by Jasmin Quinn
She forgot her plan to stay impersonal with him as her own temper flared. “It’s a date. You must remember what that is. It’s where you take a girl out, maybe for dinner, maybe dancing, sometimes a movie. Take her home, kiss her goodnight, maybe come in for coffee, if she deems you worthy.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re not going.”
“I am going. It’s Saturday, no work tomorrow. I can do what I fucking please.” Her heart was jumping out of her chest. What the hell was wrong with her, swearing, mocking him? But she couldn’t back down now.
He stood frozen gazing at her. She could see that he was holding his anger inside. She sensed his internal struggle, wondered how it would play out for her if he lost the battle. She took a step back and tried to go around him, but he stepped in her path. It was ludicrous, a deadly dance in the hallway. One he was leading and she was going to get crushed.
Since she couldn’t get by him, she turned and stormed back down the hall, entering her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. She bolted it and paced away, her own fury flaming up. She felt like she was home in Turkey, under her father’s rule. Not allowed to do anything, not go out, not be independent. Not allowed to choose her husband. All her choices gone. She stood in the middle of the room, eyes roaming. Her brain was looking for a drink, something to help her cope, anything to help her cope. Her whole fucking life, under the rule of one man or another. She felt suffocated. Her father, her husband, Jackman and now Rusya.
She didn’t want the craving, she didn’t want the drink, but she did. She slammed her way into the bathroom, the big tub beckoning her. She flipped on the music, loud hard rock, then opened the tap and filled the tub as she stripped. She slipped into the embrace of the warm water and sank down, closing her eyes, clearing her mind. Thinking about nothing, for minutes, for almost an hour, until the tension left her. It was replaced by resolve. She was going on the fucking date.
She soaped and rinsed herself, left the tub, dressed carefully, did her hair, a little makeup, then went to find Janice and borrowed her car.
It was a mistake. The minute Esma walked into the restaurant she knew it. Janice’s cousin, Simon, was a good-looking man, mid-to-late 20s. More her age than Rusya. Tall enough, blond-haired, nice smile, good teeth. Fuck. Nothing, Esma felt nothing. She would have given anything to be attracted to this man, to have a little thrill of desire snake its way to the sweet spot between her legs. To find a man that called to her as Rusya did. But it wasn’t happening. Simon didn’t do it for her.
At dinner, she declined the offer of wine, ate a simple pasta dish, let Simon carry the conversation. After coffee, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m the world’s worst date.”
Simon flicked her a small rueful smile. “Well, my original date was my cousin. At least you’re not related to me.”
Esma laughed and felt better for it. “Maybe we could go see a movie or something… as friends, if you don’t mind.”
“Best offer I’ve had today.” He paid the bill, offered his arm and they left the restaurant. Esma spent most of the movie trying to talk herself out of having a drink. Then the entire drive back to the estate, talking herself out of pulling into a bar. She wasn’t going to make it. She couldn’t, the pressure was too much. She was going to crack. She wished she could go to Anto and Marisol, but that was too risky for them. Drinking was too risky for all of them.
What the fuck was Jackman thinking?
She left Janice’s car in the drive, let herself into the house and made her way up to her room without encountering anyone. She was thankful for that. She needed alone time to process things, to not have a drink. She wandered the room, touching the objects that were there, not hers, but pretty little things meant to be feminine touches, she supposed. This practice settled her mind, drew her thoughts from the turmoil. Most of the time, but not tonight.
She sighed, fingered the buttons on her blouse, undoing them. Sleep, if she could manage it, might help. Her next thoughts were disturbed by a soft knock at the door, startling her. Three weeks in and only Astrid, her housekeeper in the morning had knocked on her door. And Janice. It was late, after midnight and it didn’t take a genius to know who was in the hall. It could only be one person and she was in his house. She debated ignoring it, pretending she hadn’t heard it, but if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t want to. The evening with Simon had been a bust because of Rusya. Maybe they needed to confront what was going on between them. Maybe now was the time. She held her open shirt together with her hand as she opened the door.
