She looked down; at some point, their fingers had interlocked. She didn’t know who had reached for whose hand. She squeezed tightly. Holding him like this, being held, it made it easier.
“They gave him twenty-four hours to agree to their demand. They had watches and phones, but they pulled out this cheap, old-fashioned alarm clock and put it on the table next to me. It ticked so loud I could feel it throbbing in my hand like it was pulsing inside me. It made me crazy.” She’d screamed and screamed until they’d slapped her silent.
“I knew before the alarm even went off that Killian wasn’t going to make it. That’s when I started begging.” She had been frantic. “I would’ve given them money … anything.” She could only whisper it.
She closed her eyes, heart racing.
She’d practiced telling her story so many times. After struggling to tell her therapist, she’d practiced looking into her bathroom mirror and rehearsing the words until they were nothing but rote. Nothing but fact.
Nothing but sounds.
She wasn’t supposed to feel them anymore.
“What did they do, Scarlet?” His voice was quiet, contained fury.
She blinked, opening her eyes.
For a moment, it was as if she’d never really seen Jerricho before. His eyes were so dark they were unreadable, his muscles were locked tight as his tension blanketed against her body.
And then she knew, Jerricho was bracing himself so she could fall.
She was safe with him. Her heart, her body, her pain.
She didn’t have to protect him from any of it.
He gave her space to grieve.
“He pressed his knife down on my tongue and told me to suck.”
Heavy, hard steel in her mouth, the memory made her gag.
Jerricho held her hand. Strong. Safe. Warm.
Her eyes watered as she cleared her throat to go on. “He told me to hum, show him how much I was enjoying it.”
The urge to gag rose again, but this time, she won with a slow, hard swallow that hurt but not as much as the memory of her kidnapper spitting in her face as he brutally yanked his knife free.
“He sliced my cheek open from the inside.”
The taste of salt was on her lips as she instinctively pushed her tongue against the scar tissue. She was crying, and with Jerricho, it didn’t matter.
She looked into his eyes, and Killian was not there. All the fucked-up emotion between them was not there.
She sobbed in relief.
Jerricho’s warm hand reached out and cupped her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
He raised her hand to his lips. With a tenderness that threatened to crush her, he began to lay gentle kisses on her skin, his mouth slowly traveling her hand. The scar wasn’t visible, the plastic surgeon had been the best, but that didn’t mean one didn’t exist. She’d thought it would always be there, a wound that would never fade, but in this moment, she believed Jerricho could kiss it away.
With the same tender care, he unfurled her fingers. One by one, he nibbled them free.
Oh God, when he sucked two of them into his mouth, the hot wetness matched the flush between her thighs.
She groaned, undone. It was erotic and lewd and everything she needed.
The tightness in her chest shifted from pain to anticipation. Heart hammering, heat raced along her blood, softening her everywhere.
She almost wept as he slowly dragged her wet fingers from the soft inferno of his mouth. It dawned on her that somehow he hadn’t kissed her yet, and this being in his mouth, was forbidden and intimate. Her fingertips wiggled, trying to catch one last touch of tongue and teeth before her hand fell free.
Except it wasn’t free.
Still holding her wet hand, he guided it between her legs as his free hand pushed her skirt out of the way.
Her thighs instinctively opened.
The slick of her fingertips swiped over her clit.
With a shudder, she forgot to protest the loss of the secrets of his mouth.
Her eyes closed and a sigh escaped.
This was what she wanted. This forgetting. This unmaking and remaking.
“Please,” she whispered. “Just don’t give me sweet.”
His hand still held hers, the firm curl of his fingers covering hers, guiding them to push into the hungry heat of her sex.
He had such healing hands.
***
It was late when Scarlet awoke and sat up in bed. This was the first time they were spending a whole night together. The intimacy of sleeping was so different to the intimacy of fucking.
She reached out, lightly brushing her fingers over the hairs on his velvet skin, a whisper of a touch.
Jerricho stirred, eyes slowly opening to look at her as he blinked.
The dark silence with him felt so familiar. And somehow that scared her.
“What’s wrong, Scarlet?”
“We can’t go back.”
He tilted his head quizzically.
“Now that I’ve told you, we can’t go back. I don’t want what we had before.” Her hand trembled slightly as it rested on his arm.
What now? Where did they go?
Oh God, what was she doing? She was just a job, and he was just an itch.
She should get out of this bed. Get out of this room.
She scooted away as if he’d bit her.
“Shh, come here.”
She shook her head.
“Come here.”
She couldn’t. Couldn’t will herself to move to him … or away from him.
He leaned up, pulled her into his arms, and cradled her against him.
“It’s been a long day.” His body gently rocked, easing out her tensions.
He was sleepy and warm. She shouldn’t like it so much.
But she did.
“Give me real. I need you to give me real.” She shouldn’t ask.
But she did.
Seventeen
Jerricho stood in the bedroom and drew a deep breath. Scarlet had spent the morning moving around him as if she was waiting for something. Something from him.
She wanted real.
