by Zara Cox
I execute the move again, and a strangled moan leaves his chest.
Between the pressure building inside my body and the pleasure-pain high of meeting his relentless thrusts, I know I won’t last long.
Sweat drips off his body onto mine. The heat between us is combustible. I’m about to perish in the inferno. I’m not sure where the words come from. They must have been building from that single memory.
His rough keening growls from his chest. His free hand digs into my hips, guides me into his final thrust.
And I murmur into his ear, “Am I worth dying for?”
Q tenses as if he’s been shot. Then he’s coming like mad, flooding my insides with thick, hot semen. His release triggers mine. My body jerks and twists beneath his and we fight for air. Several minutes later, he’s still twitching inside me.
My mind staggers beneath the lessons my body has thrown at me. I’ve never known anything like this. I want to hate it, but it feels good. I battle with myself for a full minute, then abandon the fight. I breathe out, and let myself revel in the moment.
His head falls on my chest.
The touch of cold metal freezes everything inside me. From one instant to the next I’m reminded of everything that is wrong about this situation.
As if he senses my withdrawal, he tenses. Then rises off me.
My wrists are released from his hold. Before I can lower them, he growls, “Stay.”
The bed dips for a second, then levels when he steps away. As quickly as he entered, I hear him leave.
A minute ticks by. Two. I’m frozen in a twisted tableau of shame and satiation. The blood still roaring in my ears means I can’t tell if the cameras have stopped rolling. My senses won’t calm and I can’t stop the onslaught of emotions that batter me. I’m not sure how long I lie there, before his voice flares into the room.
“The cameras are off now. Take the blindfold off.”
My hands shake as I free myself. The lights are low enough not to cause my eyes discomfort. I’m alone in a sea of silk pillows and indignity. I raise my gaze, and thank God, the cameras have receded. I throw the blindfold to the side and stare down at my body. The evidence of his rough possession is everywhere. My thighs, my breasts, my wrists. I look around the room and spot a door to one side.
“The bathroom. Use it if you have to, but don’t clean yourself up.”
My eyes widen. “Why not?”
“I want you dirty. When I come back, I want you smelling of me.” The primitive possession in that statement holds no apology.
I feel the stamp of it all over my body. “When will you be back?”
“In a few hours. Don’t leave the suite. Are you hungry?”
I’m ravenous. For more than just food. Although how that could be when he’s commanded such powerful orgasms from me, I can’t fathom. A flush creeps up my neck as I nod. “Yes.”
His laugh holds a tinge of cruelty. “You’ll have me again soon, Lucky. Rest for now. Your food will be brought to you shortly.”
That he can read me so easily when I don’t know the first thing about him irritates me. “Thanks. You’re far too kind.”
“No. I’m not.” There’s a deadly ring to the three words that immediately chill my spine. They also tweak a part of my brain, attempt to make a connection that flounders for a brief moment, then fizzles and dies.
I catch a corner of the heavy coverlet and draw it over me. Whether he takes that as conversation over or he has nothing else to say, I sense the instant he clicks off.
Tiredness seeps into my bones. I’m the kind of sore that draws a moan each time I move, but not ones of distressing pain. I sink into the bed and surrender to the conflict raging inside me. When it exhausts itself without my help, it releases me long enough for me to fall asleep.
Stephanie wakes me gently what seems like five minutes later. Without windows, I can’t tell how much time has passed. She tells me I’ve been asleep for four hours.
The large tray she sets on my lap contains a steaming bowl of linguine in a creamy sauce. The cutlets of Parma ham melt in my mouth and I polish off the meal in minutes, soaking up the remaining cream with thick focaccia bread. I leave the wine alone, and settle for a club soda. Once she takes the tray away, I slide out of bed and make my way gingerly to the bathroom. Like everything else Q-related, the bathroom is huge, every luxury and amenity within reach. I stare with a little longing at the multi-headed shower before I shake my head.
