by Hurt
There was nothing. No one behind her. Pursuing her. She was alone in the doorway, a breeze cooling her flushed face. Galen was really letting her go. The terror drained right out of her. It wasn't a rape. It was something else.
She went cold. Colder than the breeze that had cooled her hot skin. Galen. She'd thought . . . It would have been different, before tonight. But after the evening they'd spent together, she'd thought . . . .
It hurt. The disjuncture between expectation and this ugly reality. Galen and his fucking head games.
She took a step and slammed the door. Rebolted it. And walked, slowly, coolly, back to Galen's room.
When she entered, the two men stopped their low mumblings and turned toward the door. She'd surprised them. They'd thought she'd left.
She didn't so much as glance at Galen. She locked eyes with the other—Khalid, she reminded herself—and, by force of will, moved slowly toward him, until their faces 99
were only an inch or so apart and their bodies were almost touching. She thought he'd smirk. Look smug. Or lascivious. But his face was serene. His eyes calm.
"This is what you want, Vanka?"
He had an accent. Maybe French. She hadn't noticed before.
"Yes."
She knew she was shaking. That if she said more than that small word, she might start to cry. In the periphery she glimpsed Galen moving toward the corner of the room and sinking into the chair Khalid had been sitting in when she'd first seen him.
Khalid lifted both hands to her face, and she flinched involuntarily as he ran his fingers over her hair so lightly she barely felt it. Her response registered in his eyes, but he didn't pull back. Instead he bent and kissed her mouth, fitting his lips, soft, soft over her bottom lip. Then he drew away and looked at her, and she was sure he could see her chin quivering, her eyes watering. He kissed her again, coming back to her, she thought, not like a man who didn't care that she was afraid, horrified by what was happening, but like a man of great patience and a will to change her mind, with a lingering kiss that slowly grew warmer. Deeper. Soon he was cradling her head and taking her mouth in a kiss that was at once incredibly sweet and gentle, and also the most intense, consuming kiss she'd ever experienced. She actually felt a little . . .
drugged.
When the kiss ended and she opened her heavy lids to look at him, there was a skip. A slip. How was it that she was standing there, being held and kissed by a man who wasn't Galen, looking at a man who wasn't Galen, knowing she was about to fuck him? And, with some part of her, wanting it?
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He bent forward again, but this time his mouth went to her ear.
"No matter when, no matter what, if you ask me to stop, I will," he whispered.
He pulled back, looked at her with those warm, caramel-colored eyes. So beautiful. Fringed thick and dark with the same lush ebony that curled in soft waves by his ears and at his neck. His fingers, long and slender, converged at the top button of her blouse, and her chest cramped. Why couldn't one leave breasts out of sex?
"All right?" he whispered.
She nodded her head.
He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders, and she let it fall to the floor. She watched as he lifted a hand to her hurt breast and, with the tip of his index finger, traced the raised pink curve of scarred skin.
"Your scar is pretty," he sighed, looking intently at the flesh his finger was touching.
It was the only compliment he'd paid her. The first thing he'd touched once he'd removed her blouse. He finished undressing her and, once she was completely naked and his eyes had roamed over every nuance of the front of her body, he told her to get on the bed. She sat down, at the foot, and slid back toward the headboard, watching as he undid the belt at his waist and, literally, disrobed. The champagne-colored silk slipped from his frame, and Khalid stood before her—and Galen—naked. Hard. His skin smooth, luminous in the dim, golden light of the room, his sinuous muscles sleek and defined.
Gazing down at her on Galen's bed, Khalid put one knee on the edge of the mattress, dropped forward, and crawled toward her until he hovered, naked, over her 101
naked body, not touching her at all. Except for the kiss and the scar, he hadn't touched her at all.
She could hear her own erratic breathing. Knew she was looking up at him, her face, her eyes, blatant with fear. Let him. Let Galen smirk as he watched.
"You're afraid," Khalid said softly. She didn't deny it. "You're sure you want this?"
