by Sadie Grubor
Easing the pressure, he lightly glides along my lips. The touch is agonizingly slow and easy. My pussy tingles, throbs, and the walls contract in anticipation. If he slips inside, I'm sure he would find me slick and ready.
"Tell me the color, dead girl, and I'll give your cunt what it desires," he promises.
He presses once more against my clit and tightens his grasp in my hair. Releasing my hold on the edge of the vanity, I fist his white t-shirt and fight the urge to reveal everything to this dangerous man.
Running his tongue up the side of my neck, he uses a knuckle to push into me. It's enough to drive me further insane, but not enough to fill where I need his touch most.
"Is this what you want?" He finally slips one finger inside me and stills.
"Yes," I moan, squirming to get friction.
"Uh-uh, dead girl," he scolds, curling and locking his finger inside me so I can't get any relief.
Growling in frustration, I shove at his chest. It does nothing but earn me a wiggle of the tip against the most glorious spot inside before he stills once more. It's not enough. I need more, so much more.
"You know what to do," he reminds, emphasizing with another lick where my shoulder and neck meet.
"Brown," I surrender. "Dark brown!"
He growls in satisfaction, withdrawing his finger and releasing my body.
"No," I protest, ready to crumble to the floor, until he returns, slamming his cock inside and collaring my neck.
"Oh, yes," I yell, bringing my hands to his thick arm and holding on.
With a large hand spanning my lower back, he pistons in and out, circles, and repeats, fucking me hard and thorough. His cock slides and grinds deep within me, drawing my climax just to the precipice. The flex of his fingers around my throat pulls a moan from my mouth just before he shifts his hold, hooking his thumb between my parted lips.
I suck on it and gently bite.
He thrusts so hard, I'm sure the inside of my thighs will bruise. My orgasm bursts behind my clit and burns through my body, consuming every care, every worry, and every shame.
I step out of the bathroom in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, my socks in my hand.
Saint sits, pants undone, in the same chair from earlier this morning. This time, he's not focused on me, too busy speaking in clipped tones into his cell phone.
Padding quietly to the end of the bed, I sit and pull my socks on.
"I don't care how you handle it, just do it," he barks.
Reaching for my shoes, I slip my toes inside.
"Where do you think you're going?"
At his question, I jerk the running shoe all the way on, lace it up, then start on the left. A shadow falls over me as I create the last knot.
"I prefer to have my shoes on," I admit without giving any more detail.
He doesn't need to know I like to be ready for anything, including running. Nor does he need to know that sleeping naked, as I did, is not my norm. I prefer to be fully dressed with my shoes on or next to the bed.
Looking up, I find him staring down in his observant way.
"A stylist will be here with a team of people within the hour," he informs, watching me for a reaction.
"Stylist?" I question.
"Yes, I told you, we will be going out this evening, and this," he motions to my current ensemble, "won't work."
"Okay," I answer, hesitant. There's obviously more he has to say.
"I've asked for a hairstylist as well," he states.
The air leaves my lungs and I swallow down the dread lumping in my throat. "I can't," I blurt, dropping my eyes from his face.
"You won't be wearing the contacts, Mei." I don't miss the way he stresses my name. Closing my eyes, I try to keep the panic at bay. I can't go out without the mask, the façade. He's exposing too much.
Fingers grip my chin, pulling my face back to his.
"Your death is imminent," he informs. "They will bring options for you to choose from, but there will only be shades of dark brown."
"I won't," I defy.
"You will," he releases my chin. "How soon you forget," his fingers comb into my hair, "my skills of persuasion."
I want to slap the half grin from his face. Opening my mouth, he continues before I get a word out.
"Perhaps this time, it will be persuasion by tongue," he grips my damp hair, pulling my head back, "before I secure your arms behind your back and fuck your ass."
My lower body clenches and nipples tingle at the thought. Jerking my head, I'm pissed he's so easily discovered the dirty and depraved girl locked away inside.
With a knowing smile, he releases my head and steps back.
"I'll kill you yet," he promises before turning and leaving the room.
Twisting and dropping face first into the bed, I scream, then inhale, his scent wrapping around me like a vice I never want to escape.
Sketch arrives an hour later, showing three blonde women and one redhead into the room. Two carry thick garment bags, another rolls a large trunk, and the last has two black bags over her shoulders.
Pushing off the bed, I stand and face my current firing squad. Distracted by the women moving about the room, I don't see Sketch approach.
"Let's see how well hidden you stay with your costume torn away, doll," he taunts, and I want to slap the cocky grin off his face.
"When you still can't figure me out," I begin, watching his face fall, "please mention me in your suicide note," I finish with a sugar sweet smile.
"You don't know wh—"
"Step back," Saint booms, pulling our rounded eyes to him. "Sketch, have you finished your task?"
A muscle jumps in Sketch's jaw.
"Someone's gonna get grounded," I taunt in a whisper.
"I hate you," he growls low.
"Aw, but I love you," I say in my normal tone.
His eyes bug before he slides them to Saint.
Saint raises one brow before one side of his mouth curls. Sketch visibly relaxes and leaves the room. I frown, unsure of what just happened in their silent exchange.
