by JA Huss
But my shoulders are aching. He’s got them pulled tight around my back. Is it too tight? Is he hurting me and I don’t know it? My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I begin to pant, unable to control my breathing.
But the vibrations on my neck are back. His imaginary soft words soothe me back down as I realize he’s got his cock out. He’s pressing it against my hip and he’s hard.
And then he’s gone.
I panic for a moment when the heat of his body disappears. I’m out of control. My breathing, the pain in my legs, my heartbeat. Everything is out of control. “Bric?” I say. But I only hear the voice in my head and nothing else. “Bric?” I am thinking about all the things he might be doing. I am conjuring up scenarios. He left me. He walked out. I will stand here for hours, only to realize he’s been gone the whole time.
I panic and start hyperventilating. Short, staccato breaths take over my body. My legs are shaking so bad I want to—
His touch again. He’s back.
His hands are colder than before, but he’s back. I relax and let him have his way with me. His hard cock probing between my legs as his hands grip my shoulders. I lean back into his chest as he makes the skin on my neck vibrate again. God, I wish I could take these fucking headphones off.
He enters me, but at the same time his hand slides around my hip and begins to probe my clit.
It feels so good I almost forget how much pain I’m in.
His other hand grips my breast. Squeezes it hard, like he knows he needs to remind me what’s actually happening here.
I’m submitting.
Moans escape my mouth as he begins to fuck me. Soft and slow at first. But then harder. His fingers still playing with my clit. His stomach hits my bound hands each time he moves forward. I want to be free. I want to touch him back. I want to make him feel good too. But I can’t. I’m submitting.
And it feels so fucking good.
My legs begin to shake badly. I cannot stay up en pointe much longer. But if I fall out of it, he will stop. He will end this game and he will win and I will never forgive myself for not just putting in a little more effort to please him.
He’s everything I want right now. He’s everything I need.
So I refuse. I lock my knees, and stiffen.
He stops. Pulls out. And for a moment I think he’s disappointed. My body language is all wrong. I have failed to submit properly and he’s going to walk out.
Instead he unties my wrists. My shoulders burn when they are released, and fall, limp, at my sides.
He places both hands on my shoulders and turns me, still en pointe, so my toes do a little painful dance as I spin, and pushes me back against the brick wall. I see nothing but the crimson red of his tie, tightly wrapped around my eyes.
Then he reaches under my knees and lifts me up, pressing his body against mine, then pressing my back into the sharp brick wall until it’s painful. His cock slips back inside me. I moan for so many reasons. My legs, freed from agony. My toes—surely blistered by this point—screaming with relief.
I grab him. I hold him. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his hair and make him fuck me. He goes slow. And he’s soft. Even though I know he’s neither of those things.
When I submit, he is, I realize. He’s soft just for me in this moment.
And maybe I could love this man. Maybe I could.
By the time my orgasm begins to build, I’m crying. I don’t even know why I’m crying, I just am. Tears flood my eyes. Fall down my cheeks. But it feels so good to be sad.
I’m so confused.
Until I realize this is what submission is. Relief. Freedom from decisions. Trusting him to do it right. To know. And I am convinced in this moment that no one on Earth knows me as well as Elias Bricman.
I come, shaking and sobbing. And I don’t even know if he comes too, because I hear nothing but the vacuum of cancelled noise in my head.
But he slows. And I can feel his chest through his shirt. In and out. Hard, short breaths just like mine.
He sets me down and I don’t even pretend like I can remain en pointe. “I did my best. I swear,” I say, the words echoing in my ears. “I can’t give you any more.”
He places his fingertips on my lips. Shushing me. And then he walks away again.
I don’t panic this time. Just lean against the wall, the sharp brick poking into my back. And I wait.
He comes back. I knew he would. And drapes something around my shoulders. My robe, I realize. From the bathroom. I slip my arms into it, and never has terrycloth felt so luxurious. He ties the belt tight around my waist and leaves, one more time.
I wait.
And wait. And then I feel the vibrations of footsteps on the hardwood floor as he approaches.
He pulls one of the headphones away from my ear and says, “Nadia?”
But it’s not Bric’s voice.
I grab for the tie that’s making me see red, and tug it down my face.
“Logan?” I say, bewildered. “What the fuck—”
But that’s when I see Bric. Leaning against the doorjamb. Holding out a piece of paper. “Look familiar?” he asks, shaking the paper. “Your boy here called me the other day. Said he needed to see you.”
“What the—”
“Nadia?” Logan says. “I’m sorry.”
I look at Logan as I try to process what just happened. His shirt is untucked from his pants. His belt unbuckled. His hair rumpled.
And then I look at Bric. He looks like a million dollars. His suit is not rumpled. His hair is not mussed.
He was not the one who just fucked me.
Chapter Thirty-One - Bric
“You dick,” she screams. “You motherfucking dick!”
She flies across the room at me, her toe shoes clumping on the hard wood. Her fist hits me hard in the jaw. And I will admit, it fucking hurts.
