by Rina Kent
It doesn’t matter which position he has me in, Jonathan King won’t be able to get to me.
A peaceful aura envelops me at that reminder, even when he slides my dress up to the small of my back. Cool air hits my thighs, and goosebumps break out on my flesh.
It’s only because of the air.
Just the air.
His long, lean fingers glide my underwear down my thighs so I’m completely naked from the waist down.
I try not to think about the view he’s seeing. The vulnerability of the situation grates on my nerves. This is the last position I want to be in with anyone, let alone Jonathan. Which was probably his plan all along.
He won’t get to me. He won’t get to me.
I may not have any confidence in this whole thing, but I have confidence in my dysfunctional body.
“You’re telling me you’re dead. Is that it, Aurora?”
“Yes.”
“You think you can waste my time?”
“You made the deal before making sure of all the facts. That’s your fault, not mine.”
“That mouth will land you in trouble.” Jonathan reaches a hand between my thighs and I open them, not presenting any protest whatsoever.
He drags a finger down my dry folds. The contact is neither pleasurable nor painful. It’s just…nothing.
Numb.
That’s what my therapist told me. Apparently, I’ve numbed myself to sex since I was a teen, which, in his words, could’ve been a knee-jerk reaction to sexual assault or rape.
Neither of those happened to me.
Since I never told my therapist about my past, he probably wrote it off as either of those reasons and categorised me in his neat folders as another statistic.
It’s far from that. People like me need a special category dedicated to them.
Jonathan drags his finger up and down, and when he doesn’t get the reaction he’s looking for, he circles my clit. Nothing. Nada.
It doesn’t matter if I do it or if anyone else does. Being wet is a myth I only read about.
Still stroking my clit, he thrusts a finger into my entrance. The resistance is real and I wince in discomfort.
He pulls his finger out but keeps it at my opening like a looming threat. “You are dead. Fascinating.”
Fascinating, seriously? No idea which reaction I expected, but that’s not it.
In the past, as in literally years ago, whenever any of my previous sexual partners touched me and found out that what I told them is actually true, it scratched their male ego.
Some went on with it and just used my body. Others tried everything to be crowned as the one who finally made me wet or susceptible to sexual pleasure. When it didn’t work, they left and never returned. Not that I was ever looking for a relationship.
The way Jonathan finds this fascinating is throwing me off, like everything else about him. I can’t even tell if ‘fascinating’ is his usual sarcastic reaction or if he’s being genuine.
“What happened, wild one?”
“You might want to consider lube. You’ll be able to get inside and –”
Slap.
My heart lunges in my throat as the sound reverberates in the air and soon after, my arse cheek catches fire.
Did he just…spank me?
“When I ask a question, I expect a direct answer, Aurora.”
“W-why did you do that?” I breathe out, my voice jittery and all wrong.
His palm comes on my arse again and I jolt against his lap. My limp hands clench, needing to grab something. Anything.
My only option is his thigh, but I refuse to hold on to him.
“Do what?” He lands another slap on my heated skin. “This?”
“J-Jonathan…” Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with my voice? Why is it so breathy and almost like a moan?
“Do you have an objection, Aurora?” When I remain silent, he strokes my skin, and my eyes flutter closed at the soothing circles. “According to your terms, I can do, and I quote, ‘whatever I please’. Which was a very reckless thing to say to me, I might add. Are you having second thoughts? Do you want to leave?”
I trap my lower lip against my teeth. “N-no.”
Whatever foreign sensation is building inside me will go away. It’s just a phase. I went to a sex club once, and none of what my partner at the time did turned me on. So Jonathan’s methods won’t affect me either.
It’s just a phase. A mere phase.
He massages my heated arse cheek with slightly calloused, masculine fingers. “Good girl.”
My muscles relax and I feel like I’m about to purr like a kitten or something. His palm comes down on my arse again and the sting jerks my spine upright. A squeal rips through the air as my eyes snap open.
I realise with horror that the sound came from me.
What is happening to me?
“Mmm.” Jonathan slides his finger up my folds and I freeze as he meets slippery skin. “You’re wet for me.”
No. This can’t be true.
“It is, wild one.” His amused, smug tone engulfs me in its savage clutch.
Did I speak aloud?
“You know what I think, Aurora? I think you’re not dead, you just needed something more with your pleasure. Something I’m happy to provide.”
Jonathan thrusts two fingers inside me in one go and slaps my arse cheek at the same time. Slap. Slap. Slap.
He goes on and on until a sob tears from my throat and I’m submerged in a strange sense of arousal mixed with pain. “Ten, for every minute you were late. No one wastes my time.”
Before I can speak, he pounds his fingers inside me over and over, and my cheeks burn at the sound of his skin slapping against my arousal. Heat bubbles in my veins, and my stomach contracts as if it’s about to be smashed into.
Then, I’m hit out of nowhere.
I scream as a bolt of electricity shoots through my limbs and shocks my entire body. My nails dig into Jonathan’s trousers, holding on to him so I don’t fall.
