Torrid

by Nikki Sloane

  “If you want something else, let me know. My chef keeps the kitchen stocked, so she can make almost anything.”

  My chef. Sweet Jesus. I stared down at my steaming cup, not wanting to say anything because I worried I’d sound like the poor, naïve girl I was. I added sugar and cream, stirring until the coffee turned a milk chocolate color.

  “Tell me about your family,” Luka said as I was mid-sip.

  I swallowed and it seared down my throat. “My family?”

  “Yes. I want to know everything about you. We’ll start with your family.” This he said in the tone I was more familiar with. An order, not a request.

  I paused, my hand lingering on the handle to my mug as I considered his demand. He wanted to know everything about me? Why? A weird tickle crept up the back of my neck. “There’s not much to say. They’re pretty normal.”

  “Are your parents still together? Siblings?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And yes. I’ve got a younger brother.”

  “Are you close?”

  “In age, or relationship?”

  “Both.” Luka took a sip of his coffee, but his gaze was fixed on mine.

  “No, not really. Jonathan is four years younger.” My tone was clipped. We were night and day different.

  Luka’s focus sharpened. “Tell me about him.”

  My forehead wrinkled with skepticism. “You want to know about my brother?”

  “You’re an easy read, Addison. What’s the deal with your brother?”

  I scowled, not enjoying how good Luka was at cutting straight through my subtext. I was too hungover and off balance to muster much of a fight. “Jonathan’s senior class elected him homecoming king last week.”

  “And?”

  How was I going to explain it? My gaze wandered away to glance out the window. Beyond the large, pristinely maintained back yard, the house backed up to a golf course. Of course it did. I squinted against the sunlight, which made my headache throb.

  “Tell me why that bothers you,” Luka said. This time his tone was more forceful.

  I sighed and swung my focus back to the man who kept me on edge. “Because things come easy for him. He doesn’t struggle to make friends. He always knows the right thing to say and the right thing to do.” I sounded jealous, because I was. “Everyone loves Jonathan.”

  “You struggle to make friends?” He asked it lightly, and I had said it, but it stung, regardless. I didn’t want anyone pointing out what I didn’t excel at.

  So I didn’t answer. Instead I grabbed a bagel from the tray of pastries and busied myself slathering it in cream cheese. No one was as driven or focused as I was, or had priorities as warped as mine. Therefore, I struggled terribly to make friends.

  “Vasilije is the same as your brother. And that’s . . .” His voice was surprisingly low and hesitant, but then his expression firmed up. “Friends are overrated.”

  I considered his statement critically. It sounded like a defensive response a person without friends would say. And although I told myself I didn’t need friends, I also didn’t believe it.

  Luka hadn’t touched the large spread of food. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you usually go home on the weekends?”

  Randhurst wasn’t a suitcase school, where the students went home on Fridays. It was private, and expensive, and had offered me the largest scholarship out of all my choices. It pulled from all over the country, was large and nice, and there was plenty to do with the campus being only an hour outside of Chicago. It was enough of a draw that students typically didn’t want to leave.

  Plus . . . “No. I don’t have a car.”

  “Where are you from?”

  I chewed a bite of my bagel and swallowed slowly. What was with the twenty questions? “Mokena. It’s a suburb on the south side of the city.”

  “I know where it is.” He took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down with a soft thud. “Why pre-med?”

  “Why does it feel like you’re interrogating me?”

  He blinked slowly, and his eyes were so damn calculating, it made my heart race. “Maybe that’s what this is now. You’re the one who’s defensive while I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  I didn’t believe it for one second. There was an angle he was playing at, I was sure of it.

  “Or maybe,” he continued, “I’m working up to ask you a question I’m pretty sure will make you stop talking, so I’m trying to get what I can out of you before that happens.”

  6

  I TENSED. “What? What question?”

  Luka looked annoyed. “I just told you, we’ll work up to it. First, I want to know why you want to be a doctor.”

  My appetite waned as I stared at him. Perhaps the morning had thrown him off. Maybe he was one of those people who couldn’t get going until they had a cup of coffee, because now the Luka from last night was back in full force. The dark edge in his eyes and the commanding tone filled his voice, which was so good at pushing me.

  “Do you already know what kind you want to be?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “A surgeon.”

