by Rose Harper
Furrowing my brows, I worry my bottom lip. “Uncaged. I feel—”
“Something tells me you hate that feeling, bella.”
“You have no idea” I whisper, a stoic expression on my face. “It feels like I’m someone else entirely.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes. I feel like it is.”
He smiles, but yet again, nothing; not even the first stirs of excitement I would usually get by ensnaring the attention of a man such as him. There’s nothing but that fucking shit I’m beginning to hate. I feel joy, sadness, worry, terror—all the things I can’t decipher.
“Do you know what happened?” Cocking my head to the side, I regard him with a critical eye.
He seems to think about something for a moment, running his fingers through his jet-black hair, before rolling his finger over his top lip. He’s battling with something inside him, that’s easy to tell. But, what? I wish I could remember what happened to make me feel like this, but the only thing I can remember is mud, water, and having a visceral notion of repeating something over and over until I couldn’t breathe. Everything in-between is blank like my entire emotional slate’s been wiped clean.
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Can you tell me?”
Shaking his head, he replies, “I don’t think that’s the best thing for you right now.”
How would he know what’s best for me? I don’t even remember who the fuck I am. I know I have parents, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve been ripped away from them to somewhere I can’t explain. I have a feeling that joy, happiness, sadness, and worry are emotions that I should not be feeling. Only, I have no idea why. Wouldn’t a person want to feel all of that? To muddle through their day and feel as if each moment were their last and not to take it for granted.
“But I would like to try something.”
I reply, whispering, “Okay.”
I watch silently as he hesitantly takes a gold handled pocket knife from his slacks, his chest rising and falling heavily. Flipping it open, I never say anything as he jerks the covers off me. I don’t even react to him seeing me naked.
Wait, what? Did someone undress me, or did I forget?
“Um, where are my clothes?” I chance, biting my lip.
“I took them off,” he says, never once offering an apology. What if I didn’t want him to see me that way? The embarrassment clouding my thoughts leads me to believe I should care, but I find that I don’t. The caged part of me seems to be battling with the uncaged, trying to see who will come out the victor. But still, people are supposed to apologize for shit like that, aren’t they?
“You going to apologize? Come up with an excuse why I shouldn’t be mad at you?”
“No. To be honest, I couldn’t care less if you were mad. You were wet; you needed out of them. Period.” Ah, I can feel the door of my cage sliding shut a little more with his crassness. It feels heavenly.
“Okay. Well, can you tell me how long I’ve been here?”
“Just a little over two weeks,” he answers, coming closer.
Surprise envelopes me as I stare back at him, never once seeing him waver. I wish I could remember how I got here. Maybe if I could, I wouldn’t feel so desolate.
Closing my eyes, I try my hardest to remember the events of last week before my body shut down on me. Sifting through my tumultuous thoughts, I find it hard to sort through the hazy memories. Something terrible must have happened to make me the way I am now, but for the life of me, I can’t get the memories to clear, the fog to dissipate. A part of my mind doesn’t want to remember what caused my outlook to flip, but whatever it was must have been completely soul-sucking.
Sighing, I reopen my eyes and pin him with a blank stare. “You may commence with your little study.”
Cocking a brow, he stares down at me, lips thinning. “You’re a strange individual. You know that?”
Shrugging, I reply, “Not strange. Just don’t remember. There’s a difference.”
Nodding as if he agrees with my observation, he clears his throat and advances toward me. Something screams inside me I should fear him holding a knife this close to me, but somehow, another part of me beats it into submission.
“This may hurt,” he says, more to himself than me. I merely shrug. What else am I supposed to do? I can’t bring myself to care. I know knives are dangerous, I’m not ignorant. But something tells me this isn’t going to be an uncomfortable experience, but a freeing one.
The moment he places the blade against the flesh of my thigh, putting pressure on the tip, a pleasure I know and love assaults me, wringing a groan from deep within my chest. My eyes flick down in amazement as blood wells around the alloy steel, already wishing he would do it again.
“That felt …” He pressed harder, and my voice trails off as more blood runs down my leg. A sharp sting has my back arching off the bed, a deep-seated moan heaving from deep within me. I clutch the sheets in my hands, almost shredding it with my nails. The prick in my arm intensifies until something pulls free, leaving behind wetness coating my arm. “Oh, God! Shit, shit, shit … Mmm, more! Please, more!”
“Shit,” he groans low in this throat. When he takes the blade away from my skin, the sting that ensues still has me on a high I’ve never felt before. A high I want to continue over and over again.
“More,” I choke out, writhing.
I wish he would give me more. More of what I know and love.
MATEO
That’s the hottest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my life. The blade, her—the blood. Just the sight causes an ache so fierce to catch me in the gut. I want more. Need more. I need to make her bleed. Force her to feel everything I have to give her, then push her to take more. Her desire for pain is awakening a part of myself I swore I would keep locked away. It’s something the doctor and I spoke about, but I never knew the fierce need that would blindside me from a mere prick of a knife on the top of her leg.