I return to the room after I take care of business, but I don’t get back into bed. There’s an entertainment center with a sleek looking MP4 player sitting on a glass surface. This remote, unlike the one I used in the Hell’s Kitchen loft, looks simple. I press the power button and strings of an Italian operetta fill the room. I grimace and hit the next button.
Imagine Dragons’ Demons slowly pounds into life. My eyes widen and my shocked gasp ends in laughter. A tiny part of me is thrilled that I like the first thing I’ve learned about Q. No, not my first thing. This is the second. The first thing I like about him is stamped inside and outside my body. Q is extremely skilled when it comes to a woman’s body.
The song is halfway through when I sense him again. My skin grows feverish and my belly rolls with trepidation and excitement.
God, is this how kidnappers feel? Was this some form of early onset Stockholm Syndrome? The remote slips from my hand onto the floor and I don’t bother to pick it up.
“Lucky.” He’s outside the door.
I return to the bed and put the blindfold back on. I’m not sure where he wants me so I remain standing by the side of the bed and place my hands on top of the rumbled sheets. I don’t need sight to confirm his purposeful stride toward me. The very air seethes with thick, sexual intent.
He reaches me, pulls me back against him and runs his hands all over my body. Each powerful caress pulls a shiver from me. He bends his head and sniffs the curve of my shoulder. “Was that amusement at my choice of music I heard a few minutes ago?”
“Ah…no. It was unexpected, that’s all.”
“Why unexpected?”
“They’re my favorite band.” I let out a self-conscious laugh. “I was just surprised that…I don’t know what you look or really sound like but we like the same music.”
He slides his hands beneath my breasts. “And that pleases you?” he rasps.
I shrug. “It helps make this a little less…weird.”
He pauses for a second. “What else would help?”
Instinctively, I know a request to take the blindfold off will be denied. That courtesy, if it happens, will come from him. “I would like to touch you. With my hands. Maybe see you?” I throw in there anyway.
My breath hitches when he picks me up. Since I haven’t been given permission to touch, my hands hang down by my sides as he strides away from the bed.
A few seconds later, he settles on a seat that I remember looks like a leather-studded La-Z-Boy recliner next to the fireplace, and he arranges me over his lap so my feet are on the floor either side of him. The thick rod of his cock lies snug between my pussy lips, but he doesn’t penetrate me. He lies back and grabs my hips, slowly grinds me into his hardness. I’m slick and wet and he groans at the delicious friction.
After about a minute, his hands caress up my sides. I jerk a little and he chuckles.
“You’re ticklish just there.”
“Yeah…” My hips move over him, the desire to pump almost unconscious.
“I’m going to let you touch me now.”
My breath expels in a burst of excitement. “Okay.”
His hands trail up and over my breasts. For a long moment, he just plays with my mounds. Then he cups my shoulders, draws his hands down my arms and captures my hands.
I stop breathing altogether when he brings our entwined hands to his abdomen and lays my palms flat against his skin. I can’t help my soft gasp at the hard, hot sleekness of him, the tight muscles shifting beneath my touch. His hands stay on mine
for a minute before he lifts them away. I tentatively explore him, hear his sharp intake of breath when my short nails scrape over his skin. Between my legs, his cock thickens, extends a little more. My hips continue their slow grind as I trail my hands up over his ribcage. Flat nipples harden at my touch, drawing another sharp breath from him.
When I reach his pecs, he settles his hands over mine. “Stay,” he commands.
I’ve had my fun. But already it’s over. Disappointment tears through me, but the feeling doesn’t last for long. His hands leave mine, grasp my hips and elevate me long enough to position himself at my entrance. Between one breath and the other, I’m impaled. I scream as Ready, Aim, Fire blasts through the speakers. And even though I’m on top, Q totally tops me with relentless drives into my pussy from below.
“Love hearing you scream…”
My nails dig into his skin as I try to hold on. But it’s no use. I stop screaming long enough to ask the question that’ll fling me into nirvana. Permission is granted. I throw my head back and surrender to the fireball exploding between my legs.