More real. The real under everything.
She wanted his truth.
This had always been coming.
Jerricho had fought against it, but in the end, he was tired of fighting.
For a while, he didn’t want to think about how this couldn’t go anywhere.
He just wanted to sink into it as if it was real.
She’d asked him to let her in, and this was the most real way he could do it.
He turned as Scarlet walked into the room. She was already naked. As instructed, she’d taken her clothes off in the library. The uncommonness of being undressed in that room would either thrill her or make her feel awkward. It was unimportant which one, only that the nudity was heightened.
Today they were going to be naked in a way she hadn’t tasted. A thrill ran up his spine at the thought of it.
“Get on the bed, Scarlet.”
She looked at him curiously as she neared the bed and the trinkets—thumbcuffs, rope, leather wrists cuffs and a box of cake candles with matches.
“Are we celebrating a birthday?”
“A birth day of sorts.” He patted the mattress. “Lie on your back with your head facing the foot of the bed.”
She did as she was told, sinking onto the mattress in a drape of grace and curves.
He cuffed her wrists and raised her arms over her head, laying them on the bed behind her, then fastened the clip of each cuff to a small metal ring.
He worked in silence. Things would be explained when and how it suited his purpose.
She breathed deeply, relaxing further. Her hands gripped the edge of the bed behind her. She would need that later—something to hold on to.
His fingers trailed over the contour of her body. Feather-light touches stroked down from the delicate bones in her wrist to the elegant arch of her foot. He could name every bone, every
muscle, every vein.
She smiled softly, exploring him back, her gaze traveling over the lines of his face and down his body. He was still fully dressed. Scarlet liked clothes on a man; she liked them dressed in power.
And he loved stripping her of hers.
Next, he reached for the thumbcuffs …
“Pull your knees in toward your chest.”
She curled her legs up, his hand guiding her movement. The position gave him full access to her ass and sex, but that was not the main event.
He gave her left foot a gentle squeeze before closing the first thumbcuff on her big toe then he cuffed the other foot. Such a small and effective tool to steal such a large amount of control. She was unable to pull her feet apart, she was unable to walk … she was unable to run.
Scarlet tested the cuff and gasped. “Feels … strange.”
“I know.” He could tell by her face she didn’t like it. She would be able to tell by his smile, he did. He picked up the rope and started to tie one of the ends to the small middle bar of the cuffs holding her toes.
“Strange as in creeping me out.”
As if he needed translation.
“Like I could dislocate my toes if I wiggle my feet too hard.”
“Then don’t wiggle your feet.” He threw the rope over the foot beam of the four-poster bed and formed a taut bow of rope, securing it to the metal loop of her bound wrists. The bed was a sleek, modern interpretation, reinvented in clean, minimal lines. It was beautiful, and when it came to bondage, it was convenient.
“Don’t drop your feet, Scarlet. My guess is that the weight of your legs pulling down would be worse than the wriggling.” A subversive suggestion; her legs would feel heavier and heavier.
It was never just about pain for him. He enjoyed the twisted satisfaction of the mindfuck, savored winding her up and bringing her down, a choreographed catch and release that reeled her deeper into his game.
She made a derisive noise as she scrutinized the rope above her. He could almost hear her brain working on a problem that couldn’t be solved.
He slipped his hand under her bottom. Another touch. Another squeeze. All his touches designed to soothe and lull her.
He wanted her seduction. Wanted her to choose whatever he did over the fear or pain that accompanied it.
He wanted her to beg for it.
Jerricho dragged the back of his fingers over the curve of her ass to the inviting lips of her sex, his thumb plowing up the seam, splitting her like a ripe peach.
She was wet. Already so very wet.
A body of glorious tells. The tight points of her nipples. The rise and fall of her chest with every shallow breath. Her body was ready; her mind just had to catch up.
He stroked her slit, his thumb rubbing lazy circles around her clit, making her breath catch.
This was where he had her focus now, his fingers teasing to keep it there.
One last baiting stroke before he picked up the candles and matches. She laughed. For wax play, the small candles seemed harmless.
Maybe. But they were in his hands.
Mixing up the colors, he teased eight candles between her toes, wiggling them in until they balanced. She squirmed as it tickled.
The thumbcuffs kicked in.
People were funny about their feet, intuitively protecting them, as if the brain knew that if you couldn’t run, you’d be dead.
Scarlet drew in a breath as he struck a match. Barely audible, the noise vibrated in his body. She was a wonderful symphony of sounds. He’d considered a gag for what was to come, but it would deprive him of half the pleasure.
One by one, he lit each candle. Stubbornly, he held onto the one match as it burned down, wanting to sample what was coming.
The candles would burn for less than an hour; with such small candles, there wasn’t much to melt. Although, this close to the skin, the bite of any hot wax would be vicious. For all the wear and tear, feet were sensitive things.
And really, it was about those eight flickering flames. Their collective heat belied their size.
A torment between fear and trust and desire.
She’d made him hungry.
And now he was going to feed.
