Disclaim (Deliver #3)

by Pam Godwin

  Straightening her upper body, she flexed her thighs, trying to block out the sensations he stroked between them.

  He seemed to be pondering dour thoughts because his caresses grew rougher and less controlled, making her cringe.

  “When you escaped Van Quiso and called me…” He crouched before her, eyes on her cunt as he traced the seam with a warm, wet finger. “You were a virgin then.”

  “Yeah.” A shiver trickled down her spine.

  She was grateful to have left the attic with that one part of herself intact. At the same time, it became a burden she’d carried for months after. The label of innocence didn’t quite fit after what she’d been through with Van. It’d felt like she was holding on to her virginity because of the abuse she’d endured.

  When Oscar propositioned her in a coffee shop six months after her captivity, she’d been more than ready to prove she wasn’t a fearful victim.

  “You should’ve fucking told me how to find you.” Without warning, Matias shoved a finger inside her and used it like a hook to yank her closer.

  She gasped. Trying to buck free, she smacked at his arm and kneed his chest, but couldn’t dislodge his finger. “I didn’t know you anymore.”

  He’d been led from his home by armed men, and in the few phone conversations they’d had before her abduction, he’d acted so damn secretive and shady. He’d told her nothing, refused her questions, and hadn’t come back for her when she still lived in the grove.

  “I didn’t trust you.” She twisted her hips away from his hand, going nowhere. “As it turns out, I have killer instincts.”

  “You were wrong.” He launched to his full height and squeezed her neck as he added another finger inside her, thrusting them mercilessly and wrenching a whimper from her. “And you’re wrong now. I will never forgive you for hanging up on me. For making me wait a fucking year before you called again. Making me wait while you spread your legs for other men.”

  There was so much pain in his voice, in the taut line of his shoulders, the glaze in his citrine eyes, the vicious drive of his fingers making her pussy ache.

  “You’re hurting me.” She clawed at the hand around her neck.

  “You hurt me!” He tightened his grip, holding her back against the wall. “You were mine, goddammit!”

  “Yours?” Her temper inflamed, flushing her system with adrenaline. “When I called that day, were you mine? Were you a twenty-year-old virgin holding out for his childhood sweetheart?”

  “I did wait for you!” Flexing his hand at her throat, his other withdrew from between her legs to stab through the wet strands of her hair. He yanked at the roots as he tipped back her head. “I waited until I could come back for you. Waited a fucking year. Then you disappeared, and I thought…” The anger drained from his voice, and his forehead dropped to her temple, his breath hot on her face. “I thought you were dead.”

  Her throat closed up, her eyes burned, and she felt an overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him.

  He’s a slave trader, living in luxury that’s paid for in innocent lives.

  “I was gutted.” He trailed fingers over her shoulder and around her breast, the hand on her throat loosening. “Consumed with rage. A nineteen-year-old kid with so much hatred eating me up. I fought and drank and killed.” He pinched her nipple, squeezing painfully. “Then I fucked a whore in an alley.”

  Her chest caved in beneath a barrage of jealousy. And rage. So much fucking rage it seethed from her pores. He should’ve returned for her. Should’ve talked to her, confided in her, trusted her. Then he never would’ve had to stick his dick in a whore. Fuck him.

  “The next day…” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “I got the shoulder tattoo.”

  A branding of guilt. He deserved it.

  Except she understood that odious feeling. She’d starved herself for weeks after she gave her first time to Oscar. She hadn’t belonged to Matias, but all of her firsts had been meant for him.

  He released her throat, and when he lifted his head, his haunted eyes filled her horizon. Her brain couldn’t reconcile the look on his face with the cold-hearted man auctioning off women in the living room.

  Going into this, she’d known rape was on the table. She had an IUD to prevent pregnancy, but STDs were one of the many known risks. One risk she hadn’t calculated was having sex with Matias. Whether it would be willing or forced, it was a threat to her heart, one that could destroy her.