"Have you come to dress your doll?" I ask, tilting my head.
Smirking, he enters my personal space, but I refuse to back down. I've given this man too much power—too much everything.
"Once I kill you, dead girl, Doll may be a perfect name. I will have you however I want you," he rumbles.
Stupidly, excitement thrums through my body at his words instead of the fear and terror they should invoke. Especially being called doll. It's obvious I need to get out of here and away from him, but how?
A throat clears from across the room and I take three steps back from Saint.
"Sir, we will need to begin if we are to be ready by eight o'clock," the redhead addresses him.
"Just a moment and she is all yours," he promises, then turns back to me. "We will be going to a club with my associates this evening."
Remembering the women who arrived on the arms of his associates at the club, a flash of Vicki enters my mind and I worry Felix will be there. Swallowing, I wrap my arms around me.
"No one will touch you," he reassures. "You are with me and that makes you untouchable. Unless I say otherwise," he adds.
Before I can voice a concern or protest, he's walking for the door, and I resign myself to play along with dress up while using it to my advantage. The first opportunity to run I get, I'll take, and in a crowded club with dark corners, I'm sure the chance will be there.
"You have until eight o'clock," he says, exiting.
The moment the door clicks shut, the women surround me.
"Hello, dear, my name is Megan. I'm your stylist," the redhead smiles before motioning to the rest of the women. “These are my assistants, Julie, Helen, and Amy."
Fighting back the dread of the upcoming evening, I put on a smile and greet them, "You can call me Mei."
"Come along." Megan takes my hand, pulling me toward the bathroom.
They drape me in a protective black cape be
fore trimming, dyeing, and styling my hair. Next comes Julie with her manicure set, then Amy with her makeup tackle box.
At least I'd have that mask in place.
"Based on your shape and body size," Helen starts upon my reentry to the bedroom, "these five dresses are the best to choose from." She motions to the garments hung along the closet's double doors.
"With your eyes, I suggest this one." She unhooks a blue dress, carrying it over and laying it on the bed next to an array of undergarments.
Taking a deep breath, I tug off my clothes and slip into the black satin and lace thong. I finger the spaghetti strap of a black lace slip and hold it up.
"What exactly does this accomplish?" I ask, knowing it serves none—unless you count wrapping for a man to remove.
"That's just for fun," Megan giggles. "We'll leave that in the bathroom for later." She winks.
Remembering these women have no idea of my situation and this is just one step closer to escape from this room, I bite back my annoyance. Amy holds out the dress, and I step inside. The blue velvet material is like a thousand kittens climbed up my body. Megan quickly zips up the back and turns me toward the full-length mirror on the back of an open closet door.
The knee-length dress would be modest if it weren't for the way it hugs to every curve and the deep V neckline knotting at my stomach. Now I understand the lack of bra.
"You look like a different person," Helen sighs, kneeling and helping me into the gold strappy heels.
I move closer to the mirror, allowing myself to take in the full effect of the changes. My blue eyes exposed. The blonde hair replaced by dark chocolate locks. Gold jewelry. Sultry, yet demure makeup. My burgundy-tinted lips part. Placing a hand to my stomach, I try to stop the riot.
"No," Megan says, stepping next to me. "She looks like she was meant to."
My eyes dart to hers in the mirror, and she smiles.
"I don't see it often, but there are moments, like this one, where a person transforms into themselves." Clasping her hands, she gives her head a small shake and turns to her team. "Now, we must clean up." She claps, and they move into action.
Refocusing on my reflection, I stare at the women looking back.
"He did it," I whisper. "He killed me."
Meissa Winters is gone. A single tear escapes my perfectly lined eye.
Saint
"Let it go," I warn Sketch for the third time.
"How are you so sure this is a good idea?" he presses.
Lifting my glass, I drain the last of my vodka and raise a brow at him.
"I think you're fucking crazy," he announces on a heavy sigh. "You don't know a fucking thing about this girl. Felix isn't known for stepping down so easily, regardless of what Angelo says, and…"
His words fall away, the focus of his eyes now over my shoulder.
Turning on the couch, I find Mei standing in the archway.
"What do you think?" Megan asks, ushering her team through.
"Who the fuck are you?" Sketch asks, part wonder, part growl.
"Careful," I advise, but can't fault him.
My dead girl is stripped down and exposed. Blue eyes and creamy skin framed by long dark hair. The only hint left of Mei is the small tattoo on her ribcage. The rest…fuck me, if the real version of this woman isn't the most glorious thing I've seen.
The combination of anger in her eyes and that damn dress conjures my cock and the demon. Both wanting inside her—one to please, the other to possess.
Pushing up from the couch, I watch Mei straighten her spine at my approach. Reaching inside my jacket, I retrieve an envelope and hold it out to Megan.
"Thank you for your services," I state, cupping Mei's face in my right palm.
"If you aren't happy with —"
"Let's go," Sketch says, leading the woman away. "I assure you, he is thrilled with the results."
"Welcome to your death," I whisper, and she tenses, pulling her face away from my touch. Frowning, I drop my hand.
