Black Queen, Dark Knight: A Bad Boy Romance

by Amarie Avant

  “Would you like to take a shower?” Jagger’s tone lacks depth. A moment ago, I was swallowed up by his emotion.

  He only has a few. Rage is the primary one. Disappointment tags along at times. I cannot fathom why, but there was a sliver of disappointment in him during the instant I got into his truck and locked the door, and again minutes ago, the instant he noticed me holding his gun.

  “No, I don’t want anything from you. You murdered my friends! You are deplorable!”

  “Mikayla, take the fucking shower,” he grumbles and heads out the door. Moments pass and there’s a knock.

  I muster as much animosity as I can to shout, “Oh, back so soon? You think you can break me, Jagger!”

  The door opens slowly. There are garments bunched in Jagger’s hands. He walks over to me and presses them gently into my chest. “Mikayla, you’ll sleep better tonight if you bathe or shower. I won’t have you sitting on the bathroom sink all night long. Do it,” he insists calmly.

  “So, will you fuck me here?” I grip his hand and bring it down between my legs. “My pussy is clean, Jagger. I promise. No matter how dirty I am, the vagina has the ability to clean itself. You can screw me here. No matter what, I won’t cry. That’s what you want, right? Power? I’m telling you know, fuck me all you want, you won’t get any power from me,” I say, hoping to unman him enough to leave me alone.

  “Power,” he parrots. His voice is low and luscious as he repeats the word. He clutches at the apex between my thighs, prepared to call my bluff. Silence burns between us, yet it doesn’t mask the lust burning within him or the erotic fire burning between my thighs. His thumb caresses my clitoris. Ribbons of desire that I’ve never known before weigh heavily at the center of my body. “I will not rape you, Mikayla. I’m might be a monster, but that’s a line even I will never cross. Feel free to say ‘yes’ for real, and I will fuck you to heaven, uthando lwami.”

  The turquoise pools of water that are his pupils slide over my face and seek out my eyes. Jagger’s fingers glide through the curls of my hair. In one of my sociology courses, I learned there a few ways that may deter a rapist from sexually attacking you.

  The first was useless because I don’t have to pee, and even if I did I was too scared to.

  Second, make him feel small. He might beat the hell out of you, but raping you is something he may or may not chose to follow through with.

  Third, tell him from the start that regardless of what he believes he is taking from you, he can’t have it. My …. The rest of my thoughts leave my head in a hurry.

  The air in my lungs dies as his large middle finger follows the path into my pussy.

  I’m growing wetter by the second, and the defense mechanism that I just banked on is washed right away from my mind. I lay my head back against the mirror. The only sounds in the room are of my sharp breaths. Tears begin to fill my eyes. I hate myself for desiring and enjoying this feeling. Cree and I have only done a few things, mutual masturbation is one of them. My main regret is not giving him myself fully. If I knew I’d end up having my virginity stolen, I might not have cherished it so much…

  Unable to help myself, I grip Jagger’s hand, and help him catch a rhythm. Fuck, my walls are glossing, dripping and widening by the second. His fingers are so huge; he must have three, no four of them inside of me. I try to tell myself to hate him and not to concentrate on the wonderful feeling of this big, strong man screwing me with his fingers.

  He rubs his other hand across his bristled jaw as if fighting the animal in him; the animal that wants to leap out. Screw me hard.

  The tears in my eyes are now streaming steady down my cheeks, and my mouth is parted on a silent gasp.

  Shit, did I moan? Did I just fucking moan? And my hips, they’re grinding along the marble ledge, I am fully helping the devil screw me!

  “You’re crying.” Jagger pulls his hand away from my hiding sweet spot. I clutch at him.

  “Just do it! Screw me, have your power,” I order, my face awash with humiliation. Though internally, my body is begging for so much more. My pussy is wetter than my cheeks. It’s crying out for the danger, not in fear of it.

  “Just screw you, huh?” There’s a cocky grin on Jagger’s face, but he shakes his head. He presses two large sleek fingers—I guess I miscalculated thinking the girth to be that of at least three or four—against his nose to take a big inhale, which causes his thick chest to broaden. He rubs those fingers over his thick mouth. “Doesn’t smell like fear to me, Mikayla. Scents of saccharine. Malva.”

