I don’t want it to be like this.
I sit down again, and I reach out and stroke her hand. She flinches, as if she’d like to pull away from me and is just barely tolerating my touch. That hurts me on a level I’ve never experienced before.
“Willow,” I say quietly. “Remember that night I went crazy on you? I never know when those moods are going to come on me. You’re not safe around me. Nobody is. I’m keeping you here for my own selfish purposes, but when the time comes, I am going to set you free.”
“Oh, I see. It’s for my own good, then.” Her eyes flash angrily. “And in the meantime, you’re going to make fun of me and hurt my feelings, to guarantee that I don’t try to make you change your mind. Tell me, how well did that work out the last time?”
Fury at her defiance swells inside me like a black tide, and I do something I’ve never done before.
I push back against the tide. I hold it at bay, long enough to keep myself from exploding in front of her.
“Excuse me,” I say to her with perfect calm.
I walk through the restaurant, and out the front door, and across the parking lot to my car. Jasha follows me at a careful distance.
I kick the car several times, so hard I leave dents in the door.
Then I take several deep breaths, and I let them out slowly, and I visualize the blackness flowing out of me like an oily river. I’ve tried it before, and it’s never worked. This time it does. Mostly.
I walk back inside, just as the waiter is setting our desserts down.
She’s taking a sip of her coffee, and I sit down and tell her what I said to the waitress. She spews the wine all over her dessert, all over the white table cloth, and goes into a coughing fit that’s half shocked laughter.
“You did not,” she says to me, eyes huge.
My laughter is harsh. “She disrespected you. So, yes, I did. Do you see her anywhere on the floor?”
She looks around, then shakes her head. “No.”
“When I talked to the owner, I had her fired.”
She looks as if she’s about to protest, then sees the expression on my face – the “don’t fucking argue with me” expression – and gives a resigned shrug.
Then she looks down regretfully at her dessert, where she spewed most of her coffee. “I ruined it,” she says apologetically.
I push mine towards her. “Here, have mine.” At least her appetite is back. I’ve salvaged the evening.
“So romantic,” she says, and then I see a flash of fear in her eyes. “Sorry,” she adds quickly. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”
Arousal flares through me, and guilt. I’m wired wrong. The sight of a frightened woman shouldn’t make me as hard as a diamond, but it does.
“It’s all right.”
I feed her a bite, and she lets out a little moan of pleasure.
I feed her another bite. She moans again and licks the spoon. I watch her pink tongue swirling, lapping up the sweet cream.
“Damn,” I say. “I’ve never been jealous of a dessert before, but I think I’d like to take this tiramisu out back and cut its throat.”
She laughs. “Okay, promise you won’t get mad at me, but I feel like, for you, that’s a genuinely romantic statement.”
I start to slip the spoon into her mouth again, then pull it away. She’s getting a little too comfortable. I want her to have to work for her pleasure. And she needs that. She wants it.
“Say please,” I growl.
“Please. Sir. Please put it in my mouth,” she whispers, and a hint of mischief gleams in her eyes.
My cock is about to tear the fabric of my pants, and I’m filled with the strangest emotion, an emotion I can’t even name.
I want this. Forever. I want her to look at me like that, with her beautiful blue eyes shining, with just the tiniest hint of fear, because she knows what I’ll do to her later.
But men like me don’t get forever. There are no happy endings for us.
I let her suck the chocolate off the spoon, and then I lower my voice. “We’re done,” I say to her.
She looks at me, worried, but doesn’t question me.
I call out to my men sitting at the other two tables. “Get out. Lock the door behind you.”
My men stop eating instantly and leave the room. They’ll guard the door until I tell them otherwise.
“Did you like this dress?” I ask her, and then I tear the neckline with my hands, exposing her small, perfect breasts. Her rosy-pink nipples are pebbled with desire.
She gasps in shock and takes a step back. She shoots a panicked look at the door. We’ll have to walk through the restaurant to get to my car.
“When we leave, you’re going to be wearing my jacket,” I tell her. “Everyone in the restaurant will know why. They’ll know what we just did here. They’ll know that I own you.”
“Oh.” Her face flushes with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.
“Now turn around and bend over the table.”
She does, and I lift the hem of her dress.
As I do, I realize that she’s distracted me yet again. I think she did, anyway. Is she actually outwitting me at my own game? I wanted to ask her about her web-surfing habits, and somehow I’m about to fuck her blind instead.
I can’t stand the thought of her keeping any secrets from me. She’s not allowed to keep any part of herself from me; I own all of her.
Tomorrow, I promise myself, I will do whatever it takes to find out what she’s hiding, even if it makes her hate me.
Tonight I’m going to make her scream.
Chapter Twelve
I take my tie off and order her to turn around.
“We’re in public,” she protests weakly, her voice quivering.
Oh, I’m going to fuck her hard.
“The room is soundproof,” I inform her. I don’t tell her that I tested this theory when I killed a man in this room a few months back while diners ate on the other side of the grotto wall, unawares. He tried to sell my secrets to competitors who owned a trucking company – but the competitors secretly worked for me. Nobody heard his screams.