When I collapse forward, he allows me to rest on his chest. But the thrusts never diminish. He draws another mind-bending orgasm from me before he roars his own release.
I’m a useless, boneless mess on top of him, when he murmurs, “Tomorrow, Lucky. I’ll let you see me.”
25
OUT TAKE
On Monday, I wake up mid-morning to the news that I’m to have my first colon cleanse. What I expect will be an unforgettable experience has been scheduled for four in the afternoon, according to Stephanie, to allow my body a little time to recuperate from last night’s activities.
I wasn’t carried back to my suite until gone 3am. But unlike the night before, Q left me in the care of Stephanie, who supervised my bath and helped my weary body into bed. I snuffed out in seconds, my mind shutting down from sheer exhaustion, which thankfully left my dreams undisturbed.
I’m wide awake now though, and to stop myself from thinking about what awaits me this afternoon, I decide to go for a swim since I’ve been given a pass from fitness training today. The white bikini set is part of the new wardrobe. As I put it on, I glance at myself in the mirror. Stephanie has taken over Fionnella’s health tracking duties, and reported this morning that I’ve put on eight pounds so far. I can see where my hips and butt are a little plumper and other bones a little less jutting. There’s also a vibrancy to my skin that could be attributed to the lotions and potions that’s become a part of my pre-sex regime.
Thoughts of sex predictably steers my mind to Q’s near-frenzied ravishing of my body long into the night. He didn’t leave after returning the second time. Nor did his stamina dim even a little bit.
He swore to defile my pussy. And he stuck to his word.
And tonight, he’s moving to other parts of your body.
I push the thought away, turn away from the mirror and pause when I see the other thing that awaited me this morning. The stack of money on my bedside table.
The means to my freedom.
So why does the sight of it sicken me?
Ignoring the question, I pick up the money, return to the dressing room and place it with the stack from yesterday.
I stare at the crisp bills. Two hundred thousand dollars. Probably more than enough to buy myself a deep enough hole to hide in. Except I’ll never be able to stay hidden. Not with the knowledge that Clayton is hunting me.
Certainly not without a means of ensuring that the other secret he’s hunting stays a secret. To do that I, ironically, need to stay in the open.
Going into hiding means I can’t keep an eye on her.
My sister.
Petra.
The daughter Clayton suspects is his. The fifteen-year-old I know is his.
The deathbed promise I made to my mother to protect her from Clayton at all costs still burns fierce in my heart. I hadn’t planned on at all costs involving murder and arson, of course. But I had no choice.
I killed for Petra.
I don’t want to do it again, but there’s no way I’m letting Clay get his hands on her. Petra escaped the fates my mother and I couldn’t. I don’t have a single doubt that should Clay lay his hands on her, he will drag her into his vile world. I don’t intend for that to happen. She’s the reason I had less than a hundred dollars to my name when I fled The Villa. Most of the money I painfully scraped together went into helping her stay in hiding.
The rest bought me a hacker’s services to alter records and forge documents to throw Clay off her scent.
I knew he wouldn’t lose the scent for long. Clay is too clever to be fooled indefinitely. But my efforts bought me three months, until Ridge dropped his bombshell.
26
BACK LOT
5 March 2015
The Airport
The plan starts to unravel as we stand on the tarmac awaiting Edward Krakov’s plane.
Ridge is two feet from me, doing absolutely nothing to respect my personal space. The plane is taxiing into the private hangar, but his eyes aren’t observing the client’s safe landing. Nor is he doing anything remotely security-like, as is his job description. In fact, he’s barely even glanced around since we arrived.
No, those flint-colored eyes are as firmly fixed on me as they have been since we left the Villa. God only knows how he managed to drive and keep his eyes on my tits and bare legs without crashing into a tree and killing us.