She didn't trust her voice. She nodded.
Not meaning to, she whimpered pathetically as he drew her knee aside and put his knee between her legs. She was quiet, though, as he repeated the motions on the other side, with her right leg and his left. He lowered himself until she felt the warm, taut length of his body pressed to hers, and he worked his hips between her thighs. She was hyperventilating. Gasping for air.
"Sssshhhh, Vanka." He stroked her hair, held her gaze. "Not yet. I only want to be close to you. Feel you open to me."
He kissed her, as tenderly as before, and with the same overwhelming impact.
Except, beyond the heat filling and melting her, a heavy melancholy swelled and rose in her belly, because each time she closed her eyes and felt Khalid's kiss and touch, for a tiny moment she'd imagine it was Galen doing that to her.
Khalid rose up, touched her cheek, then said, softly, "Look at Galen, Vanka."
Then he turned her head, coaxed her cheek down, onto the pillow, so she was facing Galen in his chair a couple feet from the bed.
He looked aroused and . . . masked. Maybe his little game wasn't as fun as he'd imagined. She tried to keep her face stoic as she looked at him. Until she felt Khalid's mouth on her, kissing her breasts, her belly, her sex. While Khalid licked her, making 102
her pant and sigh and twitch, she noticed that Galen was hard. She kept expecting him to whip it out, to beat off, or, at least, to rub his erection over the snug crotch of his pants, but he kept his hands wrapped tight around the corners of the arms of the chair.
His only motion was the fitful rise and fall of his chest, and the flickering of his eyes over her face, over their bodies.
Khalid came back to her. Hovered, his face close, their breath mingling. The way he'd been kissing her sex, she'd been on the verge of climax four or five times, and her body was more desperate to be touched, to be filled, than any time in memory. But she was still afraid. Of him. Of Galen. Of what they'd do to her. Of what she was doing. Only by force of will was she able to lay there, under Khalid's hot, naked body, to refrain from trying to push him off of her, leaping up, running out. Vaguely aware she'd balled the sheet or blanket she was laying on into sweaty wads in her fists, she waited.
Khalid rose up on his knees and his pretty fingers tore open the wrapper of a condom he seemed to have conjured from the air. Mesmerized, she watched as he rolled the near-transparent sheath of shiny latex down the length of his erection. Fuck, even his cock was pretty.
Now he'd do it. Still up on his knees, towering over her, gazing down at her—her face, her body, her cunt—he moved against her, and a moment later he was inside her.
This stranger—Galen's “guest”—had his cock in her.
He sank down until his hot, taut torso pressed against hers and he framed her face between his palms. Watched her face as he started to move inside her, deep and slow. Like his kiss. Overwhelming.
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She didn't want it like this. Didn't want to feel anything but angry and used and hurt. Didn't want this warmth. This pleasure.
"Does this hurt you, Vanka?" he asked softly.
"Please. Just fuck me," she whispered back through clenched teeth.
“That is what I'm doing,” he breathed against her cheek. “But I don't fuck without feeling.”
He coaxed her hand free of the sheet it was clenching, slid his palm against hers, wove his fingers between hers.
"Vanka."
He kissed her eyebrow,
her cheek, her lips, nuzzled into the tresses draped and coiled by her neck.
His tenderness hurt her, and she turned to look at Galen, to prod her wound. As Khalid kissed and touched her, moved inside her, made her cum, she kept her eyes on Galen, left herself open to him, let him read her hurt and her pleasure, until Khalid's body began to tremble against hers, until his soft moans made her all his. She wrapped her arms around him, cradled him like a tender, beloved infant until he shuddered and his body, damp, hot, with its pounding heart and panting lungs, went soft against hers.
It was when she felt his softening cock slide out of her that she lost her grip. As he slipped to her side, put his hot palm to her moist cheek, and with his luminous eyes and pretty mouth asked, “Are you fine, Vanka?” she knew she wasn't. She clambered from the bed, found her clothes in a heap on the floor, clutched the first piece of cloth her fingers touched.