I designed the room the way it is because I am a silent partner, the real owner of the restaurant. It’s a good place to lure people who might have their guard up otherwise. After all, what could go wrong in such a public place?
Well, Willow’s about to find out the answer to that question.
I bind her hands behind her back.
Then, while I’m still standing behind her, I take one of the napkins from the table and stuff it into her mouth. She squirms and tries to spit it out. I pull out my silk handkerchief and gag her tightly. Now she’s making furious sounds, and it makes me laugh out loud.
“What was that, honey? If I want to fuck you up the ass, you’re hoping I use lube this time?”
She shakes her head frantically and lets out an enraged squeal.
“Oh, you’ve been bad? You deserve to be punished?”
I force her to bend over the table. I lift the hem of her dress to her waist, and spank her, hard. She tries to move away. I grab her bound wrists and hold her firmly in place.
Her muffled shrieks just urge me on, and I smack her ass again and again until it’s red and glowing, while she writhes and struggles and kicks uselessly at me.
When I slide my fingers between her legs, of course she’s wet for me. I massage her pussy, and now she’s moaning, spreading her legs wider and arching her ass up. Rubbing herself against me. The spicy scent of her arousal perfumes the air, and I draw it in as if it’s my only oxygen.
I make sure not to stroke her too fast, because I don’t want her to come before I’m ready. Her squeals of protest have melted into moans of pleasure.
“I’ll give you a choice,” I say. I love to give her fake choices. “Ass or pussy?”
She desperately struggles to answer me.
Mmmph, mmmph, mmmmph….
“Taking it up the ass hurts, but you know you deserve it? Wel
l, if you insist…” The gag swallows up her cries of protest, and my cock twitches with arousal.
I came prepared. I slide a bottle of lube out of my pocket and I massage her pink, puckered little hole. Then I pull the butt plug out of my pocket and force it in. I slowly slide it halfway out, then back in, again and again, stretching her. I’m in a good mood, so I’m opening her up slowly this time. She’s groaning, and her bound hands clench into fists.
She hates it, she loves it…
Finally I slide the butt plug out, drop it on the table, and force myself into her tight rear channel. Her muscles clench so tight that she’s almost crushing my cock. She’s shuddering, trying to force herself to relax so it won’t hurt as much. I pump slowly, and I bend over and reach around, and with every thrust, I stroke her clit.
Her muffled whimpers drive me mad. I make myself go slow. Her head is turned to the side and her cheeks are flushed, and tears are leaking from her eyes. She’s pushing herself back, wanting more of me. Greedy girl.
I keep up the pressure on the tight little bud of her clitoris, dragging my finger back and forth, back and forth. She’s humming low in her throat, her face contorted with ecstasy.
She’s turning liquid with desire. All resistance is gone now. When I feel her start to shudder and clench, I pick up the pace, thrusting harder and harder, rocking the table with each thrust.
We come at the same time, our groans of pleasure mingling, our bodies shaking. The pleasure is so intense it’s painful, and the pulses of my orgasm throb throughout my entire body. I stand there, shaking from the aftershocks, until finally they recede and I slide out of her.
When I take the gag out of her mouth, her voice is hoarse.
“You fucking bastard. That hurt. And you gagged me!” Willow used to have to force herself to swear in front of me. I loved it. But I love filthy-mouthed Willow just as much.
I laugh at her. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t love it.”
“Oh, God. I loved it so much.” Her words slide out on a moan of surrender. I untie her, and when she stands up, her knees are shaking. I’m still behind her, and I pull her up against me because I glory in making her weak. I love that she needs my strength to stand. We’re two parts of a whole right now; her soft core melts my rigid core until I’m almost human again.
We stand that way, and the seconds melt into minutes, and we’re the only people in the world. Our island is a nation of two. The pain is gone, the darkness is at bay, and I’m just here, in the present, with no past and no future. This is as close as I’ll ever get to heaven.
Finally, reluctantly, I let her go.
The sun beats down mercilessly on the small clearing in the forest. Vultures are circling overhead. Cataha’s new men stand with folded arms and scowls stamped on their faces. He actually had to hijack an armored truck to finance the hiring of a new crew. Him, reduced to armed robbery. He’s better than that.
Cataha looks down at the bodies of the three local police officers. They are sprawled in the grass in the middle of a clearing, their arms and legs flung every which way, puppets with their strings cut. Their mouths gape open, their brains leak into the dirt. A hot breeze carries the stink of excrement; they voided their bowels when they died.
He and his men tortured the police officers for hours, until they were sure that the cops were telling the truth. None of them were behind the leak. They were not responsible for the rescue of those girls.
But they still had to die, because they had done a shit job of looking out for him. He should have been warned that the Politsiya were on their way to shut down his operation at the farmhouse. Instead he’d come within minutes of being snatched up and marched off to prison.
So he personally dispatched each of the cops with a shot to the head. One, two, three. The first one stared at him in shock, not believing he was about to die. Then the top of his head came off.
The second and third cried and screamed and begged, their voices shriller than a whore being raped with a hot poker. It was almost enough to make him feel better, but not quite.
