by Lana Sky
But I still can’t move.
I can’t speak.
I just exist, trapped within a cocoon of pain.
I wish I could say that it is an awful way to feel—more than enough of a reason to never go back to Maxim Koslov. But the truth is…I’ve never felt more at peace.
Never.
Fear is a funny fucking thing. Three days without him is like someone spending the same amount of time wide awake. It’s fine at first—hypothetically speaking. You regain the energy your nightmares sucked out of you. You might even feel hopeful—maybe you won’t have them anymore. Maybe this is the start of something different.
A brand-new day.
A brand-new reality.
But as the hours wear on, each second steals a little more of your sanity away. The worries you can’t escape gnaw at your psyche like buzzing flies, growing louder and louder. Eating you up.
Money. Money. Money. Moneymoneymoneymoney.
You sing yourself that tired old lullaby, but the sleep doesn’t come. Your eyes stay open, seeing every goddamn thing with no shadows to block it out. You can only find snatches of peace again when you doze off, pinching yourself, cutting yourself. Slicing your inner thighs open for one taste of clarity.
But it never lasts no matter how desperately you chase it like an addict begging for a high. You even begin to crave it. The silence. The freedom. The fear. Suffering through a nightmare starts to look better and better in contrast to the thought of having to go another hour painfully aware.
Then finally, you nod off and the nightmare takes over, flickering around the edges of your conscience. It swallows you up before you even realize you’ve fallen asleep.
And you begin to understand that the only thing more terrifying than the monster you find lurking within it is the fact that…
You’ve missed it all along.
Because the fear feels more familiar than anything else.
A black car comes for me on the third day at the ass crack of dawn, right after the kids have left for school. I have a frying pan in my hand, in the middle of scraping burnt eggs out of it from Daisy’s attempt to cook breakfast.
The moment I happen to glance out the window, it falls out of my hand, landing over my left foot, and I can’t even cry out. I just move. It’s like my body’s on autopilot. I grab the suitcase waiting by the front door and snatch up the envelope sticking out of it for the first time. It’s heavy. I wind up shoving most of the cash into my stash with a note for Mikie to use it while I’m gone.
Before I head out, I make sure to slip the cell phone into my pocket, and I already have the front door open by the time Lucius mounts the top step leading to the porch.
“Ms. Marconi,” he says with a nod. “Ms. Koslov is ready for you, should you choose to return.” He pauses as if he’s waiting for something, not actually climbing the last step to reach me.
He expects me to say no.
But I say, “Yes.” My hands shake as I drag the suitcase behind me, close the door, and lock it.
Lucius only stops to take my suitcase from me and pack it into the trunk before ushering me into the back seat.
The driver takes off. My heart starts to beat again and the sleepy feeling that clouded my thoughts for three damn days eases up.
I wake up.
It’s a rude, violent return to awareness.
The first coherent thought to cross my brain is, What am I doing?
Far too soon, Maxim’s high-rise appears on the horizon before I can figure out an answer to that question. I’ll go with the safe option: money. That’s right. I’m here for the money. Nothing else. No one else. The money. Money, money, money, money.
“Ms. Marconi?”
The car’s stopped. Lucius is standing out on the curb, holding the door open for me. I swallow hard and follow him out before he can voice the question lingering in his eyes: Are you sure?
“You’ll meet him alone today,” he explains instead after retrieving my suitcase from the trunk and gingerly placing the handle in my grip. “His request.”
Something about that wording makes me flinch. It takes me a second to regain control of my body, but I’m still numb when I start forward, toward the main doors of the building. Somehow, I manage to pass through them without turning back. I reach the elevator the same way and ride it up. It comes to a stop way too soon, leaving me no choice but to cautiously approach the lone entrance at the end of the hallway.
My fingers curl into a fist, but I don’t even have to knock. I’m just inches away when it flies open to reveal the monster lurking behind it, his hair hanging loose to frame his face, his eyes darker than I remember.