It’s useless, though.
My eyes roll to the back of my head as I keep falling and rolling down a cliff so steep, there’s no landing in sight.
The rush of pleasure grips me in its vice until there’s no way out. Until all I can do is feel my body’s armour crack to pieces with no chance of putting it back together again.
I’m breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling like I’m coming down from an adrenaline wave.
When I finally return to the land of the living, Jonathan still has his fingers deep inside my slick core and his other hand covers my stinging, burning arse.
It’s pulsing, but to my utter horror, it’s not out of embarrassment or repulsion. It’s pulsing with the need for more.
The other dooming realisation hits me straight in the face. Jonathan just brought me to my first orgasm.
My first ever in my twenty-seven-year life. And I didn’t even last a minute under his fierce, firm hand.
He wrenched it out of me in one ruthless, unapologetic manner. As if it was his God-given right.
As if he was always meant to do it.
“Pain.” His strong voice echoes around my dizzy head like a sinister, dark promise. “That’s what you need, Aurora. Lucky for you, I have plenty to give.”
15
Aurora
Second thoughts.
A vile way in which your brain plants the seed so you’ll suspect everything you do.
Last night, I was so sure I could take on Jonathan’s offer and unveil the truth behind Alicia’s death.
Then he lay me on his lap, spanked me, and thrust his fingers into me.
I orgasmed.
I fucking orgasmed.
Not being able to feel for such a long time has made me sure and even smug about my defectiveness. And yet, it happened. I felt. And it was in the most brutal way possible.
Leaning back against my chair, I close my eyes and try not to think about his hand, his fingers and how, when I finally go
t off his lap, I stumbled and nearly fell to my face.
Jonathan’s lips set in a line as he watched me with those steel eyes that I’m now sure know no emotions whatsoever. The man is a blank board. He’s a tyrant, and like any tyrant, only his benefit matters.
‘I expect you here when I return from work.’
His parting words kept playing on repeat at the back of my mind during the entire drive home, then when I climbed under the covers and absentmindedly looked at the occasional memes Layla sent me.
I wasn’t able to sleep.
I couldn’t.
It’s more than the soreness in my arse or the dark foreboding that comes every time I recall the ferocity of his slaps or how disastrously I reacted to them.
The moment I close my eyes, all I think about is the feel of his strong hand on my arse, or the sound my arousal made when he savagely pounded into me. To my horror, it’s not feelings of humiliation or vulnerability, it’s the acute lust, the flooding pleasure, the —
“Mate!”
I startle, and when my eyes open, I find Layla perching over me and waving her hands in front of my face. “There you are. Were you napping? And why do your cheeks look as red as a football player after playing the championship game?”
Standing up, I take her hand in mine.
Layla’s eyes turn as wide as saucers. “No, nope. You already used your hug for the week.”
“I need to talk to you.” I lead her to the sofa and sit her so we’re facing each other.
“Damn straight you do. I need deets. Did you throw Johnny’s offer back at his face? What did it look like? Did his arrogant nose commit suicide? Ugh. I wish you’d caught it on camera.”
“I accepted it, Lay.”
“Wait — and I mean this in the most buggered off way — what?”
Yesterday, when I remained silent, Layla assumed we’d go with her plan and flip Jonathan the bird.
“I want to do it. It’s the only peaceful and uncomplicated way to get the ownership back.”
“Mate…” Aurora’s eyes fill with tears. My best friend doesn’t cry. She thinks it’s beneath her ‘street-made’ status. “I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself like that.”
“I’m not.” I tell her my suspicions about Alicia’s death and how I plan to find out the truth behind it.
After I returned to my building, I asked Paul about the sender of that box in which I found the flash drive, and he said he found it in front of the building during his morning check-ups.
“I get that, I do. And I’m all for bringing your sister justice, but you have to be careful, Aurora. It’s Jonathan King.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do. Sometimes, it seems like you underestimate him because you knew him when you were a kid, but in this world, men like Jonathan King crush and move on. They start wars and end them without being hurt. It’s his world, his territory, and his subjects. Just because he’s playing this game doesn’t mean he’ll take it easy on you. He might choose to destroy you any time he wishes to do so.”
I swallow, her words hitting me at my core. Despite my apprehension about Jonathan, the fact that I was immune to him — and every other man — gave me a false sense of power that crumbled to pieces last night.
“I know you’re taking this risk because of your sister, but I don’t want you to let your guard down in front of a man like Jonathan.”
“What if it’s too late, Lay?”
A line forms between her brows. “What do you mean?”
“He…he brought me to orgasm.”
“What the F?” She holds up a hand like she needs to catch her breath. “He took your first O?”
More like wrenched it out of me, unapologetically and without a sliver of doubt.
“What happened to ‘I never get wet’?” she whispers as if someone is eavesdropping. “Did he use lube?”
I shake my head, shame gnawing at my chest. “But that’s not the worst part, Lay. He brought me to orgasm and I felt empty when he let me go. I need help, don’t I?”