He’s sure now that his betrayer was the crusading journalist, the one who has declared war on human trafficking in his district. The bastard writes under a pseudonym, Akim. One name only. “Akim” is getting tons of attention, and winning awards and international recognition for Reforma. He has gone beyond the duties of a normal journalist. He bribes people for information on Cataha’s plans, he slips recording devices into their offices… That’s illegal, is what it is!
After the latest cargo was rescued, all the bitches blabbed to the cops and the media, crying loud and long. And so “Akim” caught on to Cataha’s latest scheme, and wrote a story exposing the doctor who had helped him select the girls, and now the doctor’s life is ruined. Ruined. He’s on the run, sure to be stripped of his medical license, facing prison if he’s caught. It was a sexy story; it ended up splashed on every front page, every radio broadcast, every TV station, all around the world. There’s so much heat on Cataha right now that it’s like standing on the surface of the sun. He’s actually going to have to adjust his business model for a while and concentrate on robbery, and he hates that.
The thing about trafficking is, it’s incredibly lucrative, but that’s not the only reason he’s always focused on it as his main moneymaker. He does it because he loves it. He feels like a god when those crying girls are begging him for mercy. It’s a rush of power and ecstasy like none other. He has the power of life and death, of pain or relief. And he will be the emperor again.
He mutters curses to himself as he paces. People actually see Akim as a hero. Cataha sees Akim as a show-boating, sanctimonious vigilante asshole, dedicated to ruining successful businessmen like himself.
People see Cataha as a monster, but he knows what he really is. He’s survival of the fittest. He’s a meritocracy. Unlike those weak, undeserving little vaginas who inherit their money or worm their way up through the ranks of the corporation by kissing ass, he fought his way to the top, like a warlord.
He’s fortunate that, so far, at least, nobody knows who he really is. He’s maintained a front with his new identity as a successful businessman, big enough to live a moderately good life but small enough to avoid attention, and nobody is whispering his real name in connection with Cataha.
He’s got to take Akim out before he discovers and exposes Cataha’s real identity.
Of course, he has to find out who the fucker is first. He’s tried to infiltrate Reforma to find out Akim’s real name, but so far, there’s been no joy. They’re a bunch of pious little bitches over there, worshipping at the altar of imaginary concepts like “human rights” and “justice”.
It’s not just the Politsiya having a hard-on for him, or the assholes at Reforma. His problems are multiplying. The loss of shipment after shipment of girls has created a vacuum, a high demand in the region. Lately, his contacts are telling him that a new player has moved into town, who swears he’s offering a solution. He’ll be opening up a brothel soon that allegedly has the latest in security technology, and the assurance of protection from the law.
This new, nameless player claims he will have the finest, freshest girls, and he’s offering the same kind of anything-goes service that Cataha offered in his brothel – before it was raided. Of course, if a girl ends up dead or so severely injured that she has to be put down, the client will have to pay for the privilege, but there will be no other repercussions for the client. Anything goes. In fact, some clients come back again and again, just for that service.
So in addition to plugging the leaks that keep threatening to sink his operation, Cataha needs to find out who his new competition is, and kill him.
Then a thought occurs to him.
Maybe instead of killing “Akim” right away, he can use him first. If he can find out the identity of the new competitor, he can inform on the man and take out the competition. Then he’ll kill Akim. With luck, he’ll be able to do it personally, with dull instrume
nts.
The thought brightens his day, and he finally manages a smile.
There’s a retching sound, and he looks up to see one of his new crew vomiting into the grass, unable to stand the stink of the dead bodies. Damn. That asshole will have to be replaced.
Good help is so hard to find these days.
Chapter Thirteen
Day nine…
SERGEI
Temperatures hover in the sixties today, a typical summer morning in this seaside region, only a couple of hours south of Oregon.
Lukas and Yuri wear light jackets as they sit on top of the wooden castle, taking turns looking out over the ocean through the telescope that’s mounted there. It’s a million-dollar view.
I sit on the patio drinking bitter black coffee and watching them, and can’t imagine what they’re thinking or feeling. They’re like a couple of little aliens beamed down onto my property. Lukas is seven. By the time I was his age I’d shivved a passed-out drunk in an alley so I could roll him and steal his wallet. That was a good take, too. Three hundred twenty-seven rubles, and a cheap watch that I traded for a loaf of bread.
Jasha walks up to me and nods.
“Tomorrow morning,” he says.
I smile grimly. “Perfect. I can’t wait to see the video.”
We’re taking out Edik, Vilyat’s brother. We already took care of Latvi. And Willow’s father, Vasily, died in a highly suspicious plane crash six years ago. I wish I could say I was behind that crash, but I wasn’t. I suspect it was one of his competitors. I was still in the process of working my way to the top, in St. Petersburg. I can only hope that he was conscious, and screaming, all the way down, as the plane plummeted from the sky.
We still need to kill Vilyat, but I’ve been drawing it out. I’m almost reluctant to end it.
Vilyat is one of the last men who was directly involved in Pyotr’s death.
Unlike Vilyat, Edik didn’t have his filthy little fingers dipped directly into the family business in Russia, but he knew what they were doing. He let it happen.
Thirty Days of Shame Page 10