  His face filled with surprise, and then the corner of his mouth lifted in half of a smile. “Oh, I see.”

  “What do you see?” My tone was laced with sarcasm.

  “You don’t want to go into the medical field to offer comfort and compassion. You’re doing it for the challenge.”

  I swallowed a breath. How in the hell? I faked disdain. “What are you talking about?”

  “My cousin’s a nurse and she hates surgeons. Says they all have God complexes in the operating room.” Luka put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “They live to cut.”

  I sighed. “I understand what you’re saying.” I’d seen it with my own eyes at the hospital where I volunteered. “A lot of surgeons can be arrogant jackasses, but it’s necessary. You want confidence from the person who’s going to have to cut you to help you heal.”

  “So, they’re, what? Excused from being assholes, because their position demands confidence?”

  It felt like he was laying a trap for me, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”

  A shiver glanced down my back when Luka appeared pleased. “And what about you? Will your patients think you’re an asshole?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I lacked the confidence needed, and . . . “Because I care way more than I should about what people think of me.”

  His half-smile was back, this time accompanied by a shake of his head, as if what I was saying was too good to be true.

  “And to answer your original question,” I continued, “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. I loved my AP anatomy class in high school. I loved working in the ER on Friday nights when it was the busiest. And I’ve watched tons of different medical procedures, most of which I found fascinating.”

  There just wasn’t any other career for me, and it made me realize I had no idea what career Luka was in. I’d allow this one question before pressing him again on whatever he was working up to.

  “And you? What do you do?”

  His eye color wasn’t quite so dark in the sunlight, but he still looked intense. “I’m the controller at Markovic Motors.” I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, and it must have been evident, because he continued. “I’m the head accountant.”

  “Oh.” He seemed young to hold such a high position, but he’d gotten his MBA from Randhurst, which was an excellent school. Nepotism may have played a role as well, although he seemed serious and older than his years. I forced myself to refocus. Breakfast conversation needed to move forward, and I needed to get back to my dorm. “Ask me the question, please.”

  He looked resigned as he rose to stand, took a final sip of his coffee, and pushed his chair in. “We’ll go upstairs first.”

  It filled me with anxiety. “Why?”

  “Because your shoes and shirt are up there?” His tone was pointed.

  Tension released in my s
houlders. We were getting ready to leave. I stood, pushed in my chair, and glanced up at him. “Thank you for breakfast.”

  My gratuity had no impact on him. I shuffled in my socks up the stairs and down the hallway to the room I’d slept in. I didn’t remember coming in last night, and wondered if he’d had to carry me, but I wasn’t going to ask.

  Luka stood in the doorway watching as I gathered my costume shirt from the bathroom, and he pointed out my pair of black heels at the foot of the queen-sized bed. As I reached down to grab them—

  “Tell me what you remember about last night.” His voice was deadly serious and my lungs tightened in my chest.

  I abandoned my goal of picking up my heels and turned to face him. He had one hand on either side of the doorframe. It was a casual stance that displayed the lean lines of his body, but it was threatening as well. His positioning made me feel trapped. Words were difficult.

  “Do you remember going upstairs with me?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I hated how timid my voice sounded.

  His expression was free of any emotion, but his eyes betrayed him. He looked nervous. “Do you remember kissing me on the couch?”

  His nerves made mine worse, and my heart beat at a frantic tempo. “I remember a lot more than just kissing.”

  His grip tightened until his knuckles were white. “I’m going to ask you that question now, and I need you to think carefully about how you answer. You have to be completely honest.” He took a deep breath. “Do you remember us fucking?”

  Every muscle in me locked up at the memory of what we’d done last night. He’d stolen my virginity, hurt me, and now he was callously describing it as fucking. It made me so angry I could barely see straight. “No,” I said, finding my voice, and it was powerful. “I remember you forcing me to do something I wasn't ready for.”

  “Shit,” he groaned. “Addison, that’s not how it happened.”

  I balled my fists into the shirt in my hands. “I said stop.”

  “And I did,” he answered quickly. His chest was moving quicker now too, breathing rapidly. “Fuck.” His hands came down off the doorframe and he took a step toward me. “Yeah, maybe I got a little carried away last night. I drank too, remember? But we both wanted it. Don’t tell me you didn’t.” I backpedaled as he advanced on me. “We’d both been wanting it for years.”

