by Molly Joseph
He rolled on a rubber and made a big deal of skimping on the lubricant while she grinned maniacally from the bed. When he finished, he put on his show face and stalked to her. She pretended to scramble away, but didn’t fight very hard when he caught her by one leg and dragged her back. When she tried to turn over, he barked “No” and made her stay on her back. He wanted to see every minute of this, every note of emotion and discomfort.
He spread her legs, hooking them over his arms, and shoved a couple slick fingers between her ass cheeks. He kissed her hard as he toyed with her tiny hole. She groaned against his mouth, and he could sense her pussy growing wetter against his palm. It would have been easier to just thrust into her there, but she didn’t like things easy. She liked things exciting.
When it came to sex, so did he.
“Look at me,” he commanded. When she did, he held her gaze and stroked his long, thick cock. “This is going in your ass, and it’s going to hurt, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Oh God.” She gave him the perfect combination of terror and oh yum please yes put it in me. He knew from their earlier encounter that she enjoyed a deep, thorough assfucking. Her passion inflamed his passion, her need inflamed his need, and her gaze revealed an adulation that filled him with carnal power.
She bit her lip as he worked a finger into her anal channel. She clenched around him, then whined as he added a second finger and started stretching her. There was something so deliciously primal about violating that tight, sensitive space. It was dirty and dangerous in a way most women didn’t like, but this one liked it.
“How does that feel?” he asked, sliding his fingers in and out of her, preparing her to take his girth. “You want more?”
“Yes, please.” She sighed, then remembered that she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this—the whole “painal” thing. She amended her answer to “Ow, you’re hurting me.”
“Just wait. It’s going to get worse before I’m done with you.”
He used his stern voice, the one he used when he worked as her bodyguard. This wasn’t work anymore. This was play, dangerous, daring play that might fuck up both of them, but he couldn’t summon the willpower to stop. He drew out his fingers and positioned the head of his cock against her ass.
“This whole thing’s going in your asshole. Every fucking inch.”
“No. Please!”
Ah, she was good at this. He pried her legs wider and leaned to kiss her, then hissed as she caught his lower lip between her teeth.
“No biting. I think you need to be taught a lesson.”
He pressed into her ass, breaching her tight ring with careful control, but still enough force to keep her in the game. She pushed at his chest and choked out lovely, distressed noises that made him swell harder as he tried to work his way inside her. Someday he’d shove her down on her stomach and fuck her ass doggy style, but right now he needed to see her face.
Someday, Ransom? You’re thinking about someday? A future?
“Yes. Yes!” Her passionate cries distracted him from that troubling thought. A groan of pleasure erupted from her throat and resonated through his reeling senses. He might have reminded her that painal was supposed to hurt, but who fucking cared at this point? It felt so goddamn good. Her ass clenched around his cock as he held her down and drove deep. She was his to capture, fuck, hurt. Holy fuck.
He started to move in her, faster, harder, and was rewarded with more wails of pretended agony. She tested even his epic staying power. He closed his eyes and tried not to come, tried not to shoot inside her spasming ass before he could fully appreciate the thrill of being inside her.
She threw her arms to the sides as he bottomed out in her, over and over. The more she squirmed, the harder he held her legs so she couldn’t pull away.
“Does that feel bad, baby?”
“Yes. Ow.” She pouted theatrically. “It feels awful. It hurts.”
“You’re gonna take it. Do you hear me? You’re going to take my fat cock in your ass until you come.”
“I can’t come,” she whimpered. “You’re hurting me too much.”
“Then you’re going to get fucked and fucked until you’re raw, and I’m still going to force you to come.”
“Oh, please, don’t.”
Her protests weren’t real, but her building excitement was a hundred percent genuine. He wanted this to be everything she wanted and more.
“Come here, baby.” He held her closer as he lengthened his strokes. He pulled out slow, then drove in hard, then pulled out slow again as she spread her palms against his hips. After a few minutes of hard drilling, he stroked her clit, just a tease, a touch. She whimpered and arched against his hand.
“Someone’s wrought up,” he taunted. “Someone claims it hurts, but she’s all wet.”
“Please… Oh…”
He massaged her clit again, knowing just how to draw her pleasure to a peak. She was wild from their role play, reveling in his sensual force. Just before he thought she might come, he stopped. Her resulting anger was gorgeous. She tried to pull his hand back, and then gave up and touched her clit herself. He tsked and gripped her wrists, yanking them over her head.
“No touching unless I allow it, naughty girl. You leave your hands right here.”
That turned her on so much she was almost levitating. She stared up at him, impaled on his cock, desperate to bring herself off, but not allowed to do it. He held her thighs open and rode her, his thick shaft stretching her over and over. Shit, he wasn’t going to last much longer.
“You know why I’m hurting your asshole?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You know why you’re getting it so rough?”
“Why?” she panted.
“Because you’re a dirty girl. You’re naughty and you don’t behave.”
Which was the damn truth, above and beyond this abandoned tumble into depravity. He thumbed her clit again, and rolled his hips so she felt his entire girth with each thrust. Her mouth fell open as her hands clenched into fists above her head.