A hand on her shoulder.
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"Vanka."
Galen's voice. Galen's hand. She hit it away. Her skirt. Inside out. Hem.
Waistband.
"Vanka."
His voice was soft. His fingers brushed her neck. She gave up on the skirt, threw it back into the heap, and gathered the whole mess into her arms, and straightened up.
Faced Galen's placid face.
"Don't touch me." She made each word a clear, distinct articulation of hate.
She shrugged his hand from her arm and carried her bundle away, dropping it at her feet when she'd reached the entryway. He caught her arm, tight in his grip, and held on when she tried to hit him away, tried to jerk free. Slowly, with the calm determination of a bulldozer, he drove her against the front door, pressed his body—fully clothed—
against her naked form.
"Get away from me!"
He was pressed against her so close she couldn't kick, couldn't knee him. With her arms caught in his hands, she couldn't hit him. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away.
"Let go." Her voice was full of venom. "I don't fuck men who hate me."
"Hate? I don't hate you, Vanka."
"Fine. I don't fuck men who give me away to their friends. Like a thing."
"Give you away?" God, he was actually laughing. "I didn't realize you were mine to give."
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He let go of one of her arms and caught her chin in his hand, forced her to face him.
"I just made the introductions. You're the one who decided you'd fuck a man you'd never seen before."
With all her heart she wanted to punch him. But he was at such close quarters she couldn't pull back for a swing. Seething, desperate, she jammed her arm between them and shoved her closed fist against his throat. When he stumbled back she gave a final, hard thrust, half hoping it would kill him, and stooped for her clothes. She'd fucking put them on outside, if she had to.
But maybe she wouldn't. Have to. He was keeping his distance now.
"Are you very fond of that outfit?"
What the fuck was he on about? She tugged her underwear up and stepped into her skirt.
"I'll buy you a new one."
"What?" she snapped. "What are you talking about?"
"The only reason I'm letting you get dressed now, is because of how much I'm going to enjoy ripping those clothes off you, as soon as you're done."
She pulled the knit camisole she'd taken to wearing instead of a bra down over her breasts and stomach.
"Like hell."
Come on. Do it. Just try. Never in her life had she so wanted to hurt someone, needed an excuse to unleash such seething rage. Staring him down, she slipped her blouse on and closed it, button by button, bottom to top.
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His head cocked, he looked at her from under his brow and took a step toward her. She balled her hands into fists. She'd never hit anyone before. He took another step, kept his eyes locked on hers, daring or reading her. Her nails sank into her palms as he hooked a finger behind the top button of her blouse, pulled until the fabric stretched taut against her back, and yanked, snapping threads, The button shot away somewhere.
She hit him. With all her strength, with her closed fist. In the face.
His face flushed. His eyes went red and watery. He looked startled. Hurt.
A second later, though, he seemed to pull into himself. Consolidate. He grinned and gave a chuckling little "Heh."
Then he moved in again. She tried to block, to hit his hands and arms away as he caught the lapels of her blouse, but he didn't falter or slow. Twice there was a ripping, snapping sound, as he jerked, one, two, and tore her blouse open. Yanked it hard, down her arms. She caught it in her fists for a moment, but that was like being cuffed or tied. In the end, she jerked her hands free, herself.
"This is even more fun than I expected," he gloated, lewdly rubbing the bulge at his crotch.
Oh, she was going to fucking kill him.
He moved in again, trying for the skirt this time, and she swung hard with her fists, kicked at him, going for his knees, his groin, wanting to hear him cry out in pain, wanting to make him crumple to the floor in agony. She landed a few blows, made him grunt, shook him loose, forced him to abandon his grip on her skirt, on her camisole to block her knee, her fist, her foot. But he never stopped. Not even a pause. He had her 107
bent over the arm of the couch as he peeled her skirt down her hips, her thighs, whipped it free of her feet. She thought she knew what was coming, but then his heat, his weight was gone. She stood, turned, faced him.
