forth, keeping just enough tension on the belt strap so that I can drag the tiniest amount of oxygen into my lungs.
He shivers as his erection turns granite-hard. If he doesn’t stop now, I think I know what will happen. But he does stop. Breathing heavily, he withdraws and couches down beside the bed, easing his fingers beneath the belt and loosening it. His face is so close to mine, I can feel the intense power of his gaze as he stares at me in the dark. I still can’t see a thing, but maybe he has better night vision than I do.
“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. And then he does two things that surprise me. Firstly, in the most reverent of ways, he brushes his hand against my sweat-soaked skin, sweeping my hair out of my face. And then secondly, he places the softest kiss against my forehead.
“For being such a good girl, I’m going to make you come now,” he breathes. A tremor of anticipation shimmers across my skin, and he chuckles. “You’re being a very good girl.”
He climbs up onto the bed and positions himself, hooking his arms underneath my hips, hoisting me up to meet him. The position is awkward with my ankles still bound to the bed, but all thoughts of my discomfort are forgotten when he buries his face between my legs and starts sucking on my clit again.
“Ahhh!”
The sensation is too much. I can feel myself climbing, ascending higher and higher as an unfamiliar, unfathomable feeling builds between my legs. It unfurls in gentle pins and needles throughout my body, growing more and more intense…and then…
I’m screaming. Unintelligible screaming. I’d scream for God but I doubt He would approve of this situation right now, and I have no idea who this guy is so I can’t scream for him, either. I just scream for myself and the fireworks going off inside my head, the inferno licking over my skin, burning me out, leaving me hollow and spent. I fall slack, trembling as he continues to sweep his tongue over and over my clit.
“Stop, stop, please,” I rasp.
“Mmm, so selfish,” he hums into my pussy, making me clench. “Don’t forget. It’s my turn.” He fiddles around for a moment—condom? Fuck, I hope that’s a condom. And then he drops my hips and thrusts into me in one fluid motion, his hands tight on my pelvis, trapping me.
Oh…my…
The pain is almost crippling. An uncomfortable feeling, a build up of pressure and then a stinging release, let’s me know that it’s done. He stops.
“What…?” He inhales deeply. Exhales. “You probably shouldn’t have kept that from me,” he says softly. He sighs, as though he’s disappointed in me, which is the most messed up thing ever. “Are you ready?” he asks.
My voice is a faint whisper when I reply, “Yes.”
“Try to relax.” He fills me up, stretches me, makes me whole. He starts off slow, gentler than I think he would have done if he hadn’t just deflowered me. After a while the pain subsides, gradually transforms until I’m no longer tensing with every thrust, but leaning into it. By the end, he’s fucking me like a freight train—unstoppable and raw with need. He comes so hard, he practically roars.
I don’t, of course. It’s my first time, and the pain just about outweighed the pleasure. My mind is too fogged to understand what’s going on as he climbs off me and slides down my body. His lips caress the inside of my thigh, and I shiver as his fingers carefully stroke over my core. The touch isn’t designed to excite me—it’s more of an apology. He moves around in the dark, undoing my wrists, my ankles.
“You enjoy that?” he rumbles, and the depths of his voice make my legs press together.
“Yeah, I—I did.” The most startling thing, the thing that makes me most sick, is that I’m telling the truth. What the hell is wrong with me?
He grunts, unthreading his belt from around my neck. The release of pressure makes me feel like I’m floating two feet off the bed.
I’m immobile as he packs up his things. I can sense him next to me pulling on his clothes. Then, when he’s dressed, he stands beside the bed looking down on me. He brushes his fingertips against my cheek again, so soft it’s almost not a touch at all.
“Be seeing you.” He heads for the door, and the light from the hallway nearly splits my skull apart when he opens it. And there my mystery man pauses, and I catch the one and only glimpse of him I ever get. Wearing a worn leather jacket, his back to me, a black duffel bag in his right hand, he tips his head down to his shoulder. He’s doesn’t look back at me. He hovers there long enough for me to make out the silhouette of his profile, his dark, mussed hair, the bruised pout to his full lips.