  He gripped her wrists and pinned them against the wall above her head. She anticipated what was coming and couldn’t stifle the feelings exploding inside her. Her legs shook, and the inner muscles contracted and heated. For years, she’d imagined him between her thighs, his body a pillar to hold on to, and his groans a comforting embrace.

  The lean muscles of his chest flexed, and his full mouth parted as his wet body slid against hers. He pressed his hard length against her pussy, seeking entry, his gaze feral.

  He shifted her wrists to one hand and grabbed the base of his cock. Stroking himself, pressing his body impossibly close to hers, he licked the seam of her lips then kissed her like he’d waited his entire life for this very moment. His hard, frantic nips and urgent flicks of his tongue left her gasping, biting, reciprocating.

  Hunger coiled between her legs, and her clit throbbed beneath the massaging glide of his length. She wished her arousal was a trained response, but Jesus have mercy, she wanted him. Wanted him in her.

  She rocked her hips, needing more friction as she chased his tongue and devoured his lips.

  “I’ve waited so long for this,” he breathed between kisses, his eyes molten gold.

  Without looking away, he speared his fingers inside her, spread her open, and slid his cock along her folds. Fucking her without penetration.

  Just like old times.

  She tried to disassociate what was happening now from her cherished memories, but the pieces of her that would always want him were breaking open and messing with her mind. As he nudged the broad head of his erection at her opening, her pleasure centers fired in excitement, and her heart pounded frantically, even as her brain screamed no.

  He stilled, his breath cutting off as his smoldering gaze drilled into her.

  Holy fuck, this was it. She couldn’t breathe.

  The hand on her wrists clamped to the point of pain, and his head whipped around to look over his shoulder.

  “I need you in the west wing.” Nico’s accent echoed through the bathroom.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks as she peered around Matias’ stiff shoulders. What the hell was Nico doing here? In Matias’ bathroom? Without fucking knocking?

  “Sorry about the timing, parce.” Nico stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his scowl prominent amid his dark trimmed beard. “This can’t wait.” With a sharp glare in her direction, he strolled out of the room.

  “Fuck!” Matias released her and shoved his hands through wet hair. “Fucking fuck!

  She sagged against the wall, her body buzzing and head spinning. Just a sliver of another second and he would’ve been inside her. Their first time together. Connected in the way she’d always imagined. So fucking close.

  She should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve been over-fucking-joyed by the interruption. Instead, her heart felt like it was shrinking.

  Matias smacked the faucet, turning off the water. Then he stood there, swiping his palms down his face, his body a vibrating coil of tension.

  How was he okay with Nico coming into his bathroom and ordering him around? It was either a really close relationship or an authoritarian one.

  Maybe she should dry off, try to wipe away the last few minutes. As she moved to step out, he beat her there.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, he held one out for her. “Let’s go.”

  Go? She assumed this was a business call. Would he take her with him? Hope bubbled up. She needed to get a lay of the land. And cool off her damn libido.

  In the bedroom, he dragged on bla
ck suit pants, tucking his erection to the side as he zipped up. No underwear.

  She bit her lip. What was she supposed to wear? She dried off and looked around.

  A wall of windows led to another balcony. A king-sized bed sat in the corner of the room, draped in white fabrics. Couches and chairs formed a horseshoe in front of a fireplace. And a large column stood in the center of the room, rising up to the apex of the vaulted ceiling. Everything painted in white.

  “Kneel beside the post.” His voice crept over her shoulder, shockingly close.

  She turned to face him. He wore a black button-up tucked into the narrow waist of his pants.

  In his hand dangled a length of chain. Her stomach collapsed, and she spun back to the post. There, screwed into the wood near the floor, was a metal ring.

  “If I told you I wanted to leave,” she said, mouth dry, “that I wanted to go home, would you let me?”

  “Never.” He walked past her, locked the chain to the metal ring, and held on to the leather collar at the other end. “You want to be owned.”

  “Said no slave ever.” She stood her ground. “But I won’t try to escape. You don’t need to chain me.”

