I lower my gaze.
“Sorry, Si . . .” I trail off, caught by how automatic it is to follow an apology with Sir. “I-it’s fine. Where are we?”
“My apartment. I can take you to a hotel if you prefer?”
“No, this is fine.” I open the door and climb out before he can say anything else. I’m not ready to talk about what just happened. I’m not ready to deal with it at all. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’t ever want to be.
Max climbs out of the car and locks it, and we walk over to what appears to be a service elevator. I follow him in and try to ignore the way he stares at me.
When the elevator reaches its stop on the fifth floor I leap out, as if afraid I’ll get bitten. Maximus studies me for a beat before heading to a door at the end of the hall. He slides the key in the lock and opens it wide.
Max’s apartment is a one-bedroom loft. The windows are huge, overlooking the Hudson. There’s a tattered couch, a busted up tan leather armchair, a wooden coffee table, and an old TV. He has no curtains or drapes. The kitchenette is so small I wonder how Maximus even fits in there, but it’s clean. The whole apartment is. Everything is orderly and tucked away in its place.
“It’s no mansion in Hudson Valley or swanky apartment in Manhattan, but it’s home.”
“It’s really nice.” I let him take my coat, scarf, and gloves, and I walk over to his refrigerator. I stare at the photographs stuck to it. There are several pictures, all with Maximus. There’s a grainy black-and-white shot of New York covered in ash, and beside it, a picture of a young Max and an older man in the pale blues. A cop.
“That was my pop. I joined the force because of him.”
I run my finger down over their faces, studying the family resemblance with a smile.
“His crew was first on the scene when the planes hit. He died after the second tower fell.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He nods and brushes by me to enter the kitchen. His big body feels nice pressed against my back, and his hands grip my elbows. I close my eyes, and wonder what it would feel like to be naked beneath him. Would he crush me? Would I care?
“You want something to drink?”
“God yes,” I turn and stare up at him. “Please?”
He nods and shuffles me out of the way. His kitchen is too small for the two of us, but I like the closeness. I like the way he towers over me. And I especially like the way he smells. Male. Virile. Powerful.
He opens the fridge and leans over, giving me a perfect view of his ass. “I got beer or beer.”
“Beer’s great.”
He nods and pulls two bottles from the fridge, popping off the tops on the edge of the kitchen sink before handing one to me. He clinks his bottle with mine and I climb onto the counter behind me, crossing one leg over the other. Maximus’s eyes roll over me and then quickly dart away. I’m wearing jeans, so it’s not like he can see my body, but I feel his embarrassment all the same.
“You wanna talk abou—”
“No. I really don’t.”
“You gotta let this shit out, Camille.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“You know what? I think I’d like to go home after all.” I set my beer down and slide off the counter.
Once again, Max towers over me, but he doesn’t use his size to intimidate. Not like Ares would. “Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help. I don’t need to be coddled, or to talk about my goddamn feelings. I need to be fucked, Maximus. Can you do that? If not, then you should take me home.”
Max’s lips part and his eyes widen. Heat floods my cheeks as I stare at him, waiting, wanting.
And then his hands thread through my hair and he kisses me. His tongue delves deep inside my mouth, exploring me, consuming me. His body covers mine as he leans down and lifts me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist. Max walks us back through the kitchen until we bump into the refrigerator, the counter, and eventually, the armchair. He sits down on the tan leather, and I climb onto his lap. The chair is roomy, despite how large he is, and I can see why it’s well-worn. I rock my hips against his lap. His erection presses against me, and I know he’s thick, and maybe too wide for me. I can’t wait. I unzip his jeans and slide my hand inside. No boxers, no briefs, just hot flesh. I jerk my wrist and stroke him up and down.
“Woah, woah, baby, slow down. This ain’t a race.”
“I want you in me,” I whisper, sinking my teeth into his earlobe.
He groans, “Babe, wait.”