And then he goes.
I never find out his name.
Eli isn’t answering his phone. I’ve been calling for three days, and Eli—lying, manipulative, disgusting Eli—isn’t answering his phone. I’ve only been to his P.I. office once, a dark, depressing studio above a liquor store in Ranier Valley that stank of stale Chinese food. I’ve skipped rounds at the hospital this morning so I can find out what the hell is going on. A small part of me has been going crazy since I left that hotel room.
You’re a stupid fool. He tricked you. You slept with a complete stranger, gave up a part of yourself you’re never going to get back. Ever. And, now what?
And, now what? I will only have an answer to that question once I speak to Eli.
The stairs up to his office are slick with hard-packed ice. I navigate them with the greatest of care, holding my breath as I take each step. His piece-of-shit car is parked in the lot below so I know he’s here. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to him. I can hardly threaten to go to the cops if he doesn’t give me the information he promised me. That wouldn’t work—I have zero proof that I have an arrangement with him, and besides, Eli’s a private investigator. Would the police even take my word over his?
I go straight in, knowing that if I knock I’ll only chicken out and run. I start talking as soon I see the man sitting in his chair.
“What the hell, Eli? I’ve been call—” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; my brain shorts out. This…this can’t be happening. “Oh….oh, my God.”
The smell hits me first. Oh God, the smell. I try to breathe in through my nose but the air actually stings my sinuses. I cover my face with my hands, trying to process the scene in front of me. Eli was a large man before but now his distended stomach has bloated to obscene proportions, pressed up against his desk. I’ve
witnessed the same thing before on my rotation as an intern, primarily in the morgue. Bloating. All of that gas and bacteria wants out, and by the looks of things it will have it’s way sooner rather than later.
Eli hasn’t been answering my phone calls for the past three days because he’s dead. His office looks like someone went on a crazy, blood-fuelled rampage in here. It covers the walls and his desk; it’s crusted and dried in the already stained carpet. Eli’s mouth hangs open in a grim yawn, his eyes rolled back in his head. His skin is a sickly grey color everywhere apart from his hands. They rest on his desk, his fingers tinged purple-black by all of the blood that has coagulated in his palms.
I’m crying by the time I finally regain control of my body enough to pace into the room properly and stand in front of the man who cheated me out of my virginity. Not because I feel bad that Eli’s dead. No, I have reasonably positive feelings about the fact that he’s been stabbed to death with his own letter opener (still sticking out of his chest). I’m crying because he’s dead. He’ll never be able to tell me where Alexis is now. I’ll never know if he was telling the truth. If she’s even alive.
But no, that can’t just be it. It can’t be over just like that. There has to be something here, some way of figuring out whatever he was going to tell me. My mind locks up as I realize what I’m going to have to do. I’ve seen far more horrific things than Eli’s dead body, but it’s not how gross he is that makes me feel like passing out. It’s my anger. I’m so angry, so cheated, so furious that I’m scared of what I might do if I have to go near him. I certainly couldn’t be arrested for stabbing him again since he’s already dead, but still… I don’t even want a dead man’s blood on my hands.
I suck in a lungful of air and hold it, and then I take an unwilling step forward. I just need to get through this, for Alexis. This is all for Alexis. Maybe he kept the information in a file somewhere. That’s something a regular personal investigator would do, surely? Eli was more than a P.I, though. He was a drug-dealing pimp, too. Admin probably wasn’t very high on his list of priorities. I’m retching as I pick my way through the devastation of his office, climbing over an up-turned chair to reach the small, three-drawer filing cabinet. It’s not locked. The top draw is severely dented, like someone took a crowbar to it. Inside, there are files. My heart soars when yank open the middle draw and find one labelled with my sister’s name: Alexis Romera. Missing Person. With trembling fingers I pull the thing out of the cabinet and almost sink to my knees. I see right away that it’s empty. There’s nothing inside, not a single sheet of paper.