“Rusya.”
He was dressed in pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips. No shirt and his strong corded muscles sucked the breath from her. He was angry, his dark eyes roving over her. “I’d like to come in.”
Her body reacted to him, but so did her mind. The anger on his face, the hard set to his jawline made her hesitate, made her wonder if she should deny him, but then she stepped back, held the door further open. Closed it behind him as he stepped into the room. His eyes slid over her, running up her length, and she thought he was searching for signs of what she may have been doing. Like she had, when he arrived late that morning, after his night out.
“Where’ve you been?” He stood solid in front of her, his arms rippled his power, his chest, his strong stomach. An awareness crept over her at the tension between them. Even the sauna was not as intimate as her bedroom. Even with her clothed.
She blew out a small breath, trying to settle her beating heart as she looked up at him. How should she answer? On one hand, it was none of his business, his exact words to her on his night out. But, on the other hand, he was Rusya Savisin and everything in his household was his business. “You know where. I was out.”
“With whom?”
She tried to appear blithe, tried to make it seem insignificant as she shrugged carelessly, dismissively. She turned her back to him and kicked off her shoes, kicking them towards a chair. It was contrived, she didn’t feel at all casual. “Just a guy.”
He was on her then, surprising her as his hands banded around her biceps and he yanked her backward against her chest. She had no time to react as his fingers splayed across her throat, his other arm sliding inside her shirt, dropping across her stomach, holding her to him, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Did you fuck him?” The fierceness in his tone implied that only one answer would keep him from savaging her.
His aggression slammed at her senses. Shock, fear. Longing. The memory of a week ago, his hands on her neck then, the power as he picked her up and threw her from him. She could smell him, freshly showered, but also the scent of his desire, his maleness. She forgot that her shirt was open, brought her hands up to the one on her throat. Tears jumped in her eyes.
“No!” She tried to struggle out of his grasp, but he tightened his grip.
“Take off your skirt.” His voice was a growl as he spoke into her ear.
She froze in the moment, her fingers tugging futilely at his hand. “Rusya, please.”
“Take off your fucking skirt!”
She was shaking now, the trembling touching every muscle in her body, making her fingers clumsy as she reached around to the back of her skirt. Her hands grazed the hardness of his stomach, her waist pressed against the hardness of his cock. She fumbled the button open, slid the zipper down and let the skirt fall to her feet. His warm breath dropped on her ear as he moved his hand from her neck to her shoulder, used both hands to pull her shirt down her arms, then forced her wrists together behind her back restraining them with her shirt, knotting it tightly.
Esma struggled as he did this. Rusya was tying her up, making her helpless. Her fear assaulted her and she protested. “Rusya, No!” Her stomach churned, the pasta she ate earlier threatening to make an untidy comeback. “What are you doing?”
He slid his hands up her arms, settling on her biceps, circling them with hard fingers. “Finishing what I started.”
He turned her, stepped back. His eyes roved over
her, lingering on her underwear, the matching set of barely-there lace that gave definition to her breasts, that settled under her belly, hugging low on her hips. Virginal white against her skin. She trembled under his scrutiny, trying to find her courage, trying to dig deep to resurrect drunk Esma. But she couldn’t find that woman without a bottle and sober, she couldn’t escape how small and vulnerable she felt. Her hands restrained behind her back and her words gone. All of them. She didn’t know if he was going to kill her or fuck her.
He exhaled a shaky breath as he brought a hand to her breast, ran it over the mound, squeezing it through the fabric of her bra, making her heart speed up, sending a steak of lightening racing through her body. But his eyes were on her face, watching her heat rise as he fondled her, seeing her fear as he reached around and unhooked the bra, then pulled it up over her head and slid it down her arms to her restrained wrists, out of his way.
He turned her, pulled her back to the hard muscles of his chest, held her as he ran a hand over the front of her thighs, caressing the silky thigh highs on her legs, before gliding past her pussy, over her stomach to her chest. A moan escaped her lips as he took her breasts in his hands, touching them, tweaking her nipples.
