Masterful (An Erotic Dark Romance)

by Jesse Joren

  Slowly his palms brushed over my nipples, grazing them with the lightest of touches. Traitors that they were, they rose up under his hands.

  When he reached my hated lower stomach, I turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes. I didn't want to see myself reflected there, afraid of what I might see.

  "I'm not going to hurt you. You have my word," he promised.

  But you are hurting me, a silent little voice sobbed inside of me. Please just leave me alone.

  The leather slid under the waistband of my panties. My thighs pressed together on reflex, hard enough to tremble.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "I could have done that months ago when I first found you. I could have done it tonight when you slept."

  "It's too late to say no," he went on. "You already gave yourself to me, a long time ago. Now open for me, Eva. I'm waiting."

  Something in his voice made me more helpless than whatever held my hands. In his mind, I really was already his.

  But there was something even worse. In some dark and twisted corner, part of me agreed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My hands clenched whatever held them, even as my thighs softened and relaxed to him. I realized I was holding my breath, and let it out with a ragged whoosh.

  The rough-smooth texture of the leather was stroking me, rubbing between my thighs. His touch was slow and thorough, like a man who didn't expect interruptions.

  How long had he been planning tonight? A very long time, from the look of things.

  My panties were tugged aside. I braced myself for roughness, for pain, for invasion. What other treatment could I expect from a man who had waited for me in the dark?

  A smooth leather finger slid inside of me, teasing me open with easy, sure skill. The leather warmed to my inner heat as it found all the deep, sensitive places, stroking them gently.

  He was a stranger to me, an online fantasy gone horribly wrong. His touch was that of a lover who already knew my body's secrets. Two years of the most intimate conversations imaginable, and now here he was, a fantasy come to life in my cheap little apartment.

  "That's right," he said huskily. "This is mine. You're mine. I see it in your eyes. You know it too. You're my Scheherazade, fantasies for a thousand and one nights."

  A second finger joined the first, stretching me softly, insistently. A tiny sound came and went in my throat as my hips tried to rise up from the bed.

  His threat of stripping me wasn't necessary. I was helpless under that diamond-bright gaze and knowing touch.

  "Do you have any idea how many times I've imagined you like this?" he asked. "Of course you don't. You wrote me off, but I'm no mirage, Eva."

  The sensations he was coaxing from me were raw and irresistible, in spite of everything that was happening too fast. This time my hips rose to meet him.

  The thin T-shirt suddenly felt too warm.

  Maybe you should let him strip you, a part of my mind whispered.

  Hex smiled as if he heard that thought.

  "Some things you told me were true. You love that kiss of the leather, don't you? Especially when I touch you right here."

  The leather worked smoothly inside of me, sending quivering waves of heat into my lower stomach. My embarrassment and fear were dim and unimportant under that touch.

  My breathing became steeper as my hips rocked against his hand. Under his touch, my body responded with soft, sleek wetness.

  A throbbing surge rose up inside of me, uncontrolled and raw. An instant later his thumb brushed the hard, aching knot of my clit.

  Despite this insane situation, or maybe because of it, I was suddenly close to climaxing right into his hand. The intense chemistry I'd always felt for him was being fanned into dark life.

  Hex had been irresistible online. Crazed or not, he was even more devastating in person.

  You're hot for this breaking-and-entering psycho? Fucking-A, Eva.

  The small bedroom had taken on an unreal quality, as though we were moving in a dream. And you were never accountable for what happened in dreams, right?

  My body strained toward him, the unmistakable surge building inside of me. My breath began to come in hard, short bursts. I was so close...

  "That's my girl," he whispered, his voice a caress in itself.

  Then he was withdrawing, leaving me hollow and unsatisfied. The fragile fantasy vanished as my humiliation and anger came roaring back to life.

  "What's this all over my glove, Cherry?" he asked with a wolfish flash of white teeth.

  I didn't have to see his hand to know what was there. The scent of my wet, fragrant response drifted through the still bedroom air.

  The excitement was still there, making it hard to think. I swallowed hard, trying to calm my racing pulse, my frenzied thoughts.

  He brought the leather to his face, inhaling deeply. An expression that might have been pain or pleasure crossed his face.

  "That's exactly it. You weren't lying about that being you," he said.

  Suddenly the soft coil slackened around my right wrist. I tried not to let my eyes give it away.

  "So it's the same," I said. "Are you happy now?"

  My voice was breathless and a little angry. I was having trouble ignoring the sweet, throbbing ache between my legs.

  "More than you can ever know," he said. "I'm going to save you, Eva."

  I worked my still-tied wrist as secretly as I could, trying to keep him talking.

  "Hex, you need help," I said. "You've got some kind of fantasy built around me. I don't need to be rescued. You should leave before this gets to where there's no going back."

  His laugh rang out in the small room.

  "Is that Chapter One of some 'how to negotiate a hostage situation' handbook? They need to fire their editor. That little speech sucks."

  Actually, that little speech was mine. The ties were definitely getting looser.

  "I'm serious," I insisted.

  Hex was still smiling as he pulled off the gloves.