As if some unknown force is directing me, I press the blade to her other thigh. I only stab the tip deep enough into her skin to draw blood, but it still gets the desired effect. It seems enough to send her closer to an edge I’m not too sure either one of us are ready to tumble over. But fuck me, if I can’t stop. It’s too delicious of a reaction I’m pulling from her to even fathom.
“Fuck! Please, please, please,” she cries out, squeezing her legs together.
Within the blink of an eye, her pleas of more have me dropping the knife on the floor and covering her naked body with mine. Crushing my lips to hers, I suck her bottom lip between my teeth roughly, biting until I taste a hint of her sweet blood. Instead of turning her off, like it would most, it seems to excite her more. She runs her tongue along mine, tasting her sweet nectar, moaning as her efforts double. Her nails claw at my back, shredding my shirt. Her legs wrap around my waist, grinding her core against my aching cock.
She’s on fucking fire, and it only drives my need for her through the roof.
“We should stop,” I whisper, breaking our kiss, panting.
“If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
“You are weak.”
Shaking her head, she peppers kisses along my lips, searching for something unknown. “Not too weak for this … please.”
She didn’t need to say anymore. Just the word “please” falling off her lips like a whispered prayer is enough to do me in. Crashing my lips against hers, we’re nothing more than animals as we attack each other, both giving as much as we take. Ripping her up from the bed, my hand tunnels in her tangled hair, fisting it as my arm wraps around her like a vise. Wrapping her legs around me, she grows more aggressive as she dry humps my lap, stroking me so hot I can barely catch my breath.
Breaking the kiss, I nip and suck down her neck, growling against her heated skin as her fingers grip the strands of my hair and force me tighter against her. Allowing the desire to pump through my veins at full velocity, I bite down on the cord of her neck, sating myself a little mor
e at the entrenched pant that escapes her plump lips. It nags at the back of my mind that I shouldn’t be doing this. She’s been in a fucking coma for two weeks, but with each caress of her hands and roll of her hips, all rational thoughts leave me.
“Mm, I’m going to fuck you so hard.” Grabbing her hip, I force her to grind against me harder. Every fragment of my being is roaring to take her fast, rough. Mark her creamy flesh with bruises until we’re both sated.
I won’t be able to stop until she’s under me, crying out in pleasure.
A commotion in the hallway draws my attention as I break away from her skin. The door flies open, cracking the drywall behind it, instantly making me curse. “If you don’t want to die, you’ll tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Boss, we have a problem.”
“What is it?” I ask. Carina bends my face down and draws her teeth along my jawline. Groaning, my hold on her hips tighten. “Fuck.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” she whispers, taking the shell of my ear into her mouth, sucking.
A throat clearing has me whipping my head around, staring daggers at the person who clearly wants to die. “Fucking hell. What the hell is it, Domino?”
“It’s Camille.”
7
CARINA
I snap my mouth shut and stiffen in his arms. Mateo notices immediately, his head swinging back toward me, eyes narrowing.
“What about her?”
“She’s demanding your presence” is all he says, earning a groan from me.
“Dom, deal with it. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”
“Fuck,” Dom grunts. “That’s not going to help the situation. It’s one of her … episodes.”
“Goddammit.” Mateo sighs, hesitantly dropping me back to the bed. Disentangling himself from me, he slides off the mattress, tossing the duvet back on top of my naked body. He bends down and I know he’s going to try to explain himself, but it’s too late; my body is stiff, and his excuses won’t work with me.
He searches my eyes, looking for something he’s clearly not seeing when his lips turn down at the sides. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
I smile sweetly, never once meaning it. If he can drop me just like that simply because some woman named Camille is having problems, then no matter what pleasure he evokes in me, he isn’t worth it. I’d rather be the most emotion driven bitch you’ve ever met than pining for a man’s attention. Especially, since it’s clear I’m not the only woman here who gets the luxury of being with him.
“Sure.”
Giving me one last hard look, he turns away from me and all but runs out the door. My fake smile instantly melts into a scowl. It’s not the fact I care he ran off to some other woman. It’s the fact he ran off with his tail between his legs just because the man named Dom said some Camille bitch needed him; like she’s a fucking child or something. I’ve only just met this man, but I’m fucking covetous. Something screams inside me that he belongs to me; that this Camille woman is stepping on my territory. I’m the only woman he needs to chase demons for. I’m the only one he should pay attention to.
My eyes draw back toward the door, seeing Dom still standing there. He gives my duvet covered body a once over before bringing his lustful eyes back up to mine. Cocking my head to the side, I fist a handful of the quilts, giving them a good tug. If Mateo’s going to run off to the trash, then that’s not going to stop me from getting this man to do what I want. His gaze doesn’t do it quite like Mateo’s does, and I have a feeling his touch won’t either, but it will have to do in a pinch.
The heavy sound of my covering hitting the floor has a mischievous smirk pulling at my lips. Unable to help himself, his eyes eat me up from head to toe, causing delicious goosebumps to pebble my skin as my nipples harden once more. It’s then I notice the pain he relays in his eyes, and it’s like a fuse straight to my clit.
“Like what you see?” I purr.
“You have no idea.” His rich baritone voice does nothing for me. I know it sounds sexy, but the only thing that keeps my attention is the pain that seems to be eating him alive through the glimmer in his eyes.