“It’s you. Lucius didn’t say…” His mouth twists into that dangerous frown of confusion as he beckons me closer with a wave of his hand. “Strip.”
The fact that there is no one else around somehow makes the command seem more degrading. My heart starts to pound, hammering against my rib cage. To stall, I lean my suitcase against the wall and unbutton my jacket first, which I borrowed from Daisy. Before I have to wonder what to do with it, Maxim holds his hand out.
His fingers clench the fabric, bringing one of the sleeves to his nose. “This doesn’t belong to you,” he declares after a sharp inhale. Then he tosses it away, somewhere inside the suite. His eyes seize on my shirt next. It’s Melanie’s, tight and low-cut the way she likes. On me, it’s shapeless, and it doesn’t take much effort to slip it off, over my head.
Dark eyes track my every movement, and I shiver. Go fucking figure. Almost a year of fucking strangers should have hammered into my own psyche that I’m no delicate, innocent little flower. He does this to me, breaking every single wall I’ve built up simply by impatiently flexing his fingers. My teeth start to skewer my lower lip as I hand the shirt over, and he sniffs that item as well. Frowns. Tosses it.
“The rest,” he commands.
I strip down to nothing while he observes every piece of me. My pants next. My bra. My sneakers. Finally panties.
Those he inhales more than once, grinding the fabric between his fingers, growling at whatever he senses. Whatever he tastes. “These belong to you,” he tells me before bawling them into a fist and shoving them into his pocket. “Come.”
He steps aside and I follow him into the suite, shivering as he closes the door behind me.
The layout hasn’t changed. It’s just as dark. Just as cold. Just as perfectly clean as ever. Though on second thought, the couch is off-center by a hair. There’s a dent in the middle, so slight that no one would ever notice it. But I do.
“You’re shaking.” Warm fingers graze the length of my spine before fanning out along my collarbone. “Having your regrets already?”
I want to say yes. Regret. I need to feel that. It would be better than this. This ache. This itch I don’t know how to scratch.
One of my thumbs inches toward a cut on my wrist and rubs until the skin burns. The brief sting does nothing to clear my head, and Maxim frowns when I don’t answer.
“Are you that desperate to earn more money for yourself, kotyonok?” He cups my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
I nod. It’s the only thing I can do.
In response, he flashes that dangerous half-smile. “How much are you worth?”
We both already know the answer. After all, he said it himself.
“Sixteen thousand.” I have to drag the words out. It sounds like such a pathetic number when said out loud. Even Melanie would have a higher price tag. “Sixteen—”
“Enough.” His thumb presses down over my mouth, sealing my lips shut. “I will not fuck you tonight,” he tells me, easily switching topics as his eyes drift down my naked torso. “Not while you smell like—” He leans in and sniffs—a dangerous omen. I’m left paralyzed as his features quickly twist into that terrifying trifecta: narrowed eyes, crooked frown, and slightly clenched jaw. “This.”
It’s a sin in his world: smelling like burned eggs, and toast, and tears, and
crayon wax, along with Ainsley’s vomit from two nights ago when she ate too much pizza and threw up. Like life. Like reality. Free from him.
“I need to wash you,” he adds. It’s a lethal promise. A threat. One that tightens around my throat like a noose as he turns and heads down the hallway, commanding with his posture alone that I follow. He doesn’t lead me to the bathroom attached to my room, but into another I know instinctively to be his.
It’s bigger. The floors are granite, the walls polished wood. A massive bathtub is sunken into the center of the floor—the kind of thing Daisy would kill for, lined in black marble and adorned by silver fixtures that sparkle like knives.
“Get in.” He jerks his chin toward a series of steps built into the sides of the tub.
I reach the middle of it by the time he switches the water on and it pours in like a waterfall from a single faucet.
“Sit,” he snaps.
I do, tucking my calves beneath me so that I’m on my knees, facing his direction. A heartbeat later, warm water laps at my hips. Too warm. Scalding.