  "You're so wrong," he said. "Your prison is worse than any jail, and you don't even realize it. You're poisoned, but I have the antidote. As bitter as you may find it, you're going to take your medicine."

  He ran his hand down my thigh again, leaving a feverish path in his wake. Lower and lower to my calf, down to my ankle with its fine, telltale network of scars and fresher cuts.

  He traced them with a light touch, like a secret Braille code to the darkest part of my heart.

  "I know what these are," he said. "Cuts. Easing your pain where no one will see. This last one needs a stitch. I'll take care of it. Later."

  He brought the gloves to his face one more time, inhaling deeply.

  "Essence of Eva. That will hold that scent pretty much forever. Leather impregnates like nothing else."

  Something about the way he said that sent another damp flush racing through me. His quiet grin told me that the wording wasn't an accident.

  He tucked the gloves back into his bag.

  "We're just about ready to leave, but I need to make sure of one more thing before we go."

  He stood up and left the bedroom. The sound of running water told me he'd reached the kitchen. My thirst came roaring back at the sound.

  Without his overwhelming presence near me, and inside of me, something like sanity came rushing back. I worked to free my left hand.

  You're poisoned. You're going to take your medicine.

  Only a very dangerous, devious man could have orchestrated what was unfolding around me. Not to mention what he'd done to my neighbors. For two years I'd been revealing my most personal fantasies to a guy like this.

  I sure knew how to pick 'em.

  His voice snaked down the hallway.

  "I think you're going to enjoy where we're going," he called. "Maybe not at first, but it will grow on you."

  If he takes you out of here tonight, you're not coming back, except by body bag. Forget how hot he just made you. You know what you have to do.


  Yes, I did. My heart pounded at the thought of doing it. It wasn't something you could take back once you started. Deep inside I wasn't sure I could see it through.

  You better find some guts, and fast. He's not gonna stay in that kitchen forever.

  The water stopped, punctuated by the soft rip of a paper towel. It was only about ten good steps down the hallway, then he'd be back in the bedroom with me.

  Hex thought I needed saving, and he was right. I needed saving from him. No one was going to do it but me.

  Again I tugged at whatever held my left wrist. After a final instant of resistance, it slithered free.

  It was the belt from an old bathrobe. When it got too small I'd shoved it to the very back of my closet. Good-bye, size sixteen.

  That son-of-a-bitch probably went through the whole closet and saw the sizes of everything in there.

  A hot flare of resentment and anger broke through my freeze. It finally got me moving.

  I took a deep breath and prepared to rescue myself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I scrambled to my feet a little too fast. It brought back the lingering effects of whatever he'd given me. The bedroom seemed to rock briefly before righting itself.

  What I needed was in my nightstand, unless he'd found it already. But when I opened up the drawer, it was still there.

  The compact Springfield handgun was dusty from almost never being handled. It was an unwelcome gift from my Uncle Dale when I moved to Atlanta two years ago.

  I didn't want it then. I didn't like to think about using it now.

  I could still recall what I'd told him when he presented me with the gun.

                 

  "Maybe you live in the sticks and need it, but my apartment is in a very safe area," I'd said.

  He ignored my protests and dragged me outside. We spent all afternoon on target practice out behind his comfortably ramshackle house.

  I had protested every shot, but he insisted. A pile of empty beer cans was blown to smithereens by the time we were done.

  "All right, I'll take it. Quit nagging me," I finally agreed. "But this is stupid. I'm never going to use it. I have an alarm."

  Uncle Dale had rolled his eyes, lit up a cigarette and opened a fresh can of Budweiser.

  "When did my niece turn into such a candy-ass city girl? Alarms ain't no damn good once someone gets inside. I don't want to be claiming your body someday. Take it and shut up."

                 

  He had been right, as usual. My alarm had been useless. Someone had gotten inside alright, in ways I never wanted my Uncle Dale to know about.

  Easing the handgun out, I checked the chamber and saw the dim, metallic gleam of a bullet ready to be fired. The firm weight in my hand told me that the magazine was full.

  One in the chamber and six more to work with. Not that I planned to use any of them, but a bluff had to look real or it was useless. Another lesson from Uncle Dale, after he cleaned me out in poker.

  A change in the air made me whirl around. Hex was leaned in the doorway, watching me. A flood of adrenaline hit me as I pointed the handgun at him.

  "I'm calling the cops. Get on the floor," I told him.

  My voice and hands competed to see which could shake worse.

  Just don't shoot off your own foot.

  Apparently I was the only one who was nervous. Hex looked a lot less worried than I'd hoped.

  "Good idea," he said, "but your cell phone is in my pocket. Too bad you canceled the landline. Very thrifty, but always have a backup plan."

  "This is my backup plan," I snarled, jerking the handgun at him. "Give me my phone."

  His eyes sparkled.

  "Make me," he challenged.

  "I'm not kidding. This is loaded," I warned him.

  "I believe you," he said as he took a single step toward me.

  Shit.

  Now what?

  "What I'm not sure about," he went on, "is if you have what it takes to shoot me and save yourself. Those big, beautiful eyes tell me that you're not sure either."