  “Malva?” My eyebrow perks.

  Jagger’s tongue dips out and drags up and around his fingers. “Fuck yes, Malva.”

  His lengthy limbs have him at the door before I can utter a single word.

  “Now, shower, Mikayla. There’ll be no fucking tonight.”

  The door slams behind him. I tell myself that I just want this all to be over. I know sex isn’t the conclusion to my story, and I’m certain that beast of a man has certain requirements that I wouldn’t even consent to in my marriage.

  But I continue to tell myself that getting it over with, allowing him to strip me bare and shred the remainder of the variables which makes me, me, is inevitable. There’s a Band-Aid over my heart.

  Pull it off.

  Ruin me.

  And then when you’re done, slam a bullet into my skull or give me to a pimp to turn tricks. That’s the only course of action in these scenarios, right? A woman is kidnapped, raped, murdered and tossed into a ditch. Or the sociopath, in Jagger Johansson’s case, sells the girl off…

  I hop down from the counter with that thought. I’m being sex trafficked! Jagger said he won’t rape me. With my virtue in tack, he’ll sell me to some fucker in South Africa.

  Jesus, you are my Rock. My Hillsong worship, which I would listen to while guzzling energy drinks and studying in college until my eyes felt like they’d bleed, does nothing for me as I shower and dress. When I exit the bathroom, the bedroom is dark.

  “Get in,” Jagger orders.

  My eyes are puffy and burning from all the tears that have fallen today. I climb into bed and begin to grab pillows to place between us, when something cool and steel slams around my wrist.

  Jagger just handcuffed me to him.

  Jagger

  I grind my teeth. Darkness surrounds us. I have shit on my chest that I need to get off.

  My parents always said never go to bed angry with someone. Kind of fucked up to remember that now, after all these years.

  The only absolution to pissing me off is usually by me shooting my enemy. I cannot believe Mikayla Bryant demanded I rape her. Inside, I’m a raging lion, ready to slap the sullen look off her. I concentrate on the graduation photo from the X Member profile request.

  That Mikayla Bryant was the epitome of confidence and beauty.

  This one is gorgeous, damn she’s gorgeous, but who becomes so dead inside that they don’t care about how they’re treated. I can’t even fathom what I’ve done to make her believe I’d rape her. I mean, yes, I’d just killed at least 5 people in front of her, and one of them was her boyfriend, but violence and murder is way different than rape.

  I feel like lying on my side, so I yank my left arm, which I briefly forgot is connected to her right wrist.

  She growls.

  I grin. There’s a little fight in her left. I prefer the fight in her versus the woman I just cornered in the bathroom, fuck that. Yes, I’ll dirty up a damsel in distress, but I prefer my women more like Ava Sinclair. She grabs a bull by the balls. In my case, she massages instead of claws and squeezes.

  The grin on my lips dies after a few moments. My cock is weighed down against the mattress beside me. I’ve only had the faintest taste of her pussy.

  It was malva… addicting, the sweetest savor. It was like honey, and even though I don’t eat pussy, if she were willing, I’d stretch those thighs over my shoulders and drink of her. Feast and … fucking savor. I rub my fingers together. The
tight fit of her is rooted to memory.

  Tight. And wet. Shit, I stretched her enough inserting a second finger. My cock is going to butcher that virgin pussy. Wait! What the hell am I thinking? I’m not “permitted” to screw Mikayla Bryant.

  I fist a handful of the hair at my crown, my growl blows the one she just issued to smithereens.

  An hour later, the tiny, exhausted whimpers of her fresh tears fade away. Mikayla is sound asleep. I lie on my back and pull her closer to me. I can’t seem to help myself.

  I bite my lip and reach for my cock. My hand is dry, but my meat is seeping. It’s so taut. I grit my teeth, hating Ava for placing me in this predicament. I’ve never fought for pussy. Legs fly open for me, but I’m lying in bed with a virgin who hates my guts. Yet, the only image in my mind is Mikayla Bryant as I whack my erection in anger.