“I bet you don’t even want to come,” he said. “You just want me to keep hurting you.”
“No, I want to come!”
While his right hand worked her clit to a frenzy, he gave her another punishing kiss. They were on fire, just like the first time, only hotter. She shook under him and gasped against his lips, begging for completion.
“God… Please. Ransom… Oh my God…”
Ten seconds later she erupted, reaching for him against the edict to keep her hands over her head. He caught her in his arms so he could feel every shudder of her orgasm as he suffered through his. It was suffering, truly, because it was so intense and hot, and because this was so wrong. He shoved himself deep inside her, holding her against him. He never wanted to move.
“Jesus Christ. Holy shit.” Her peal of laughter rang out over his hard exhale. “You rule, Ransom. You’re so fucking good at making me come.”
All those words, all that excitement, when Ransom couldn’t summon anything but the need to take another breath. Somehow he had to cope with this. He had to cope with the fact that they connected this way in bed.
But it was more than that.
That’s what scared him.
He pulled away from her when he started to go soft, and even then he couldn’t find the words he needed. Instead he patted the side of her head and kissed her again in all the wonderful places. Eyes, nose, cheekbones, forehead, lips. I’m falling in love with you. Why are you doing this to me?
For her part, she gazed up at him in pleased wonder. So much for resisting her. He was fucked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Not Worth It
After they showered, they ate pizza and drank San Pellegrino on the same bed where Ransom had fucked her. Lola tried not to stare, but he was shirtless and hungry, and everything about him turned her on. He ate pizza like he fucked, all earthy and shit, with lots of gusto.
Jesus, Lola, you have to stay in control.
She knew she was acting like an infatuated kid, turning stupid over a much older man, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t control it. She couldn’t be the cool, mythical Lady Paradise around him. When she was with other men, she didn’t give a shit about them, so she always had the upper hand. With Ransom, she felt on the verge of falling apart.
“Want another piece?” He offered her the box.
“No thanks.”
“It’s good pizza.” He sank his teeth into another slice with a wicked grin that made her insides turn to mush. Since when was stuffing your face with pizza sexy? Ransom made it seem that way. She went for her guitar and brought it back to the bed, hoping it might provide some outlet for her roiling emotions. His grin widened as he watched her tune it, plucking at the strings.
“And now you’re going to sing. Could this night be any more perfect?”
His warm words made a blush spread over her cheeks. It had turned into a perfect night. Too perfect, which scared her. When would he withdraw from her again? Would she survive it? She gave an abrupt, dissonant strum and met his gaze.
“I’m going to sing about you,” she said.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Uh huh. So get ready. I’ve been writing this in my spare time.”
Her spare time: those few and precious moments not eaten up by her manager’s demands, her musical tinkering, public relations crap, the endless stream of demos cooling in her Dropbox, and the inordinate amount of time she spent obsessing over Ransom. She strummed again, a chord as present and powerful as her bodyguard-lover, and began to sing some lyrics she’d written over the previous few days.
“It’s been so many years of blue sky rain/so many years of pink hair pain…” He smiled at that, which gave her the courage to continue. When had she gotten so shy in front of him? She strummed another chord. “So many years of losing myself in clouds/when the sun never came.”
Pain and came didn’t quite rhyme, but whatever. Sometimes beats didn’t match up exactly either. Imperfect art was still art. Messed up feelings were still feelings. He was the sun in her song, and he knew it. He was the sun in all her songs these days, which was fucked up, because she’d started out hating him so much.
He watched as she strummed out a few more lines, exposing herself to him in a way she didn’t expose herself in front of the festival ravers. In the end, she wimped out and omitted the angsty middle verses, and went straight to the end.
“You say I’m a kid, but maybe I’m grown up enough to see…” Her voice held the note as her fingers searched for the last chord. “That sometimes what you didn’t want/is exactly what you need.”
She put down her guitar and made a face at him to cover her tumultuous feelings. “See and need don’t rhyme. There’s an extra d.”
A faint smile. A twinkle in his eyes. “Yeah, but you love extra d.”
She laughed as he leaned to kiss her, one of his hands resting on her leg. He tasted like pizza and lemon Pellegrino, and smelled like clean, warm bodyguard fresh out of the shower.
“I do love extra d,” she admitted when they pulled apart. “Especially your extra d, which is extra thick and extra hard.”
“You’re extra dirty.”
“Not as dirty as you.” It was easier to talk about sex than the other things she’d come to feel for him. She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling stripped by his closeness and steady regard. “Thank you for tonight. It was…memorable.”
“I try to be memorable.”
He’d just be a memory one day. All their carnal hookups would be a fleeting collection of memories, a few magical weeks in time. She couldn’t bear to think of that right now. He sobered. He must have been thinking about it too.
“This thing we’re doing…” He cupped her face. “This is so against the rules, kid. They’re going to fire me over this. All those years working my way to the top of my field…”
“They’ll never know.” She put her hand over his. “I promise I’ll never tell anyone. I swear.”
“Whether you tell or not, it happened.”