  He took another half-step toward me.

  My pulse slammed into high gear. The bedroom wasn't large enough for too many more steps.

  "I'm not going to stop," he told me. "You either shoot me, or I take you with me tonight."

  It was in his voice, his eyes, his body language, everything. The crazy bastard actually meant it.

  For one insane instant, I wondered if I should just let him take me. I could try to escape later and not have to make this choice.

  Are you nuts? Aim for his arm. Or his foot. You don't have to kill him. But do something!

  My shaking hands aimed the handgun at his upper arm. Wincing, I pulled the trigger.

  I knew what to expect. The kick, the stink of gunpowder, the loud bang. They all happened right on cue, making my ears ring.

  What I wasn't expecting was to miss. Hex was still standing there, looking way too relaxed. He didn't look impressed or ready to run.

  "I don't want to shoot you," I whispered. "Just leave. Please."

  He shook his head.

  "This is where the rubber meets the road. Do you want me to get out or not?"

  He's delusional. Shoot him. Unless you want to be just another sad story on the news.

  The thought steadied me. I aimed more or less at his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sick dread flooding me again.

  That shot, like the one before it, resulted in exactly nothing. He was still standing there, smiling at me with approval. There was no sign of a hole or blood.

  Five more times I shot, the bangs strangely muffled. My bedroom reeked of gunpowder, and the last squeeze clicked on an empty chamber.

  Still he was untouched. I knew I couldn't have missed that many times at close range.

  I threw the useless handgun at him, and he caught it one-handed, laughing. When I tried to dodge around him, he leaped across the short distance left between us. The momentum took us against the wall.

  He pinned my wrists over my head with one hand and then kissed the tip of my nose. My struggle against him was pitiful and brief.

  "I had to know. Good for you, sweetheart," he said.

  "Get the hell out of my house!"

  "You're tougher than you realize," he went on, as if I hadn't spoken. "I thought you'd try to save yourself. That's why I left the belt loose. If I wanted you to tied, you still would be."

  "You should be bleeding or dead," I muttered resentfully.

  His low laugh vibrated through both of us.

  "You tried hard enough. I took the liberty of replacing your bullets with blanks. They don't sound exactly the same, but it makes the gun feel loaded. It had to be a real test."

  Unreality washed over me. Things like this just didn't happen. Especially not to ordinary girls like me.

  "You aren't even supposed to be real," I raged. "Why couldn't you stay online where you belong?"

  He didn't answer with words. Holding me with one hand, he used the other to find the damp V between my thighs. Again his fingers cupped the soft mound, rubbing more roughly than before.

  Mad or not, afraid or not, I felt the instant effect. Dark desire bloomed again. I bit back a moan.

  "How about now?" he asked. "Do I feel real?"

  I'm in so much trouble here.

  That thought beat its refrain inside my head. Reasoning with him seemed pointless after trying to shoot him, but it was all I had left.

  "If you leave, I'd never be able to find you again," I said breathlessly. "I wouldn't even tell anyone you were here. I mean, do you think I want anyone to know about this?"

  "You mean like your best friend Natalie? The legal-eagle team at St. Claire and Associates? The mother you don't talk to over in Mentone? Your crazy Uncle Dale and all those cousins scattered across Alabama?"

  Each name sent my pulse higher. In all of our intimate chats, I'd
never typed any of those names or places. Not once.

  Above all the questions in my mind, one rose to the top.

  "Why me?" I whispered.

  There was a long moment of silence. I waited for his fingers to excite and humiliate me again. No way he didn't feel the thumping of my heart.

  The bedroom was silent, strangely expectant. Even the traffic seemed hushed, as though waiting to hear what he had to say.

  "Because you're so sweet and so twisted and so smart and so blind, all at once," he said. "Because you thrill me, against my better judgment."

  His voice had taken on a new note, almost angry.

  "You see yourself in a warped funhouse mirror. Nothing can change that. I could reason with you, or beat you black-and-blue. You'd see it the same."

  His words didn't make sense, but they made me afraid.

  "I can't change what you see, but I can change where you look for what's real," he said. "I'm your true mirror, Eva. I'm reflecting back at you right now, but you don't even see it."

  With a slow, subtle shift he rubbed against me. The heat of his hardness pressed against my lower stomach, separated only by our clothes.

  For an instant my legs trembled with the wild desire to wrap themselves around his tight waist. To press that throbbing hardness into me instead of against me. With effort I managed to keep them still.

  "I can almost hear what you're thinking," he said. "That I'm on a power trip of having you in my clutches. Maybe. But only a little."

  Again he ground against me. His free hand briefly cupped my face, tilting it up so he could watch my expression.

  The heat throbbed between my legs, mirroring the hard beats of my heart. His eyes held me as firmly as his hands.

  Slowly he nodded as though I'd agreed with him. As if there was nothing more to say.

  His hand left my face, returning with a wad of soft white cloth. The same sharp smell from earlier still clung to it, promising darkness and sleep.

  I turned my head away, but his hand followed. Slowly he pressed it against my mouth and nose.