But I only let her get one punch in. I grab her wrists and say, “Calm the fuck down.”
“Calm the—fuck you! Fuck you!” she screams as she fights my grip on her wrists. Flailing and out of control.
“Nadia!” Logan says. “I didn’t. It’s not what you think. I don’t know what the fuck you two are doing, but I didn’t do anything!”
Nadia looks at me. Confused. I almost laugh. But I figure that would not be in the spirit of things. I’m all about winning graciously. “He didn’t fuck you, Nadia. That was all me, honey. Come on. Give me a little credit.”
“What the hell is going on?” she yells.
I shrug. “You wanted to play, right? I warned you. I fucking warned you. And you practically begged me to do this.”
“To fuck with my head?”
“You’re the one who said it, remember? I like to mind-fuck people. Did you really think you could play this game with me and not get the full Bric treatment?”
She spins, looking at Logan. “What are you doing here?”
Logan looks… scared shitless. And you don’t need a degree in psychiatry to see it. So I figure I better save the guy. It’s the least I can do since his role in this whole charade just helped me win.
The paper I was holding fell to the floor during our scuffle, so I pick it up and hold it out to her. She snatches it from my hand, crumples it up, and tosses it over her shoulder. She knows what that paper says.
“I should’ve done a background check on you, Nadia. Would’ve explained so many things.”
She looks at Logan. Glares at him. “You told him?”
Logan just shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender. “You need to know something, Nadia. That’s why I’m here. I just need to tell you something.”
“I don’t need to know shit,” she says, almost spitting out the words. “Get the fuck out of my house.” She screams it. “Both of you! Get the fuck out!”
“Well, I believe that’s my cue,” I say, brushing a piece of lint off my suit. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Wolfe. Good game.”
I turn my back on them. I don’t k
now what the fuck they have going on, but I do not care. I read the police report Logan showed up with that day at the Club, and it does explain a lot. But I’m just not curious enough to figure the rest out.
She learned her lesson today.
I might’ve lost with Chella and Rochelle.
But I most certainly did not lose with Nadia.
Chapter Thirty-Two - Nadia
Logan just looks at me after Bric is gone. “Leave,” I say, walking out of the studio and searching for my coat in the living room. I grab my phone from the pocket, but Logan is right behind me.
“No,” he says, gripping my shoulder to make me turn. “I need to talk to you. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months. And now that I’m here, I’m gonna have my—what are you doing?”
“You’re violating the restraining order. So I’m calling 911. You have two seconds to get the fuck out of my apartment or I will press that last number.” I hold it up so he can see my screen, the big ol’ nine and one staring him in the face.
“Nadia,” he says, pleading.
“Get out.”
“I just want you to know—”
“Go. Away.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. Frowning. Watching me. Seeing me.
“Stop looking at me,” I say. “Stop it.”
He lowers his eyes and turns. But just as he’s about to twist the handle on the front door, he stops. “It wasn’t your fault, Nadia. It was my fault.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you do.”
And then he opens the door and walks out.
I let out a long breath of relief. I can’t do this again. I can’t. I won’t.
I want to run away. I want to get the fuck out of this apartment. This city. This life. But my legs—my whole body—is one big mess of exhaustion. What the hell just happened? I feel… wrecked.
The couch is calling me. I sink into the cushions and curl up into a little ball. The memories of what happened in New York—memories I had put behind me—all come flooding back.
Tears are running down my face and sobs are coming out my mouth in weird gasps.
Just close your eyes, Nadia. Close your eyes and sleep it off.
I will never sleep again. So I go to the bathroom, grab the bottle of sleeping pills, and gulp them down without water.
I surrender to the nothingness of sleep.
Pounding on my door wakes me. It’s morning, but early. Just a hint of dawn peeking though my living room curtains.
“Nadia!” Jordan is yelling in the hallway. “Open the door and let me in right now or I swear, I will call the police.”
I drag my aching body off the couch. My legs are so weak from last night’s… game… I stumble over a rug and fall to my knees.
“Nadia!” Jordan yells again, his fist pounding on my door. I scramble on my knees for a few feet, then get up and stumble across the room. “Open the fucking—”
I open the door before he finishes. “What the hell, Jordan?” I look down the hallway and see two neighbors peeking their heads out.
He pushes past me, huffing out air, slamming the door behind him. “I’ve been calling you all night. Why didn’t you pick up the phone?”
“I was sleeping,” I say, unable to think about last night. “I didn’t hear it. I don’t even know where my phone is.” I sort through the couch cushions and find it wedged between the seat and the back. Yup. He’s called me nine times.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t fucking play with me, Nadia. Bric called me last night and told me the game was over. He won, you lost. His words exactly. Now tell me what the fuck happened?”
I shrug and slink down onto the couch, curling my legs up underneath me. “He won,” I say.
“I’m gonna need more details. Tell me exactly what happened. You brought him up here…” He waits for me to finish that sentence. But I don’t. “And then…” He walks over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Nadia—” He stops. “Why are you shaking?”