  ***

  On the morning of day two, Mikayla is fully cuddling into my arms. Holding me tightly to her. Her lips are inches away from mine, and she’s in rapid eye movement sleep. My thumb is brushing across her mouth before my brain catches on. The boner I’m sporting puts all the other ones I’ve ever had to shame. I’ve had international, exotic pussy, and yet there’s a fucking tepee spearing against my pajama pants for this untouched innocent lying next to me. I deftly move her head from my shoulder.

  She parts her lips. She murmurs something intelligible. Now, she’s not at peace but crying softly in her dream. Hell no. I don’t give enough shit about her to wake her from whatever horrors she’s dreaming of. I can’t. I’m probably the cause…

  So, making sure not to rouse her awake, I couldn’t unlock the handcuffs and get out of the bed fast enough. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, my parents are on my mind. As a child, I’d look at them. I could just about feel how in love they were with each other. They’d be as ashamed of me as Mikayla Bryant was last night.

  I’m a monster who lacks social graces. Evolution has genetically predisposed me to stake claim to what doesn’t belong to me. My parents are dead. I need to shake them from my mind and stop all thoughts of reconfiguring the childhood in which I was raised.

  The real Jace and Alisha Johansson finished each other’s sentences. My father, Jace, had unruly dark blond hair; my mother, Alisha’s hair was on the lighter side, not quite as white as Ava’s. And my mother was the polar opposite of Ava, the only woman I’ve connected with in the past. Alisha, teacher and director of the church choir—amongst other things— would’ve been repulsed by Ava Sinclair. My mother never had a hateful bone in her body. My father was more than capable with a gun. His morals by far outshine mine. Selling a woman to the Zihula nation, without her consent, for money and a fucking engine—never.

  Damnit, I can’t get my parents out of my mind, now. The disappointment in my father’s eyes when he saw the blood oath marking on the palm of my left hand was tangible. Though they died a few years after I joined the organization, I never crossed paths with them after I joined. And still, I use his first name when out. It helps remind me that I should respond when my name is called. I switch up the last name at times. My current surname, Windhoek, was his favorite beer, hailing from all the way in Namibia.

  I was a fucking disgrace to my father. Dead to him years before he and my mother were murdered, and though I keep his rigid beliefs from my mind, I can’t stop myself from recalling the little things like Windhoek Lager, or more importantly big things like I know they’d both love Mikayla.

  I grit my teeth as hate for myself fills me.

  What the heck is wrong with you Jagger? You should’ve demanded that Ava schedule a meeting with the board members of X Member organization. It isn’t like I’m able to lawyer up, but ruining a life… I'm ruining the life of a young woman who has something going for herself. I’m a fucking dick.

  I head to the shower. The luxurious bathroom is more than suffocating. I get inside and allow the hot steam to slam down on me. Leaning against the glass wall I plead with my cock to not desire the untouchable Mikayla Bryant.

  If I had declined the mission, the rules call for my death.

  If I touch Mikayla the way my body is screaming to, the same rules apply. And forget my desires. Even as I lather with expensive soap, I feel dirty and unworthy of her. I’m a man who loves to murder people. She was on the path to saving people, stitching them up, mending them, making sure they live. Whereas I’d rather tear them apart, limb from bloody limb… and I enjoy it.

  Nothing I’m trying to use to convince myself away from thoughts of her are working. My imagination still burns with the thought of Mikayla’s hand stroking my cock instead of my own. The sparkle in her dark brown eyes tells me that the feisty minx just about caught rhythm to bring me to the brink of pleasure and reel in my desire again. Going fast… faster and then slower.

  She rolls my balls in one hand while the other pumps at my cock. Keeping with her steady rhythm her thumb rubs along my crown masterfully and she moans about just how hard, just how fucking huge I am.

  She works at my cock until my toes clinch along the marble floor, and jets of my hot come splashes out. The side of my fist presses into the marble wall as I realize it is only me.