“Then do something about it.”
“No can do, babe.”
“What? Why?” I ask, confusion lacing my tone.
He turns to me fully, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. “You’ve been through a lot. That’s why you don’t seem to care who you have in your bed. The part of your brain that houses your humanity is broken, unrepairable. So, unfortunately, a lot of things that would usually irk you aren’t. Things that would hurt other people, you seem to derive pleasure from, but …”
He clearly has no idea who I am. Hell, I don’t even know who I am, but I know it’s not what he thinks. I’m different; much different than any woman he’s ever met. I’m cold, heartless, bound by my own visceral need to conquer those around me. Shifting slightly, memories threaten to claw their way to the surface. Something tells me it wouldn’t be a terrible thing if I did remember what happened and why I am the way I am. However, a smaller part of me is terrified of what I might find when that mission is over.
“But?” I whisper.
“Eventually, whatever you do or don’t do is going to catch up with you. When you finally break that barrier down, allowing all those other emotions to seep through, you’re going to crumble. The longer you keep them compartmentalized, the worse it’s going to be when you finally implode.”
“Is that all?” I ask, unfazed by his threats.
“There is one other thing,” he finishes with a soft smile.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t belong to me.”
Without another word, Dom turns away from me and slips out the door, closing it with a heavy thud. I’m left speechless. No man turns down an easy lay, I don’t care who they are. But it appears that whoever I belong to is someone he doesn’t want to mess with, or he’d already be up in this right now. And I’ll be honest, the man looks like he knows how to work it and I’d love every minute of it.
Brushing off his rejection, I slowly shift, allowing my eyes to scan the room. A sitting area with an overstuffed chair sets adjacent to the windows, with a complementary sofa, a small fireplace in the wall surrounded by onyx-colored marble tiles, and a cozy table for two with a crystal vase of fresh daisies and two wingback chairs sit just beside it. The intimacy of the table seems out of place with the rest of the room, but I don’t take the time to focus on it.
Furrowing my brow, I start noticing there are things distinctly missing from an otherwise normal bedroom. No dressers or any other furniture are to be seen. I know it’s a bedroom, and anyone else to stay here would as well—but to an outsider, it would seem it lacks the necessary equipment to be labeled as anything more than a study with a four-poster bed situated directly in the middle.
Looking around the perimeter of the room, I spy beautiful white woodwork; built-in bookcases, shelves, and only three doors. The one farthest from my bed appears solid, firm, and iron clad. It looks as if it can stand up against a military tank demanding entry. I didn’t hear any locking mechanism engage when Dom shut the door; so, to me, it appears I’m allowed free rein of this place, but no doubt with some very strict limitations.
Shifting slightly, I realize the slightest movement makes my body throb in protest; especially, my scalp. Reaching up, I run my fingers through my hair, wincing as I trail my fingers over a few tender places coated with a thick, hard substance. Scraping some under my fingers, I pull it away from my head to get a good look. It’s dark, almost black—somewhat reminding me of dried blood. Quickly sifting my fingers through the strands once more, I gasp, finding multiple patches of hair missing, as if they’ve been pulled away. It’s confusing, maddening because I want so much to remember what happened to me.
Slipping out from beneath the covers, my feet come to rest on the floor. The luxurious carpeting envelopes my feet, but it can’t stop t
he ache that intensifies as my legs take more of my body weight. I’ve clearly been through the wringer, but right now, I can’t bring myself to care, not even an ounce.
Wrapping a sheet around my body, I walk toward the farthest door. The doorknob is one of those ornate knobs that remind you of high priced hotels with intricate designs melded into the center, giving it a classic charm. Anxiety causes my hand to tremble as I slowly reach for the cold metal, feeling its wintry temperature bite on the palm of my hand. Opening it reveals a closet, one the size of most bedrooms. It can more accurately be described as a dressing room with built-in drawers, shoe racks, and shelves.
Surprisingly, it’s full of priceless clothing, and the racks are filled to the brim with heels ranging from three to five inches in height. Everything I would ever need seemed to be within its four walls. Only, none of it is appealing to me. I’m not the type of person to fawn over precious clothing that cost more than the average person’s home. Give me a pair of jeans and a soft sweater any day of the week, and I’m happy.
Opening the next door, I sigh in relief. Stepping into a bathroom, the only way I can begin to describe it is that it’s from one of those infomercials I’ve snuck down to see my mother watch late at night. Everything seems to be either black marble, burgundy walls, or sleek silver. The coolness of the tiles hit the soles of my bare feet as I take a hesitant step forward. Onyx marble, onyx porcelain, silver accents, and glass surround me.
The only thing missing is a sign that reads “floor model only” because it is that grand. If it weren’t for the plush burgundy towels, bottles of Chanel body products and loofa, I’d really be thinking this was some sort of department store instead of my … whatever it is.
Peering around, I see a large claw-foot tub and a full glass walk-in shower that sports large, medium and small showerheads that come from every direction. The sink adjoins a dressing table with a large vanity mirror and a soft, cotton seated stool. It’s luxurious, beautiful—fit for a queen.
