by Lily Harlem
Chapter Five
My stagger home was fretful and undignified. I could barely see for the tears in my eyes, and pain sliced through my ankle with each limping step. But adrenaline sparked me on, past a blur of faces scurrying on the dark sidewalk. Everyone stared straight ahead, uninterested in a messed-up whore.
Before I knew it I was stumbling into my building, heart thudding, and riding the fortunately empty elevator. I fell into my apartment and froze for several long seconds, expecting someone to jump out of the darkness and wrap their hands around my throat.
They didn’t.
Quickly I kicked off my heels and hobbled around, pulling curtains and turning on lights. Four times I checked the front door was securely bolted and locked. I chased a neat gin with another neat gin then wrenched on the shower.
Standing beneath the piping-hot water, I let it rain down on my face. A medley of images from the evening bombarded me. I was stripping in his grubby room and having my tits sucked. I was gorging on his cock then rubbing cum into the word WHORE on my chest.
I sponged between my legs and realized how bruised and hot my pussy was. I could still feel his huge cock shunting in and dragging me to a sublimely carnal orgasm. An image of the porn film flooded my mind; a tight, wrinkled rosebud of an anus being breached by a glossy black dick. Hesitantly I touched my own hole—it too was tender and stung like a bee when I clenched it. The remembered sensation of fullness had my knees weakening and my breath coming short. I reached for the shower gel, soaped up a washcloth and wiped it over my chest, scrubbing and scratching at the ink. The “W” faded quickly, the other letters more stubborn. I didn’t rub energetically for my skin was scratched and red, the deep purple hickies evidence of Jovica’s lascivious claim on me for the hour that I was his whore.
Except it wasn’t just that hour. He’d left a mark on my body that would last for days.
He’d left a mark in my mind forever.
* * * * *
After a night of little sleep, I eventually drifted into a fitful slumber and woke at noon. It was Sunday. I had no plans, so after taking medication for my twisted ankle, slipped into a pale-cream pair of sweats and a gray cashmere sweater. I tied my hair back and applied a sweep of moisturizer to my cheeks and a slick of balm to my lips. I wrapped an exquisite silk scarf from India around my neck, enjoying the sheerness of the soft material on skin mottled with bruises.
Glancing in the mirror, I paused. Apart from the circles beneath my eyes I looked like an all-American girl—pretty and wholesome. Who would have guessed that my chest still read HORE and was bitten black and blue, or that my two intimate orifices were swollen and delicate and my throat ached from my brush with strangulation?
I drank coffee and sifted through my emotions. My evening as a sexual object had been as wonderful as it had been terrifying, as satisfying as it was distressing. The pendulum of acute excitement and breakneck terror was a dizzying ride every time I thought of it.
I moved to the window and glanced down at the park. Habit.
My heart picked up, my breath caught. There he was, sitting on the bench reading a paper and smoking a roll-up.
Gripping my mug, I shifted the net curtain so I could get a better view. He looked like he had every other time I’d seen him. Dark, shifty, dangerous. Except now things were very different. Now I also knew his smell, his taste, the feel of his cock inside my mouth and cunt and ass. I also had firsthand experience of his volatile strength and the terror he could induce when he decided to.
Movement in the window opposite caught my attention.
The old lady was looking down at the park too, her gray hair in curlers, and she still wore her dressing gown.
I gulped on my coffee and wondered if it was too early for a gin. Probably. I looked back down at the park.
Someone was approaching him. Another man. He wore a short black leather jacket and a baseball cap. Jovica looked up, flicked away his cigarette then stood, feet wide, back tense, head ducked slightly.
The man moved in close and Jovica glanced over his shoulders. Something was passed between them. Jovica shoved whatever it was into the front pocket of his jacket.
I’d seen this type of exchange before. They were quick, and Jovica’s body language fizzed with tension.
I sipped my coffee again. Soon Jovica would leave the park. He usually did after he’d met someone.
Suddenly the shorter guy stepped back, pulled a gun from his inside pocket and aimed it at Jovica’s chest.
I stared down unblinking. Oh my God. What the hell was happening?
Jovica reached inside his own jacket.
Out of the bushes, several more men appeared, all holding guns and dressed from head-to-foot in black. Other park users scattered as the new men circled and closed in on Jovica.