Maxim just watches as steam bubbles up and my skin turns red. It’s like I’m boiling alive, and it’s not even the temperature of the water that’s doing it. It’s the look in his eye. For a rare, brief moment, the man is an open book: He didn’t want me to come back. At the same time, he never really thought I would.
I guess he expected to train a new toy tonight, and that forces him to compile a new lesson for me on the fly. His thumb drifts up to stroke his chin as he thinks. After a second, he frowns—a bad fucking sign. Whatever he’s come up with could probably be summed up in one word: punishing.
Once the water reaches my stomach, he shuts it off and approaches my end of the tub, seemingly satisfied. Relief creeps into my muscles as he removes his boots and tosses them aside. His socks go next. Finally, he rolls each pant leg up to reveal the toned calves underneath and then enters the tub, sloshing water with every step.
“Give me your hands.”
My throat contracts with a frantic swallow. His voice… It’s too deep. Too soft. My brain has no input as my body reacts solely on instinct. I wrench my hands into the air, extending my arms toward him.
Slowly, his fingers entwine within his belt loops, working the strip of leather loose. I’m unprepared for just how roughly he wraps the length of it around my wrists. It’s like he wants me to feel every variation in the leather—every groove in the surface. My sick mind skips ahead, wondering which end would hurt more if he ever decided to use it like a whip.
The sad part? Something tells me he one day will.
“Keep them like that.” Grunting, he pulls the ends so tight that I lose sensation in the tips of my fingers as the leather bites in. But the physical pain doesn’t even come close to whatever I feel as I watch him cut a lazy path through the water to snatch a rag from a marble countertop.
When he returns, he snaps the length of it into the air to command my attention. Once. Twice. While I watch, he wets the end of it in the water and drags it along the tops of my shoulders, bathing me of everything that isn’t him.
“I’m disappointed,” he tells me once he sees the scabbed-over marks his teeth left on my breasts. The fingers of his other hand trace one of them, pressing down on the skin hard enough to make it bleed. “You heal too quickly.”
If only that were true. My skin feels nothing but raw as the rag travels to the worst of the injuries. Rubbing. Twisting. Ripping them open again until the draining water turns pink. Red. I’m already gagging on smothered cries when he lowers the rag, swiping my hip in scarlet, painting me with my own blood. Marking me as his.
Finally, the cloth slips from his fingers and splashes somewhere beside me. I almost think it’s over. That I’m clean enough to satisfy him. But he’s still frowning as he scans my torso.
“Open.” He curls his thumb against my lower lip, using it to pry both apart when I don’t obey fast enough.
One-handed, he undoes the clasp of his pants and slowly peels his boxers down like a magician in one of those TV shows building up to his final and most mind-fucking trick. Watching me like this—bleeding, bound—has made him harder than I’ve ever seen him. Or maybe it’s the fear he’s breathing in from my skin. The knowledge that I know, deep down, coming here, back to him, was wrong.
“I’ll make this quick,” he tells me, cradling my jaw in one of his massive hands.
I’m not sure why he warns me, though I brace myself anyway, and he doesn’t hold back, seeking out the tightness of my throat on the first thrust.
Four days of rest and silence weren’t enough to prepare me to take him. My throat closes up, my gag reflex going haywire with every forced inch of me he claims. His eyes glow brighter at the resistance, his touch harsher. Brutal fingers rake through my hair and gather chunks of it to control every bit of him I’m allowed to take—and how much I have to swallow.
All of it.
Too much. My nose starts to burn. He’s in too far. Too long. I can’t breathe, so I choke, feeling warm, salty wetness trickle from my nostrils before he finally tugs himself away, grunting with the effort.
“I told you not to lose a single drop,” he warns.
There’s no use in trying to explain. My body has become his tool. His weapon, betraying me just to get a rise out of him.
A literal rise. I don’t know how it’s even possible. Maybe he was never really finished after all. He’s still hard, straining, erect. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, even as both of his hands grip the base of his shaft. He tugs. Strokes. My face heats up as I turn away, staring down at the reddish water instead.
“No,” he growls. So I have no choice but to look up. Stare. Watch.