Jerricho blew out the match just as it threatened to singe his fingers then let it drop to the floor.
Scarlet had been staring, as if mesmerized by the flame.
He had no doubt her mind was doing its worst. Fire. Another primitive fear.
She was doing so good trying to keep still, to not jar and drop a burning candle, to not let it fall and burn her sensitive skin—her foot, her thigh…her pussy.
He returned his hand to between her thighs. Stroking two fingers down her plump lips, he deliberately avoided her slit, her clitoris, her entrance. Tantalizing touches of his fingers tickled the silky soft of her skin, lazy strokes lingering on the luxury of her.
A luxury that couldn’t be bought.
A luxury he’d never truly own.
The audible rise of her panting washed against him. Teasing was never a one-way street. They were just chasing down different ends. Her, the ecstasy of release. Him, the raw rush of control.
And those wondrous sounds.
He pressed his hand against her mound, his thumb at the tip of her slit, massaging the spot slowly. Small movements nudged and bumped up against the hood of her peeking clit.
Her breathing became jagged. Still trying so hard to stay still, her body betrayed her with the slightest twitches.
He casually parted the lips of her sex, lewdly spreading her labia. Her core was completely exposed to him and the fresh brush of air.
She surrendered to him on a throaty moan, as if her need for gratification was now bigger than the burning flames.
He pinched her clit, just as the first drop of wax had stung the ball of her foot.
Pain.
Scarlet yelped.
The automatic jerk made her hiss as the movement pulled on her toes.
Fear.
Jerricho pushed two fingers deep inside her.
Pleasure.
Sensitive pads found the ribbed patch of nerves, that wonderful magic spot just behind her clit. He pressed against the sensitive nub, rubbing delirious circles. Her back arched off the mattress. Held taut against her reluctance to move her feet, she balanced on the razor’s edge of rapture and fear.
Hot wax drops started to steadily drip. His fingers fucked her through the stinging bites and she mewled for him. She was all slickness and heat.
He didn’t have the words to tell her how beautiful she looked … how perfect she was at this moment.
Her pussy grabbed, hungry as it clenched at his fingers. His cock throbbed as if the pulses traveled on a string that ran from his fingertips deep into his groin.
She was heaven.
Every movement and sound fed him. The rhythm of his fingers pushed her higher and higher. Erratic spasms milked him and the patchy rasp of her breath warned that she was starting to fall apart.
Scarlet would never know the self-discipline it took to drag his fingers out of her body and steal her orgasm.
It would be so easy to give. Sometimes he wished he could just be that man.
But he was sometimes more beast than man, and in this mood, the sadist always won.
Empty, she cried, the sound a frustration at the loss. Her hands balled into fists as she caught her breath.
Oblivious to the disruption, the candles continued to spit.
It took a moment for the euphoria of pleasure to dull. He waited for it. Could mark the exact moment the bites of wax transitioned from wicked thrill back to stinging pain.
Torment colored her groan as her senses warred. He studied the struggle as it played on the features of her face.
Beautiful.
Hypnotizing.
Her brow furrowed as she processed each burning drip. She breathed through it. Absorbing. Feeding off it.
Feeding him.
Each taste made his d
ark appetites hungrier.
Jerricho felt the shift, his internal shutter as he slid into his darker place.
He leaned down to blow cool air over her sex.
She shivered.
He slipped his fingers back inside her, making her hum. Pushed them deep. A fluttering of fingers inside her as his thumb brushed that magic knot of nerves in her clit.
Direct contact.
Her mewl was all pleasure.
Slowly, clinically, he began to edge her closer again.
Three fingers stretching and tormenting her as he knowingly played her body.
She was hungry for sensation.
She took it all. Even the candle wax was once again no longer unwelcome. Her response to each stimulus told him she was climbing higher.
He held her hip in a bruising grip, steadying her as he began to slam into her. Rough thrusts, finger fucking as the base of his palm kept slapping against her clit.
“Oh God. Please.”
Such a sweet, desperate whisper.
He sank his fingers in deep and ground against her harder.
“Yes. Yes…there. Oh God.”
She was back there right on the edge. Her body pulsed as if she was some kind of live wire.
He could feel her muscles tensing. His own abdomen tightening in the anticipation…
She was going to come.
“Yes—”
He let her go as roughly as he’d been fucking her.
Yanked away all sensation. Ripping her back from the edge seconds before she fell over.
“Fuuuuck,” she ground out in frustration, glaring at him, her anger now simmering as she tried to catch her breath.
He laughed.
Distress was such a delicious thing.
And they’d only started.
Plenty of time before the threat of the flames became real. Plenty of time to teach the difference between frustration and misery.
Plenty of time to get drunk on her anguish.
“Again.” He mercilessly plucked at the lust-swollen lips of her pussy.
He smiled as her body couldn’t help but respond.
By the seventh time Jerricho edged Scarlet, she was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Her body trembled and he had no doubt the burn in her thighs competed with the increasing heat, as the candles licked toward the balls of her feet. Everything was held in sharper relief.
Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) Page 13