He came at her. She swung. Hit him hard in the face. He hadn't even tried to block. To step back, out of her reach. He just took it and kept coming. Neither made any attempt at defense. He never tried to deflect a blow, she never tried to get away or cling to what he was after. It was all offence. Him coming at her, grabbing, pulling, tearing cloth, her swinging, striking, beating.
Now he was battered and she was naked.
Something—a hand, a knee—knocked her down. Galen was on her, squaring her shoulders to the floor, flattening her under his weight, working her legs apart with his knees.
"Get the fuck off me," she huffed as his hands abandoned her shoulders to work his fly open.
Fuck. Fuck. This was not happening.
Both her hands closed into tight fists, she started punching. Anything in range.
His face, his head, his shoulders, his arms. But, flat on her back, with him on top of her, her punches were lame. Weak. She dug her claws into his hair, pressed her thumbs to the hollow beneath his brows. She'd gouge his fucking eyes out. He caught her wrists, bent her arms back until her knuckles pressed into the carpet.
"No!" she shouted as she felt his hard prick pressing against her sex.
"No?"
"No," she hissed, her jaw clenched, her teeth bare.
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Like living statues they were still, except for the quivering of tensed muscles, and frantic breathing. A rage swelled up in her, so big it felt like she'd split open. She wanted to hurt. To kill, even. She wanted to hear screams and see tears and know she'd caused them. She wanted blood. Galen's blood. Or her own.
Galen moved, just a little, and she felt his cock shift against her.
Vanka panted and glared. Her wrists were locked in his hands, her body immobilized, crushed to the floor under his weight.
She planted her feet, flexed her hips, and took him in. Galen shuddered and paled. She'd made real and irrevocable what he might never have done.
"Vanka . . ."
She moved against all the weight meant to hold her still, fucking him.
"Vanka, wait."
But she didn't wait. She thrust up against him, sudden, urgent, until his stiff resistance gave way to a violent, quivering response. She was fucking to punish, to hurt, and she came hating him, and he came after, looking like he knew it.
After, he looked sad. But not repentant. When he kissed her lips, he did it so softly, so tentatively, she thought to herself that he did it—ironically—in the m
anner of asking permission of a virgin while he was still buried deep inside her.
"Listen, Vanka."
She couldn't even move. What choice did she have?
"I know what you think. That I brought you here, that I had Khalid fuck you for our
. . . for my amusement. That somehow it means I don't think much of you. But I . . . this was for you.” There was a long pause. "Understand?"
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She wasn't sure.
"Well," he said when she didn't answer, "you'll see. But the main thing, what I'm trying to tell you, Vanka, is that, you shouldn't take my way of being, and my way of being with you, as a dismissal. Or a condemnation. I'm a slut. And a bit of a twisted fuck. But from the night I met you, almost from the moment I met you . . ." Galen rolled his eyes and laughed at himself. "I take you seriously, Vanka. And I care for you."
He kissed her again, still tenderly, but less hesitantly. He pulled out, rose, and offered her his hand. She took it, let him help her up. Her body felt slack. Drained. It was more than the fucking and the struggle. Her body was used to more strenuous exercise than that, if not more violent.
"Can I use your shower? Your cum is running down my leg."
Did she still want to hurt him? Or was she hoping for some comfort?
"Sure," was all he said, but he put his arm around her shoulders and walked with her to the bathroom.
"Can I stay with you?" he asked after he'd opened the faucet.
"OK." She didn't know how she felt about him, just then. Something about the night had been a mistake, it seemed. Her mistake.
"How hot do you like it?" he asked, holding his hand under the threads of water jetting from the shower head.
"Hotter," she said when she'd felt the steaming streams.
He adjusted the knob, stepped into the tub, and again proffered his hand. Vanka put her hand in his and stepped beneath the darting water. Galen gave her a steady 110