He handles himself roughly—almost as roughly as he handles me. He grinds his fingers along the underside before making long, brutal strokes with his fist. I jump as my pussy clenches in sympathy. Sympathy…
“This excites you. Watching me?” He makes it sound like a question, but there is no right answer.
Once again, I’ve confused him. I shake my head, and he frowns as his fingers slow their assault.
“Stand up.”
It takes me five tries to without slipping on the bottom of the tub. Once I’m on my feet, Maxim approaches slowly, still stroking his cock.
“Is that so?” His free hand reaches between my legs, tracing the outer rim of me along the damp, dripping skin. That’s the only reason why I’m wet down there—the water.
As if to prove me wrong, he curls a finger, stepping in closer, teasing my entrance with it. He’s almost gentle at first, grazing the skin in a featherlight sweep. I don’t even expect the moment he rams the entire digit in too deep. Too easily. God, I can feel his nails contrasting with the thicker shape of his knuckles. The sound he grits out into my ear as he feels me quiver beneath his touch? It’s inhuman.
The next second, my trembling knees are forced to support my weight alone as he steps back. I lose my balance and land sideways at the edge of the tub. My nose is in water, sucking in a lungful. I can’t even move before my hair is used like a leash: first to push me down, then to yank me upright and shove my body against the steps.
My vision clears and I find him hovering above me. The look in his eye issues the command he doesn’t say out loud. My legs spring apart as he palms his cock and grinds the tip through my pussy, rubbing me open.
“Wait.” I gasp at the air, struggling to form words. “I thought—”
One brutal thrust sends water sloshing around us. Warmth sears through my pussy, but nowhere near as deep as it should. I glance down and see why: he only managed to fit a fraction of himself inside me.
“You don’t think,” he tells me, lifting my hips from the water so he can ram in another inch, so hard that I see stars and shadow. White. Black. Yellow fucking fireworks. “You never think. Not while you are with me—”
Another thrust and my eyes roll back. I swear I can see the inside of my skull, my brains being whisked t
o mush.
“I think. You listen. You obey. You feel.”
Feel…
I wish he would just fuck me—I could survive that. I could keep my brain intact the way I have with any other man. Any other john. I knew how to save myself, just as long as I couldn’t feel.
But he’s on a mission to destroy me. Sex is a tool to him; he controls every touch, the same way he beats sculptures out of stone. The only difference is how he speaks with every battering thrust, growling the words in a language I don’t understand. Sentences. Phrases. God, they sound like promises. Brutal, lethal promises. And then he switches to English.
“…string you up. Make you regret. So tight,” he grits out in a throaty rasp. “Fuck, so fucking greedy. Too tight.” His thumb catches the top of me, rubbing, pinching.
Fuck. Sparks shoot through my body. My knees bend, inching closer to his waist, hugging him, sensing the ripples of every muscle as he drives himself in. In. In. Deep. Deeper. I can’t breathe. My body turns into a vise, wrapped around him, tightening.
“You’re coming,” Maxim hisses before biting my neck in punishment, drawing a noise from me I can’t classify. “Without permission.”
Thwack! The flat of his hand flies out to strike my hip so hard that sparks dance before my eyes. I’m going to bruise, and the added pain hijacks whatever reaction had started inside me. I grit my teeth against a scream. It’s too tense. Too hot.
“You will come when I say you can.” He wrenches himself out and flips me over, forcing me up onto my hands and knees.
In this position, he goes even deeper. Harder. The friction doesn’t just burn—it sets me on fucking fire. I inhale the flames, mindless and numb as my body explodes around me.
But he never lets me fall over the edge. Just when my thoughts start to clear, another slap stings my hip. My ass. A nip on my shoulder. A pinch. A deeper bite. He anticipates every hit of clarity my body seems to be chasing and slaps it away, further out of reach.
I’m on the edge. I can’t possibly feel any more swollen and greedy. But he pulls out right when my inner muscles start to spasm and drags me by my hair over to the sink.