“No, you don’t. Granted, I don’t know what it feels like for someone else to give you an orgasm, but orgasms, in general, are a darn good feeling. You probably just wanted more of that.”
Why do I feel like that’s not the case? But I don’t say that out loud in case Layla starts to think I’m sick in the head or something.
“And, mate, if that man gives you anything to enjoy, don’t hesitate to take it. At least he has that whole hot daddy look going on for him. Just…”
“What?”
“Don’t lose yourself to him. Men like Jonathan King have enough intensity to make you forget about who you are when in their company.”
She’s right.
But it’s not like I’ll ever let Jonathan consume me. I might have had second thoughts, but I’ve never strayed away from my initial goal.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t have majored in psychology?” I poke Layla.
“I kind of did. They teach us a lot of psychology in marketing. We have to understand people in order to sell to them.”
I rub her arm. “Thank you for being here for me, Lay. I would’ve gone crazy without you.”
“Anytime. Remember, I don’t care how much Johnny is daddy material. If he bothers you, I’ll kick his arrogant nose.”
We both laugh at the mental image, and for a moment, I pretend everything will be fine.
Six months.
I can survive six months.
After all, I survived sixteen years in the company of a monster.
Problem is, Jonathan is an entirely different monster altogether.
16
Aurora
I arrive early to the King’s mansion.
On purpose.
If I’m going to be stuck here for the next six months, then I might as well rip off the Band-Aid.
However, there’s something else.
With the exception of the clusterfuck that happened around the dining table last night and how I embarrassingly came all over Jonathan’s fingers, there’s another issue that hasn’t left my brain.
The recording of Alicia’s voice. Her death message to me.
Considering Jonathan was her husband, he ought to inherit all that she left.
If he’s had that recording for eleven years, why would he send me that message now? Why in this way?
Granted, he’s lost track of me since Alicia’s death, but could this be another game of his?
The only other people who could have Alicia’s message for me is her lawyer or her son, Aiden.
The lawyer wouldn’t play games, I don’t think. As for Aiden… Well, I don’t know him enough to form any theories yet. What I’m sure of is that he wasn’t even aware I existed or he wouldn’t have called me Mum during our first meeting.
Besides, he’s on his honeymoon right now. There’s no way in hell he has time to plot this.
The prime suspect is inside these walls. Jonathan fucking King.
Once again, the front gate automatically opens. And again, I stare at the angel statue. My wrist, where my watch lies, itches as a sense of foreboding trickles down my spine.
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, but I’ll bring you justice, Alicia.
When I was young and clueless, she used to hold me on her lap and tell me stories about fairies and castles. She used to read me fantasy novels like Harry Potter. I loved how her voice changed every time there was danger in a scene. My eyes would bug out and I’d wait with bated breath for the following chapters to unfold.
Even though we lived worlds apart, she never made me feel like I was worthless.
We did have so many differences to count. I grew up in Leeds while she lived in London. She was an aristocrat from both parents’ sides while I was an illegitimate commoner. Her noble origins showed in her tiniest gestures. From her smile to her delicate frown.
She was warm and softly spoken. Dying at only thirty was too harsh.
And that
’s why she needs justice.
And that’s why I can’t let whatever happened with Jonathan yesterday repeat again. He’s my sister’s husband for fuck’s sake.
As soon as I stop in front of the mansion, I unload my suitcase. I brought necessities and my laptop, and since I kept my flat, most of my stuff is still there.
The door opens and the woman from yesterday greets me. A younger man dressed in an elegant butler suit stands beside her. His skin is so pale that his green veins show through the surface of his hand.
“Tom will get your suitcase.” She motions at him and he silently springs into action. “Please follow me.”
I do, and even though it’s my second time here, the place’s majesty doesn’t lessen. If anything, it appears more grandiose in daylight.
“What’s your name?” I ask the woman, who’s walking one step ahead of me.
“Margot,” she says without sparing me a glance.
“I’m Aurora.”
“I know.”
Okay. I suppose Jonathan’s staff are as stand-offish as he is. They’re not talkative either.
Margot leads me to the second floor and Tom follows behind us like a shadow, silent and a bit creepy.
The entire mansion is.
Despite the elegant wallpaper that’s fit for a royal palace and the golden ornaments attached to the ceilings, something is off about this place.
Your sister got depressed and died here.
That’s probably it.
Besides, the King mansion doesn’t have Alicia’s touch. At all.
Her only visible interference here is the angel statues outside. The inside, while it hints at a refined taste, is all Jonathan — rugged edges and authoritative masculinity.
This place isn’t just meant to impress, it’s also meant to intimidate. When you walk these halls, you sign an imaginary pact to do whatever the tyrant of the house demands.
Margot stops in front of a room and motions for Tom to go inside. He places the suitcase at the entrance, nods, and leaves.
The room is so large, it almost takes up an entire floor. An elegant queen-sized bed sits on a high platform in a classic way with a modern touch. The balcony is open, which allows the light-coloured curtains to flap inside.