I raise my hips and shove my jeans down to my ankles, not bothering to free my legs the whole way. The restraints just make everything fit more snug. Then I climb back over his lap, position him at the entrance to my pussy, and lower myself onto this fat cock. The pain almost tears me apart. He’s wider than my Sir, and what he lacks in overall length he makes up for in girth. I rock furiously on his dick, loving the pain, craving it. My nails scratch at his chest, and he grunts as he grabs my wrist to stop me from scratching him. Maximus holds my arms by my side. I love the feel of his big body restraining mine. I close my eyes, and the scent of pepperwood, gardenia, and the sharp metallic scent of blood rush back to me.
Maximus groans. “Camille, wait.”
“No, I’m nearly there.”
I rock my hips faster. Finally, pleasure sluices through me as I crest the incredible high I haven’t felt since the night before my escape.
But as quickly as it comes, the same is true for the low. I come down harder than I ever have with Ares. I crash and fall, shattering into a million tiny pieces when my heart hits the ground. He’s not Ares.
He’s not Ares.
Maximus wraps his arms around me, and I shriek and scramble off his lap. His still hard cock lays flat against his stomach, covered in my cum, and tinges of blood.
My knees go out from under me. I fucked a man who isn’t my Sir. I fucked Maximus without Sir’s permission, and I came both loving and hating that it wasn’t him.
Maximus tucks himself into his pants. “Jesus, Camille. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”
“Take me home.”
He solemnly shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Can we just . . . can we talk about this?”
“I don’t want to talk. All I do is talk, to the FBI, to the shrinks, to you. I don’t want to fucking talk!” I get up and grab the nearest thing to me—a heavy coaster from the coffee table. I throw it. It misses Max by a mile, but his eyes are wide with alarm. I reach behind me and pull the lamp from the wall and throw that too. It hurtles through the air and lands with a thud against the floor. I grab a car magazine, another coaster, and a ceramic dish and launch them at him as he stalks toward me.
When there’s nothing left to throw, Maximus lunges. I back up, but he pulls me into his arms and attempts to quiet my screaming with hushed tones and whispered words.
I don’t want either. He can go fuck himself. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want him to placate me. I want him to dominate me. To hold his hand over my mouth and tell me I don’t have a choice. To tell me to shut up, or that I’m a whore who needs a good, hard spanking.
Maximus doesn’t do any of that, because he’s not him. He’s not my Sir.
I struggle, lashing out with fists and sharp nails. He pins my arms by my sides and subdues me with his strength. I fall into soft sobs. My anger is soothed by his dominance when his kindness only stoked it. Max shifts his weight off me, but I hold to him as if I’m lost at sea and he’s the life-preserver.
As if there were anything to preserve after Ares threw me away.
Maximus draws me nearer, right into his arms. I melt into his warmth, and there—after being alone for so long, too many days of anger, sexual frustration, and the inherent knowledge that I’m not a good girl, I’m not good enough—I fall apart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pet
In the morning, I call an Ube
r from Max’s phone and leave before he wakes. I don’t want things to be weird between us, but how could they not be after last night? He’ll always look at me as if I’m a problem he needs to fix, a victim he needs to save. I am not a fucking victim. And he can’t save me. Only Ares can.
The driver isn’t impressed that I demand to get out in the middle of Manhattan traffic, but I know this street. I know this building. He tells me he’s still going to charge me for the trip back to the Hudson Valley, because I’m the one who chose to get out. I don’t care. I’ll find a way to get the money back to Maximus, since I called from his phone.
I look up at the sleek skyscraper with its sweeping glass awning over the entrances. A doorman rushes over to greet me.
“G-good morning, Miss Flynn.”
My mouth drops open. “You know me?”
His smile is kind, and he doesn’t appear to be confused by my question, so I’m betting my darling husband-to-be already discussed my condition with him. What else did that slimy bastard tell him? How to keep me out of the building? “Yes, I’ve known you for many years.”
“Which apartment is my father’s?”
“It’s on the sixty-second floor, miss. Mr. Ward is currently in residence, but perhaps now is not the best time.”