“This is very nice lingerie for a date you didn’t fuck.” He pinched her nipples roughly, punishing.
Esma flinched from the pain, felt it streak its way to her pussy, felt the wetness between her thighs. “I didn’t wear them for him.” Her voice held a note of anger, a little spark to keep her from falling completely apart and he flipped her around so she was facing him, so she could see the darkness of his eyes, the hard angles of his face.
“Explain,” he demanded.
“No.” She didn’t want to admit what he already knew. She would lose herself if she did.
“No? Why Esma? Don’t fuck around with me.” His hand forced the answer from her as it stole inside her panties and caressed her, a finger teasing her wet vagina, then pulling the wetness up to her clit, stroking it. His breathing deepened, the flush of desire creeping up his chest to his neck and face as he pinned her with his eyes.
“I wear them for you,” she gasped, fighting against the binds, wanting to touch him back. “But you don’t notice.”
He pulled her closely, his lips pressed into her ear, his free hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her into his chest. He plunged a finger into her, and her breath broke at the intrusion. “I notice.”
She cried as he shoved a second finger into her, forcing her legs open, forcing a stab of pain as he thrust out, then back in. She struggled to free her hands. “You’re hurting me!”
Her words gentled his strokes, but didn’t stop him, and he held her steady, his thumb on her clit as he curled his fingers inside her, rubbing her, sending a shock of pleasure through her that almost buckled her knees. He saw it in her face as his eyes narrowed, as he kept up his petting until she thought she might come, until she closed her eyes to him.
Then he stopped, slid his fingers out as he dropped his face to the cradle of her neck and deeply breathed her in. A moment, maybe two as they stood motionless, he, inhaling her scent, and she, trying to regain her senses. When he raised his head, she saw decision, resolve in his face. He pulled her over to the edge of the bed, where he sat. Hands on her elbows, forcing her to her knees in front of him, submissive, no choice as he pulled his hard cock from his pyjama pants and guided it to her lips.
She huffed a little breath, to steady herself and it landed on him, on the crown of his penis, making it jerk, grow bigger. It fucked with her head, the size, the hardness, his need of her so apparent and she pressed her thighs together, squeezing her pussy, holding on to her want of him. This was Rusya, she thought as ran her tongue over her lips and took his cock between them. That thought made it different than all the times before, then a chore, sometimes a punishment, a thing to do to get it over with. But now, with Rusya, it made her wet with wanting, greedy lust rising in her.
She heard his groan as she stroked him with her mouth. Felt his hands tighten as he held the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair, as he pushed into her mouth, forcing her to take him deep. She sucked him as he thrust, sliding her mouth down his length, using her tongue like an artist’s brush. Her tied wrists prevented her from controlling the pace or the amount of length she took, but Rusya kept a hand on the shaft, stopping himself from going too deep, keeping her from choking. In control. Always in control, even as his breathing deepened, became more uneven. She thought he would come, but he stopped her, pulled her to her feet, then dragged her panties down her legs to her feet.
Breathless, “Step out.”
Esma did and almost before she had them off her feet, he pulled her up, forcing her to straddle him, knees on the bed, on each side of his thighs as he slid her down onto his cock. So large, so hard. Pushing against her tight opening, against the walls of her vagina, bottoming out against her womb. Impaling her. She felt the pain of the stretch, little cramps down her thighs as she opened herself to him, pelvis splayed across his groin. His hands moved to her biceps, holding them hard, pushing them back, forcing them toward each other, forcing her chest to jut as he moved her on him.
“Please,” Esma cried.
She didn’t know why, except she did. He was taking her, not letting her decide, not asking. She wanted to fight him, but she also wanted to embrace him. Everything she thought about this man, everything she wanted was razing through her. The need, the lust. To use her hands, to wrap her arms around him, and she writhed against his hold, against the restraints on her wrists.