I’d lived in New York long enough to know they were cops.
Jovica was being arrested.
Several frantic shouts filtered up through the warm air to my apartment. Jovica was raising his hands and falling to his knees. Elbows outstretched, head hanging low.
He was outnumbered. He surrendered quickly.
One cop, directly behind Jovica, kicked him in the center of his back. Jovica’s body snapped forward, instinct causing him to place his hands out in front as he fell. Quickly the man in the baseball cap leapt over him. Dragged his arms behind his back and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. Jovica’s face was twisted to the side on the ground, his big boots spread sideways at odd angles.
After a few seconds, Jovica was dragged to his feet and pulled beneath the canopy of trees and out of view.
The other cops followed, weapons reholstered.
It had all happened so fast. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. My head spun with this new development and I looked at the old lady. She too was staring down, her eyes wide as she touched a cross hanging at her neck.
It was over. He was gone.
* * * * *
Jovica’s arrest was a strange finish to my time as a whore, and I now knew that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I would never do it again. Fabulously exciting as it had been to fulfill my fantasy, the terror of being strangled in the pursuit of kink had brought me to my senses.
It just wasn’t worth it.
Even so, over the next few days I scanned the papers, looking for information on Jovica’s arrest. Any snippet would help find a box to lock away those erotic and reckless few days of my life.
I’d given up on finding anything when I came across a small, pictureless column three-quarters of the way through the New York Evening Standard.
Serbian-born Dimitri Slavodob, also known as Jovica Trent and Borko Dejan, was detained by the NYPD in Lower East Side on Sunday. Detective Carl Rutter gave this statement, “We’d been watching Slavodob for some time and gathering evidence. Not only is he an illegal immigrant he was also a pivotal link in the trade of prohibited arms. His arrest has taken not just a dangerous criminal off the streets but also a stash of deadly weaponry favored by mercenaries.”
Dangerous criminal. Prohibited arms. My mind whirred with these new facts. So that was what he’d meant when he said he liked that name. He had others.
I thought of the metal boxes in his room, headed to the kitchen and poured myself a gin. Was that what they’d held, deadly weapons?
Knocking back the sharp drink and pouring another, I suppressed a shudder. Jovica had told me he was not a nice guy. He’d been right. Trading illegal guns to the underworld was a noxious profession. I didn’t dare think of the connections he had, or who some of the other men were that he’d met.
I touched my throat and slid my hand down my sternum. The letters he’d marked me with were completely gone. The bruises and hickies had faded and were barely visible. Tomorrow I wouldn’t need to wear a neck scarf to work.
With a sigh, I dropped the paper in the trash and drew my curtains. I didn’t glance down at the park. I didn’t need to. My obsession was in the past now, my curios
ity satisfied, my carnal needs met.
Thank goodness.
Suddenly my cell trilled to life and I glanced at the screen. It was Richard from work. He was one of three new ophthalmic surgeons at Bellevue. He was good-looking, charming and always paused to chat. Yesterday he’d asked for my number, said something about a swanky new uptown restaurant and asked if I’d like to go.
Jovica’s words rang in my ears. Go find yourself one of the good guys to play with.
Perhaps I would take his advice.
About Lily Harlem
Lily Harlem is a multi-published, award winning author of contemporary erotic romance. She lives in the UK with her husband and a bunch of animals, all rescued, and loves to spend her days immersed in imagination.
Her books are a mixture of full length novels and short stories, some are one offs, some are sequels or part of a series (all can be enjoyed as stand-alone reads). What they each have in common are colourful characters travelling on everyone’s favourite journey — falling in love. If the story isn’t deliciously romantic and down and dirty sexy, it won’t be written, at least not by Lily. So with the bedroom door left well and truly open you are warned to hang on for a steamy, sensual ride - or rides as the case might be!
Lily welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Lily Harlem
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Hot Ice 4: Teamwork
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Print Books by Lily Harlem
Hot Ice 1: Hired
Hot Ice 2: Cross-Checked
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Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Dangerous to Know
ISBN 9781419941368
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dangerous to Know Copyright © 2013 Lily Harlem
Edited by Jillian Bell
Cover design by Syneca
Photo: Vishstudios/Shutterstock.com
Electronic book publication February 2013
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Table of Contents
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