Her expression hardened to match his. “Are you going to be all honorable and make some big, guilty confession to your boss?”
“I try to be honorable.”
She put her guitar back in its case. “Don’t be honorable over me,” she said. “I’m a twenty-year-old raver with pink hair. I’m not worth it.”
“Don’t say you’re not worth it.” He moved the pizza box to the other bed and gathered her in his arms. “I want to tell you something.” His voice deepened with feigned dramatic resonance. “I want to tell you something about life.”
“Ooh, life.” She mocked so she wouldn’t start bawling. Why did she go weepy every time he held her?
Because she didn’t have any other love in her life.
Wait. Fuck.
Love?
You love him, Lola. Just tell him. Admit it.
Five miserable years of partying and posturing and fucking guys she didn’t even like, when she could have been with a man like this. An honorable, tender, intelligent man who cared enough to teach her about life.
He cradled her against his chest and rested his chin on her temple. “I know I’m going to sound all parental and uptight when I say this—”
“Which is how you always sound, so whatever.”
“So, whatever. My wise advice is that you’re worth exactly what you believe you’re worth. Do you understand what I mean?” He repeated it again, like she might not have heard the first time. “You’re worth exactly what you believe you’re worth. Not just monetarily, but emotionally. If you let people belittle and use you—”
That made her sit up in irritation. “You think I let people use me? I don’t. I use them.”
“I know you do. It’s a powerful defensive weapon. But it’s still a defense.” He tilted her face up to his, and she knew she looked defensive as hell. “Underneath your Lady Paradise persona, I know you’re unhappy. You’re afraid the next album, the next festival, the next hair color won’t be good enough.”
“Fuck you,” she muttered. “You don’t know anything.”
He pulled her close again, stroking fingers into her nape so goosebumps rose on her skin. “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t even talking about you. I was talking about me. My past. My regrets. In my last career, I let people manipulate me into being less than I was.” His slow sigh ruffled her hair. “You’re worth exactly what you believe you’re worth, Lola. That’s the only advice I feel qualified to give.”
His quiet voice made her heart ache. When she said Fuck you, she really meant I love you. He probably understood that. She curled her fingers around his muscled arm.
“How long did you do the porn stuff?”
“Too long.” He sighed again. “I did five hundred and sixty-three shoots, which turned into God knows how many movies. I fucked hundreds of women on camera, made friends with a lot of them, watched them succumb one after the other to depression, drugs, and shitty relationships.”
She sat up to look at him, but he wasn’t there. His tortured gaze was trapped somewhere in the past.
“So many of them hated themselves. That’s what got to me in the end. At first, I convinced myself it was okay to trash those women on film, hurt them, hold them down and degrade them, because it was all just business. A performance. But by the end…”
She slid her fingers down to hold his hand. “What happened? I mean, what happened to make you decide you’d had enough?”
He gave a soft, sad laugh. “My conscience happened. I had a friend, a beautiful woman I worked with during the final two years. We grew close because we had a lot in common: big, crazy families, L.A. upbringing, a growing aversion to the business. But once you’re in porn, it’s hard to get out. The money’s good, the lifestyle’s flexible, and the producers always pressure you for one more shoot. Rayna wanted to get out but she didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t think she was good enough…”
His voice trailed off. You’re worth exactly what you believe you’re worth.
“She got into drugs to cope with the lifestyle,” he said, continuing his story. “She drank herself to sleep every night, or took pain pills to come down from whatever stimulant she’d taken. We used to have long, emotional talks, but that side of her disappeared until she was only a shell of her former self. I pleaded with her to rehab, to get out, but she was so sunken in despair and self-hate by that point…”
“And you were too.” She could hear it in his tone. “What happened to her?”
He shook his head, staring down at their hands. Lola didn’t press for clarification. She could imagine the rest. She could imagine his helpless guilt as he watched his friend throw away her life. She could imagine him quitting porn and starting a new career, a career where he could be the protector instead of the assailant. Where he could prevent people from harming themselves through addictions and destructive behaviors, rather than be complicit in their spiral.
She laced her fingers through his. “What happened to her wasn’t your fault.”
“Oh, I was part of the problem.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “The things I did to her on film, to all those women, day after day, year after year… That’s why I can’t stand the idea of you watching, or anyone watching. I can’t stand that I made films for so long. When I turned to drugs to perform, and alcohol to sleep at night, I already knew how that story ended.”
Lola stared at him. Uptight, upright Ransom using drugs and alcohol? She couldn’t imagine it. The idea of him high or drunk, outside his iron edifice of control, terrified her.
“So instead, I decided to change my life,” he said. “I decided I was worth more than fucking for money. I got clean, shaped up, and applied for an entry-level position at Ironclad. I was honest with my boss about my past. I told him I wanted to make amends, that I wanted to help people. I worked my way up through the ranks, proving myself client by client. Now here I am.” The faraway look went away, and her stern bodyguard was back, restating his brisk advice. “You decide what you’re worth, Lola. No one else will do it for you. If it was up to those assholes I worked for, I’d still be pumping out porn flicks today.”