Her struggle inflamed him as his fingers bit into her arms, as he held her from him, his eyes burning into hers as he forced her to ride him, forcing her passion. Driving her up until she was keening, crying his name. Fighting his dominance of her, his hold over her, his desire for her. Then her orgasm blew through her, so strong it levelled her, rattled her, her body bucking, trying to make it last, trying to hold on to it. And as she cried his name, as she shuddered, Rusya’s thrusts sped up, his groans louder, more guttural and then his hands brutally banded around her arms as he came. His hold didn’t slacken as he closed his eyes and let the pleasure of his orgasm wash through him. As he thrust into her until he was spent.
Esma tried to stop the trembling that flowed through her as her orgasm ebbed. Watching him as he came, wanting him to pull her to him, put his arms around her, hold her. He opened his eyes, not focused on her, but to a point across the room. Emotions on his face, now, of wonder, satisfaction, warmth, but he said nothing, no words as he slipped out of her, stood her on her feet, steadied her, then let her go. He held her eyes as he tucked himself into his pants. Then he turned her away from him, untied her shirt from her wrists and left. The door whispered shut as Esma fell to her knees. Shaking, hollow, lost, bewildered.
Fucking prick.
Chapter 18
Esma hovered outside Rusya’s office, her palms smoothing her skirt as she worked up the courage to open the door. Yesterday, in the morning, after a restless night, an exhausting sleep, she sought him out, only to be told by Janice that he was at the country estate.
“He’s not here?” Esma was in shock. The fucking bastard decided the best way to deal with her was to put distance between them. She thought she should go out to his country estate, pulverize him with her fists. She asked Janice where it was, but the fucking woman wouldn’t say, instead told her no. Unless Esma was invited, she could not go.
But Janice didn’t know what happened and Esma wasn’t about to tell her. Since she couldn’t beat Rusya, she did the next best thing. She worked out in the gym, swam until she was exhausted, then went for a run around the perimeter of the estate. Fuck Rusya’s men and fuck his dogs. She hoped one would accost her. It would be an adequate punching bag until Rusya returned.
But no one said anything, not even Eduard, who stood on the front step and watched. Too bad. She would have loved to punch his lights out.
Now it was Monday, the s
tart of a new work week and she had to face him after what he did to her. What she let him do. She didn’t fight him. Why didn’t she fight him? How could she have fought him? Her hands had been restrained. And the thought of his dominance flooded her, making her legs shaky as she felt the dampness between her thighs. She loathed herself in that moment for being so weak.
She reached out, twisted the door knob with her fingers, took a couple of deep breaths and pushed the door open. He was there, looking perfect, showered and shaved, immaculate in his suit and tie, his expensive buffed shoes. Standing by the window, hands in his pockets. His eyes mapped her as she entered, his expression dark and guarded. She shook under his scrutiny.
All the things she thought she was going to say, everything she’d rehearsed the day before flew out of her head. There was only one thing to do, only one way she knew how to handle her feelings. She stalked up to him, raised her hand and slapped him, as hard as she could. What the hell. He was going to eventually kill her anyway. She may as lose her life over something justified.
It shocked him and he grabbed her arm as he yanked her to him, hard against his firm body. “Are you fucking out of your mind?”
She struggled, tried to loosen her arm from his grip. “You are a complete and utter prick!”
“Stop!”
But she didn’t. Instead she deep-dived in. Got straight to the heart of the problem. “Why, Rusya? What are you going to do? Kill me?”
He froze, dropped her arm, gave her a little shove back. “Don’t push me, Esma.”
He turned from her and strode to the bar, gaining some distance. Just for a moment, then faced her. “What the fuck is going on?”
What the fuck is going on? He couldn’t possibly be that obtuse? Esma held her words for a few seconds as she crossed her arms across her chest, thought how to say what she needed to say, then decided there was only one way to say it. She channeled drunk Esma and snarled, “Your little fuck on Saturday is what’s going on. I’m not your whore, Rusya. That’s not the way I roll.”