"I wish you would just kill me…" she begins. Before I can shush her, she finishes on a quiet whisper, "Before it's too late."
Gripping her chin, I force her face back to mine.
"What do you mean by that?"
She tries to shake her head, but my hold prevents it.
"Tell me," I demand, moving closer. The smell of her perfume swirls around me. It's the same dark vanilla scent, the kind only mythological creatures could smell of.
"It doesn't matter," she says. "You've done what you set out to do. You've killed me–killed Meissa—but you really have no idea what you're sentencing me to."
Her eyes take on a dead look, and I fucking hate it.
"Explain," I command.
"Never," she spits back.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, "Why?"
She blinks twice, just as staggered by the question as I am.
"Because I don't trust you," she says on a whisper. "No one can be trusted."
I want to shake her and demand answers, but how can I when I live by the same code? Trust no one. Releasing her and taking a step back, I offer my arm.
Surprise fills her face when I don't press further. She visibly inhales and exhales once before placing her small hand around the bend of my elbow.
At the door, I present her with a gold clutch purse and drape a black coat around her shoulders.
"Keep the clutch with you at all times," I instruct, ushering her onto the elevator.
Inside the lift, she furrows her brows in question.
"If we get separated at any time, there is trigger button that will signal me," I explain. "However, you will be by my side, with me," I wrap my arm around her waist, "and it will send the necessary message that you are not to be touched."
"Except by you," she snaps.
"Of course," I respond, giving her a squeeze.
"Will Felix be there?" she asks.
"Yes, but he won't be a problem."
She snorts at my response.
"I've taken measures," I assure her, letting some of my anger saturate the words.
At the car, Frank opens the door and I motion for her to enter.
She's silent for a beat. Then, as we pull away from the curb, she asks, "What am I supposed to do, say, not say? Should I speak at all?"
Placing my hand on her knee, I let my fingers dance along her soft skin.
"Be honest," I finally respond.
"Honest?" she scoffs.
"Yes."
"I'll just tell them how you're keeping me against my will and you are okay with that?" she pushes.
Turning my eyes on her, I find the challenge I crave so much. Without her contacts, it burns so much brighter. Her eyes drop to watch me adjust myself, but my response brings them back to mine.
"Careful what you say, dead girl," I warn. "Complain too much, and someone may feel the need to save you," I stress. "And trust me, they won't be the white knight you seek."
"I don't need a white knight or someone to save me," she grounds out, crossing her arms over her chest and slouching back into the seat.
The behavior brings back something she said during her confession. "I'd be old enough to work, get an apartment…"
"How old are you?"
At my question, I watch her squirm.
"Why does it matter now?" she responds, the same as before.
"Tell me you aren't fucking underage," I demand, tired of her avoidance.
Her head slowly swivels to me, our eyes lock, and she smirks.
"Technically you'd be fucking someone underage," she taunts.
Snaking my arm out, I palm the back of her head and pull her face close to mine. Her small hands come to my chest, bracing and shoving at the same time.
"This isn't a fucking joke," I remind her, my voice gruff.
"I'm not underage," she mutters hastily, the fear rounding her eyes making both my demon and dick stir.
"That's not what I'm looking for," I firmly prompt.
"Nin
eteen," she says, her voice thick and unsteady.
Nineteen.
"Fucking hell," I exclaim and release her head, not missing the harshness in my words or the way she presses into the car door.
Rubbing my hand over my face, the scent of her perfume fills my nostrils, teasing the demon. He doesn't give two shits that, in this day of teenage parents, I'm old enough to be her father. No, all he wants is to open her up and seduce her into his black pit, bathing her in the blood and fear he collects.
Eyes still closed, trying to get my urges under control, I ask, "The club?"
"I was seventeen, but with Mei's ID, I was almost twenty," she responds, her voice sounding detached. I turn my head, finding her staring out the window. It's too dark to see anything at the speed we're traveling.
We should be reaching the club soon, so I remind her, "Keep the clutch with you at all times."
She gives a slow nod and lifts her chin.
"We're here," I announce as the car pulls onto the curb.
Mei
The club is definitely classier than the one where I work—or worked. The valet service, clear glass entrance, and shiny gold and black décor would be enough to make it a hundred times better, but it's the opulence that sets it far above.
Conversations stop and the crowd parts as Saint leads us to a large bar running the length of the wall opposite the band.
"Tired of your toy already?" Felix's familiar voice teases from behind, and I stiffen.
"Not at all," Saint replies, not turning or looking back.
He only stops once when an older gentleman speaks, but it's only a moment in passing. At the bar, he releases me to order two drinks from the waiting bartender.
Staring at Saint's back, I tighten my hands around the clutch he's so concerned I carry. Before I can dwell on all the reasons I shouldn't even be here with him, fingers lock around my bicep and turn me around. "This is definitely an upgrade from—" Felix studies my face as his words die off. His brow furrows just before his eyes narrow.
"Remove your hand," Saint orders, loud enough to draw attention.
Eyes filled with recognition, he asks, "It's her, isn't it?"
Sliding his arm around my waist, he pulls me away from Felix into his side.