I study his features, the nervous expression and the tight set of his jaw. “Not the best time for whom? Me, or Parker?”
“Why don’t you allow me to get you settled with a tea, and we can call for Mr. Ward to come down—”
“Front desk has a key, right?”
“Of course, but—”
“Thanks.” I leave him on the footpath, staring after me, and open the damn door myself.
“Miss Flynn, we were not expecting you.” The clerk behind the desk is just as flustered as the doorman.
“So I heard. I need the key to my apartment.”
“Are you sure it’s the best place for you right now? Why don’t you come back a little later in the morning and—”
“Give me the fucking key.”
“Of course.”
He hands over the key and comes out from behind the desk. “Will you allow me to escort you to your apartment, Miss Flynn?”
“That’s not necessary. The number is all I need.”
I enter the elevator and tap the key against the sensor. A few moments later, the door is dinging open to an empty hall. I don’t need a sign to tell me where I’m going. I already know. I turn left, slide my key in the lock belonging to the first door, and push inside the entryway to my father’s apartment. My apartment. The one I share with Parker.
The cries of ecstasy are so loud that I’m certain they haven’t heard me, and for a beat, I close my eyes and listen. The sweet scent of sex and arousal wafts through the room, and my heart trips all over itself remembering the way I used to cry and relish that scent, along with every thrust, every touch, and every lash of my Sir’s flogger.
This woman’s cries are my own as Ares pushes into me with brutal force. His hand grips my hair, hard enough to make my scalp tingle and burn. A quiet sob escapes me, as I lean against the wall and squeeze my thighs together.
I open my eyes and watch my fiancé driving his cock into another woman. They’re both completely naked, and he enters her from behind. She’s bent at the waist, her hands placed flat against the glass window and her short black bob so perfect and shiny it swings back and forth in time with Parker’s thrusts.
I feel nothing as I watch him. I’m not upset he’s fucking another woman. I have no love for this man, but their intimacy causes jealousy to writhe in my veins like poison. Not for Parker, this sniveling, money-grubbing poor excuse for a manwhore, but because they have something I want: sex, desire, carnal need, and pleasure.
I step closer. Neither of them notice me, so I grab the half-consumed martini from the bar, pick up the knife, and walk right up to them.
“Jesus Christ!” Parker shouts.
The woman gasps and straightens as my fiancé pulls free of her body. She covers herself, her wide eyes lowering to the ground, as if she could hide her shame.
Eyes to the ground. You will not look at me unless I tell you to, Pet.
“Camille.” Parker’s eyes are round as saucers and his hands cover his dick. Perhaps he’s afraid I’ll slice it off. His gaze darts from the sharp silver blade to mine and back again. He’s definitely afraid I’ll slice it off. “This isn’t—”
“What it looks like?” I shake my head.
“Listen, you knew about this before. You were okay with it.”
I glance at the doe-eyed woman beside him, who shoots him a look of incredulity.
Liar, liar.
I widen my gaze and play the confused, lost little girl with amnesia. I never agreed to this. I would never agree to this. “Really?”
“Yeah, every Thursday. It’s kind of a thing.” He ventures forward, gently grabbing my wrist with the knife. I let him take it from me, and then I backhand him across the face. He reels, drops the knife, and presses his palm to his cheek, staring at me in wide-eyed horror as I shake out my fist.
I sneer. “Get out!”
“Baby—”
“Don’t you dare fucking ‘baby’ me. Get out of my apartment, and take your fucking whore with you.”
“Camille please, this is my apartment too. We’ve lived here for three years. This is my home.”
“No, it’s my home, and you’re no longer a part of my life.”
“Baby, please.”
“GET OUT!” I gather his jeans from the couch and throw them at him. His whore is already gone.
“Camille.”
“Just go. I don’t know you. I don’t love you. I don’t even fucking care that you’re cheating on me.” I shake my head, wrap my arms around myself, and whisper, “I belong to him.”