I tug at the disgustingly short ice blue tube dress I’m wearing, and barely stop myself from reaching up and ripping off the pearl choker. Even in March, the California sun throws off enough heat to piss off an armadillo, and I’m no different.
Toss in Clayton’s parting words in his office this morning, and the sight of the vile Russian exchanging last words with his pilot on the steps of the private plane a few dozen feet away, and my nerves are shot to pieces.
I don’t have room for the ominous look lurking in Ridge’s eyes or the waves of creep bouncing off him.
My attempt to step away from him backfires when he immediately shadows my move.
I should be scared of him. I am on some self-preserving level. But my temper has been known to give reason a finger at the worst possible times.
“For fuck’s sake, Ridge. If you come any closer, I’ll become intimately familiar with what you ate last week.”
“Watch your mouth, little girl,” he growls. But he reaches into his pocket and pops a mint into his mouth. Then moves even closer.
“Look, Ridge, I don’t want to give Krakov another excuse to report me to Clay. You know how possessive he gets. You practically breathing down my neck isn’t going to go down well.”
“Fuck the commie asshole. He doesn’t deserve to touch you.”
My breath hitches, both at the blistering possessiveness in his voice and the waves of animosity pulsing from his massive frame. My shocked stare makes the mistake of catching his, and I glimpse blatant intent in his gaze.
A ball of trepidation knots in my gut. From the corner of my eye I see Edward Krakov approach. Ridge takes a half-step away from me, but he counteracts that move by folding his thick arms and staring with cold, dead eyes at Krakov.
My brain reels with the extra problem just dumped in my lap, but I shove a thin lid over it and produce a blinding smile for the man I’m supposed to make feel like a king.
“Eddie, I’m so happy to see you again.”
He takes the hands I hold out and kisses me twice on each cheek, even as his small arctic grey eyes slide to Ridge.
“As am I to see you, babushka. I hope you’re fully recovered from your little…ailment?”
I nod and smile brighter. “I am, and it’s so sweet of you to ask.”
The snake-like gleam that always sends chills down my spine enters his eyes. “I am sweet only for you, ’bushka. Because you’re my special one.”
“And I appreciate you all the more for it.”
We false-banter all the way to the c
ar. Behind us, Ridge’s mountainous presence hulks ominously. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to go down. Something that involves me.
In the limo on the way back, I do my best to entertain Krakov. Bile rises up my throat when his hand slips underneath my dress. Swallowing it down, I blank my mind and let my gaze wander. Unfortunately, it wanders to the rearview mirror, and I catch Ridge’s impenetrable gaze. He locks on me for uncomfortably long seconds before his attention switches back to the road.
The knot of fear in my belly expands.
Definitely something going on.
We arrive at The Villa and enter the large boldly decorated foyer. A handful of guests are mingling in the space that doubles as a selection area, and Entertainers are busy chatting up clients. A server carrying a tray of champagne approaches and Krakov helps himself to a glass. I select a watered down mimosa and try not to tense when I see Clay approaching.
Greetings are exchanged before he says to Krakov, “I’ve reserved a room at the casino in town for a few selected guests. It’ll be an honor to have you as my special guest.”
Krakov’s mouth twists and he shrugs. “I may be too busy with my babushka, tonight. I’ll let you know.”
It’s a poorly-kept secret that Clayton part-owns Getty Casinos and likes nothing better than to help The Villa’s guests offload even more of their money at his gaming tables. I can almost see the dollar signs in his eyes as he attempts to reel in Krakov. “Of course. And naturally, Lucky will accompany you if you do decide to join us.”
I will my stomach not to turn as I smile at both men. “If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll just go a take a quick peek at the schedule.” Edward Krakov, like most men, have their Villa favorites—in his case, me—but he also likes to sample other wares during his three day stays. Remi, Clayton’s long-time PA, who also doubles at a receptionist, keeps an electronic schedule on her discreet mini tablet. If I’m lucky, Krakov will have booked two or three other girls, leaving me free of his vile attention for five or six hours per day.