  He widened his stance, hands clasped at his back with the short chain hanging behind him. But it was the cutting look in his eyes that made her shake from head to toe. It conjured dark enclosed places, ear-piercing screams, and bruising thrusts against the back of her throat.

  Her heartbeat went ballistic, banging in her ears. He wasn’t Van, but he wasn’t Matias, either. The man standing before her made a living off of human pain, and his interest in her was personal.

  She lowered her head, her feet moved, and the sour taste of dread flooded her mouth.

  Lifting the towel from her grip, he folded it on the floor in front of his shiny shoes. Then he straightened and touched his lips to her forehead.

  She cringed, eyes glued to the square of terrycloth, knowing what he wanted and inwardly fighting it.

  You won’t win this battle. Focus on the end goal.

  Methodically, one muscle at a time, she knelt for him. Back straight, weight evenly balanced between her hips, palms facing outward on her thighs, eyes on his belt. Then she adjusted, spreading her legs shoulder width apart to allow full view of her pussy, her skin prickling with self-loathing.

  “Your orgasms belong to me.” He glanced at the ceiling and the camera tucked in the corner. “I’ll know if you touch yourself.”

  She gritted her teeth. As if!

  “Any man can chain you to a post.” He buckled the leather collar around her neck, securing it with a four-digit padlock.

  The leather sat snugly against her skin, the gravity of it choking her air.

  “Any man can rip off your clothes.” He tested the chain between her neck and the wooden column. “Fuck your throat, call you a whore, and you might even like it. That’s rough, gritty sex. But it isn’t dominance.”

  Her heart stuttered. He’d described her experience with Van so accurately.

  He glided a finger across the line of her jaw, tilting her face upward. “Dominance is when I kiss your brow and you obediently lower to the floor. Willingly. No hesitation.” His eyes flashed. “It’s when you kneel for me, give me the power to break you inside and out, and trust that I won’t. You will surrender your vulnerability without shame, because that’s what I want, and what I want, you crave.”

  “You’re delusional.” She struggled to swallow. “I’m not—”

  “You’re not there yet. So in the meantime, I’ll settle for rough, gritty sex.”

  With that, he left her trembling on her knees.

  INSTINCT GUIDED CAMILA THROUGH the next few hours. Naked and shivering with raw nerves, she’d attempted dozens of combinations on the lock she couldn’t see at her throat. She’d tried to unscrew the metal ring on the post until her fingers turned red. Then she’d walked the radius, measuring the span of the chain.

  With arms out, she could stretch about six feet in every direction, but the bed sat twice that far. The bathroom, couches, and built-in wall cabinets were even farther. The doors to the hall and balcony closed off the exit points. Another door, also shut, must’ve led to a closet. There was nothing within reach except the towel and an expanse of gleaming white marble floors.

  Not that she intended to break out of this fortress, but dammit, she needed to snoop through drawers and closets to find out what Matias was hiding, anything that might explain why he was so obscure.

  She glanced up at the camera in the ceiling. Was he watching her now, waiting for another reason to hurt her?

  There was also a building pressure in her bladder. Probably shouldn’t have drunk so much water, but come on! Van would’ve at least given her a bucket to piss in.

  Restless and wary, she paced circles around the pole like a tetherball, switching directions, and pacing again. She replayed her conversations with Matias, searching every interaction for hidden meanings in his words, clues that would indicate there wasn’t a monster behind those mercurial eyes.

  But she recalled nothing helpful. Everything he’d said and done implied he was one-hundred-percent invested in the cartel. And owning her.

  When she’d asked him where she’d be staying, he’d said her life was with him, diminishing any hope of disentangling her past from the present. This was no longer just a battle against slave traders. She would be fighting to protect the heart of the girl he’d abandoned in the citrus grove.

  She gripped the chain and yanked. Fuck! How long would he keep her locked up?