  If it were her, she would be sloppy in her innocence and without any real technique. But damn it, teaching her how to fuck the way I like it just might have me coming faster than a more seasoned woman.

  “She’s not yours, Jag,” I growl to myself.

  She could be. With that thought my cock is already hardening again. That tease of a taste I had last night sends an unstoppable craving slamming through my veins.

  Again, I tell myself that Mikayla Bryant, princess of the Nivean nation and future queen of an even greater land does… not…belong to me.

  Time escapes me as I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. Voices travel toward me. My footsteps slide over the marble floor as I hurry out of the bathroom, clutching the towel against me. The voice is definitely Mikayla’s, the other one, takes a few seconds to decipher. It’s the effeminate concierge. They’re standing at the doorway.

  Mikayla tosses her head back, her hair drapes over her shoulder, and she’s moaning. And my cock is as devilish as ever, begging to dominate her.

  “This waffle tastes amazing, Harry. Thank you so much for breakfast. Flip flops or any pair of sandals will work just fine.”

  “Of course, I’ll have your shoes available when the dry-cleaning returns. Again, Mrs. Windhoek I apologize for the delay.”

  In my haste to get to her, I stop the mad dash just as Harry gives me an odd look. Then Mikayla’s glare cuts over to me. I look like a fucking idiot.

  Mikayla

  “Jace,” I snip out each word, “let’s eat and get dressed. I cannot wait to go shopping.” You delusional liar. I mentally tell myself to play my cards right, and I’ll get away from Jagger on my own accord.

  “Mrs. Windhoek,” Harry nods at me and then regards my abductor with another befuddled look. “Mr. Windhoek, take your time.”

  He finally steps out of the suite, closing the double doors behind him. Once again, I can breathe freely. Harry was much too sweet to be snuffed out by the likes of Jagger Johansson.

  “Why didn’t you ask him for help, Mikayla?” he asks without an ounce of concern.

  I spin around on the heels of my bare feet and it’s hard to keep the anger solidified on my face. I silently cried myself to sleep. No matter how much talking I did while eating Jagger’s Big Mac, I’m prone to tears. My mom and I use to cry for happiness. She taught me that it was ‘okay’ to cry when I was a little kid, and back then I use to have the type of night terrors that rip through your soul even though I never remembered them upon waking.

  Now, I hate myself for any weakness I show. Hatred is all I need. Well that and wits. I glance over at Jagger. His chest is glistening now. What a vision of perfection. He’s an idol, with water dripping down each of his muscles. In half a second, my mouth has pooled with saliva, and I can almost feel his
powerful fingers caressing my wet walls last night. Why didn’t he just use my body already and trample on me like the trash he thinks I am? Trash enough to traffic out.

  I keep my eyes narrowed and on his. Taking a hand to my hip, I respond, “Humph, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll keep obedient, Jagger, Jace, whatever the hell you determine to call yourself. There’ll be no more dead bodies piling up because of my will to survive. You have me.” My hands fall at my sides, as I offer him everything he was so hell bent on taking anyway.

  “Good.”

  Jagger heads to the bedroom. My lips bunch into a line, and I stalk after him. I take three hustled steps for his one leisurely step. He’s returned to his flippant demeanor. His shoulders are wide and the muscles in his back remind me of a lion strolling through the jungle, never having nor willing to know fear.

  There’s a tattoo on the side of his oblique that extends to his back, there are words I’m not aware of. I mentally curse myself for glancing down again. In the room, Jagger turns around so quickly that I rear back in order not to run into his chest.

  “What, Mikayla?” He growls down at me.

  I swallow down even more lust, and sift through my brain for a proper response, “I am… mad! Livid! Do I not have the right to be?”

  “You have every right. But your temperament is strong. You didn’t get stubborn overnight. However, we will fix that.”

  “Oh, we will fix me?” My palms press against the unmovable wall that is Jagger’s chest. “Make me weak; break me down until I no longer know the woman or vessel staring me back in the mirror?” Make me complacent with being raped daily?

  Suddenly he isn’t a dog ready to strike at me anymore, as he murmurs, “Don’t start crying now, uthando lwami. This is your fate.”