I don’t know. So I can’t tell him. But I am shaking. It could be from Bric making me stand en pointe at the wall last night. Or the mind fuck. Or both. I don’t know.
“Nadia, talk to me.” Jordan sits down on the couch next to me. “Tell me what happened.”
My eyes fill up with tears. They spill down my face before I can wipe them away.
“Nadia,” Jordan says. All his anger is gone now. There’s nothing left but concern. “Just tell me what happened.”
“He won.”
“How? How did he win? What did he do?”
But I can’t tell that story. Not even to myself, let alone Jordan. So I just shake my head.
He reaches for me, trying to put his arm around me, but I push him off and stand up. I try to cross the room without wincing. My legs… God, my legs. They are weak and rubbery, so I sit down in a chair before I fall.
“Go away,” I say. “I don’t want you here.”
“No,” Jordan says. “I need to know why you’re acting like this.”
I shake my head. “No. You don’t.” And then, because I really need him to leave, I look him in the eyes and say, “Get out of my apartment and don’t come back. I don’t ever want to see either of you again.”
“Nadia—”
“Out!” I yell it as loud as I can.
Jordan stares at me for a moment. Sighs. Stands. And does what I ask.
I stay in that chair all day. Until the light disappears on the other side of the curtains. I shiver. I don’t even get up to go to the bathroom. But I don’t have to, because I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday morning.
My phone rings. Lots of times. Too many times to count.
Whoever is on the other end of that phone isn’t someone I want to talk to. It’s Jordan. Or Bric. Or Logan. I just need them all to go away.
And eventually they do. The ringing stops. I drag myself back into my bedroom, fall on top of the covers, and pass out in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Three - Bric
I drink the entire weekend at the Club. I don’t even go downstairs to play. And Jordan never shows up, so… it’s just me and my bottle of brandy. By Monday, I feel like shit. I’m too hungover to care about Club members or people coming in for lunch at the restaurant, so I sit up in Smith’s bar, nursing a ginger ale.
I’m getting old, I think.
No, that voice in my head says. You’re feeling guilty.
I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. So fuck that. Nadia asked for this. She wanted to play the game. She practically begged me.
But she never asked you to fuck with her past or her head.
That’s what I do. That’s who I am. She came into this game with eyes wide open.
She came to have fun and be challenged. Not to get mentally raped.
Mentally raped? Jesus Christ. My internal monologue is out of control.
I stand up and lean on the half-wall that overlooks the lobby just as the lunch crowd is picking up. I see Jordan walk through the revolving doors. He looks right up at me, heads for the stairs, pushes his way past the sentries I have posted, and storms into the bar.
“What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Who?” I ask.
Jordan takes a swing. It’s so sudden I don’t even have time to process things until his fist crashes into my jaw. I swing back, but miss, then swing again and connect. He charges me, like a fucking bull, and we crash into the table. Glassware goes flying. My bottle of brandy breaks on the floor. I vaguely log the sound of people gasping down below.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yell. The bartender and server are there, pulling Jordan back by his shoulders.
Jordan stares me down as I get to my feet. He wipes blood from his lip just as I taste my own blood in my mouth. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
“I have no ide
a what you’re talking about.”
“The fuck you don’t,” he yells. “What did you do to Nadia?”
“We played,” I say, trying to shrug and come off nonchalant. “She lost. End of story.”
“She lost,” he says, still trying to wipe the blood from his lip. “She lost? You broke her, Bric. You fucking broke her.”
“She’s fine,” I say. “It wasn’t that bad—”
He lunges for me again, but the bartender grabs him before he gets very far. “She didn’t show up for work today.”
“So? Maybe she’s sick.”
“Or maybe you broke her.”
“Shut the fuck up. She wanted to play, so we played. I was just showing her who’s boss.”
“You?” he says, still breathing hard. “You’re the boss? You’re fucking pathetic, Bric. No wonder Quin left you and took everything you loved with him.”
“You better control that mouth—”
“You broke her,” he says again. “I told you. I fucking told you I liked this girl.”
“So why did you leave her alone with me?”
“Because she was a gift, Bric.”
I just… stare at him for a second. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I got her for you. I trained her for you. And I gave her to you. Because I trusted you. I figured, hey, if Rochelle and Chella think you’re a good guy, well, I guess everybody else is wrong. But I’m the dumbass who was wrong. Quin was right. About everything. You’re a dick, Bric. You’re a class-A motherfucking asshole. And you hurt her.”
I don’t actually have any words right now. Hearing the names Quin, and Rochelle, and Chella come out of his mouth just… stuns me silent.
“You’re just a coward. Hiding up here with the ghost of games past. I actually talked her into giving you one more chance. Did you know that? God,” he says, grabbing his hair with both hands. “I’m such a fucking jerk. I let you hurt her. I will never forgive myself. Ever.”
And then he goes still and stops talking. I don’t know if he’s waiting for an answer from me, or he’s just run out of things to say. So I wait him out. Because I have nothing to say, either. I don’t even know what’s happening.