  God, she’d thought she was so fucking clever. Thought she could just smuggle her way into a slave ring and single-handedly take out the asshole in charge.

  She didn’t know shit.

  How arrogant of her to assume she’d end up in the boss’s bed. While she didn’t want to be anywhere near Nico Restrepo, the alternative called into question some seriously conflicted desires.

  She glared at Matias’ bed across the room. Forgive him. Bite off his dick. Fuck his brains out. End his life.

  No, killing him wasn’t an option. To put an end to the cartel’s slave trading, she needed to get to Nico. To do that, she’d have to win over Matias by any means necessary.

  I’ll settle for rough, gritty sex.

  She could still feel his voice vibrating through her, and she shuddered anew. Worse, he knew he affected her. He wasn’t a stranger she could inveigle and trick. He could see past her act, undress her mind, and fuck her thoughts.

  She tapped her fingers against her thighs and pulled in a deep breath.

  When they were kids, she’d anticipated what he wanted and followed his every whim without reservation. Hell, she’d followed him around like a lost puppy. But he was also two years older.

  No, that wasn’t why. There had always been a captivating shift in the air around him. A dominant man stretching the skin of his prepubescent body. A Master lying in wait.

  She leaned against the post and slid to the floor, tucking her knees to her chest. With a shaky hand, she traced the stiff band of leather around her neck. The texture and weight felt like Van’s restraints, but the similarities ended there.

  Being bound by Van had made her feel defenseless, trapped, uncared for like an insignificant nothing. But this… She pressed her palm against the leather, squeezing it around her throat. Matias’ collar felt like armor, his armor, protecting her from the world. Why? Because they shared history? Or were his parting words messing with her?

  Kneel for me…give me the power to break you…trust that I won’t.

  Funny thing, trust. It was so hard to give, yet easy to rip away. He’d earned her trust through sixteen years of friendship. Then he’d lost it. Not the day he left, but in the phone call that came a month after. It’d been the coldness in his tone and the furtive way he’d steered the conversation away from commitment and love. He’d chosen his future, and it hadn’t included her.

  She lowered her hand to the round metal ta
g that hung on the collar, tracing the engraving for the hundredth time. What she wouldn’t give to know what it said. Was it his name and phone number like a damn dog tag? A quote from a handbook on how to destroy human lives? Or was it something personal, like his tattoos? Not likely. Dozens of his slaves had probably worn this very collar.

  She sucked in a breath, hating that the pang in her chest was jealousy of other women rather than remorse for the abuse that might’ve occurred. Yet the idea of being owned by him, being the only one he’d ever kept, made her crave things—filthy, kinky things she’d fantasized about during sex.

  It didn’t matter how skilled her lovers had been, none had taken her to the depths she hungered for. No matter how much she begged, no one spanked her long enough, choked her hard enough, or left her unable to think afterward, lost to sensations. She ached to be fucked violently and loved tenderly, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand why.

  She wasn’t one of those women who needed a man, but she longed to be the kind of woman a man couldn’t live without. And while Matias’ intentions hovered somewhere between terrifying and soulless, the way he looked at her made her feel treasured. Protected.

  His spoken promises should’ve horrified her. Instead, they poked at the twisted parts of her soul that wanted things she was too afraid to ask for.

  What the hell was wrong with her? This wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome—she’d loved him before he was her captor. Insanity, maybe? Brain damage? Or just good, old-fashioned stupidity.

  As the balcony glowed orange in the blaze of the sinking sun, interior lamps flickered on around the room. Growing more distressed about his return, she resumed pacing, which seemed to ease her irritated bladder. She considered peeing on the floor and thought better of it. Van would’ve pressed her face in the mess. Who knew what Matias would do?

  An hour after sunset, footsteps sounded in the hall. As if compelled by the confident pace of the strides, she knelt at attention on the towel, facing the door. With shins placed against the floor, thighs vertical, and body held upright, she positioned her arms in strappado—behind her back with elbows, forearms, and wrists pressed together with imaginary restraints.