He laughs. “God, do you hear how fucked up you are? You belong to whom? Your rapist? He’s a sex trafficker, and you want to, what, go back to him? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I scramble across the floor and grab the knife, wielding it before him like a maniac. “Don’t you dare say a word about him.”
“You’re fucked in the head, Camille. You deserve him.”
“Get out!”
“Fucking crazy bitch. I don’t need this shit or your daddy’s money.”
I close my eyes and relish the tears that slide over my cheeks. Once he’s gone, I let the knife clatter to my feet. I don’t care if it cuts me. I don’t care about anything anymore.
I stumble over to the window and stare at the glass, and the glittering lights below as the sun rises on the city. A smudged handprint obstructs my view. I press my nose close to the surface. It smells like sex.
I yank off my coat and blouse, and slide down my jeans, and then I delve my fingers inside my warm, wet pussy and cry as I think about Ares. Release comes quickly, but it’s empty pleasure. It’s barely even worth the effort, and it doesn’t stop me missing him. It doesn’t distract me from the aching in my heart, in my body, and in my blood. I pull my fingers free and smear my juices against the handprint on the glass.
Then I walk around the apartment, a ghost in mourning, haunting the halls.
Broken. Empty. Desolate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pet
For days on end, I do nothing but drink, binge on food I’m sure the old me was never allowed to eat, and stare at the walls of my apartment. I miss my Sir so much I can barely breathe. Dimitri calls, but I don’t answer. Instead, I listen to his voicemail message about attending the ballet over and over because it’s easier this way. It’s easier than having to explain that I fell in love with my captor and now I’m broken. It’s easier being alone.
I ignore the calls from my father, chase away the maid when she comes to clean, and by day five I’m so sick of myself, of this loneliness, of the wanting, that I turn to the Internet for a fix. I don’t know if I’ve ever scoured the Internet for porn before, but I find page upon page of videos, sex sites
, and adult GIFs. What I don’t find is what I’m desperately seeking—connection.
I’m just about to give up when I stumble upon the webpage of what seems to be a promising club. I shower, blow out my hair, and apply my makeup, smoking my eyes and using a kohl pencil in place of black lipstick. Then I stand naked in my closet because I have nothing to wear. After what seems like an age, I find a leather pencil skirt, and I take to it with my kitchen scissors. I settle on a sheer top with three-quarter-length sleeves and nothing underneath but my black bra. I look like a pre-teen goth, but tonight I’m okay with being someone else. Thirty minutes after my Lyft picks me up, I’m standing on a residential street, staring down at the black façade of a basement apartment. Affixed to a wall in plain sight is a small neon sign that reads “sub”.
I approach the robust security guard who stares me up and down like a piece of meat. “DD/lg night isn’t until Tuesday.”
“DD/lg?”
“Daddy Dom? Little girl?” he says impatiently, as if I should know what that means. “I think you should turn around and go home, little girl. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Behind me, the elegant click-clack of heels on the pavement echoes through the empty street.
“She’s with me.”
I turn and find a woman, middle-aged, with dark hair, pale skin, and dark eyes that hint at an exotic lineage. There’s a half-smile on her face as she looks me over. Not with the disdain of the bodyguard, but the way a fox might look at a hole in the henhouse. She’s dressed from head to toe in black with dark velour lips and the closer she comes, the more the hairs on my body stand on end.
“You’re late.” She grabs my face with expertly manicured hands, forcing my mouth to purse the way Ares used to. A bolt of fear shoots down my spine.
I’ve never seen this woman before. I have no idea who she is, but as she leans into my space, and the sweet and spicy blend of her oriental perfume washes over me, I understand the boon she’s offering. A free pass into this club, but at what cost? I don’t know. Nor do I care. Because I need to be punished. I need to be dominated. I’m a sub without a Master. He gave me away. And this is the only way I can ever feel whole again. I lower my gaze to the pavement. She lets go. “I’m s-sorry.”
In the Land of Gods and Monsters, Part Two (Gods & Monsters Book 2) Page 4