  I shook my head as a tremble worked its way up my legs. “Not like that.”

  He paused where he was in the center of the room, disappointment etching his face. “Tell me what I can do to make it right.”

  Make it right? There was no going back. He was smart, surely he knew that. “There’s nothing, Luka. You can’t undo it.”

  He held my gaze for so long, I wondered if he was broken. He didn’t move an inch.

  “No,” he said finally, his voice grim. “I can’t.” His posture slumped as if crushed by an enormous weight, and he raked a hand through his dark hair, leaving it askew. “And I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to change your mind?”

  “About whether or not you . . . you rap—” I choked on it.

  “Don’t use that word.” He snapped up straight and his eyes narrowed.

  I bit down on my tongue for reinforcement. He turned away from me and paced across the room, then back my direction. His forehead wrinkled as if he were deep in thought.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m hungover. I need a shower and a change of clothes. Drive me home and maybe I can move past what happened.” It was a total lie, but I wanted to get the hell out of here.

  His motion ceased, and his piercing gaze ensnared me, but it wasn’t like before. There was a new emotion I hadn’t seen. It looked very much like cold, hard fury.

  Oh, shit! I stumbled back as he stormed forward, and I slammed into the wall so hard the picture hanging beside me bounced and rattled on its hook. Luka’s hands were rough on my hips, pinning me to the wall, and he brought us nose to nose.

  “You don’t lie to me, ever. Understood?”

  “You’re hurting me,” I gasped. His grip was uncomfortable on my waist. “Please. Just take me home.”

  I shook beneath his hands, but I stopped all movement as he leaned in, placing his cheek against mine, and whispered in my ear, his tone dark and full of malice. “You are home.”

  When he released his grip, I was in so much shock I almost slid to the floor. He went to the bedroom door and threw it shut with a loud crash. I pushed off the wall, crippled by panic.

  I almost shrieked it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This is the situation now. My family can’t afford for you to go to the cops, especially after the shit Vasilije got into.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  He held up his hand, silencing me. “Maybe you wouldn’t at first, but you could change your mind at any time, and I can’t risk it. You were clear about what you think happened.”

  My panic made it hard to stay rational, and hearing him dismiss what he’d done was almost as bad as the act itself.

  “You know I didn't want to. You rap—”

  “Did I not warn you about that word?” He sneered, and his rage-filled expression was terrifying.

  He grabbed a handful of the shirt I was wearing, his expensive dress shirt, and hauled me up to him. I flattened my hands on the wall of his chest, bracing myself. And then his hands closed on the open collar, one on either side, and he ripped downward. A few of the buttons flew off, while others simply gave way.

  I was too stunned to do anything but gasp at the sexual violence. My brain was paralyzed with fear. Instinctively, I tried to get away, but once the shirt had been torn open, he continued to pull it down my arms. It became a rope around my elbows, holding me in place.

  “Stop!” My heart was pounding in my ears. My throat was a desert, and I trembled to the point I could barely stand. I fought him to pull the shirt back up and cover my bra. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve lost this privilege.”

  No, no! A panicked cry tore from my throat as he tugged the shirt the rest of the way down my arms. At least with them free I could fight back. I swung, slapping at his face and chest, but he quickly snatched up my wrists. He clenched them so hard I yelped and bent to try to alleviate the ache.

  “Luka, no,” I yelled. “Stop.”

  His face was an emotionless mask. “You don’t have control over this situation. You can make it easier on yourself by accepting it.” His grip pushed me toward his feet, forcing me downward. “Kneel.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes,” he snapped. “I gave you an order.”

  My response was instantaneous. “Yeah? You and your order can go to hell.”

  He let go of my wrists and shoved my shoulders down, forcing me onto my knees. When I struggled to get up, his firm hands held me down. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

  “Are you out of your—”

  “No more talking. Disobey, and you’ll be punished.”

  His expression was serious, but . . . really? He expected me to just do as he said, after what he’d done? The words burned in my throat. “Let me go.”

  It happened so fast. His hands dipped behind me and undid the bra clasp on my back. My palms flew up to hold the bra cups in place so I could cover myself, and his action effectively trapped me. I couldn’t take my hands off without exposing my breasts. He gripped my shoulders once more, holding me on my knees as I stared up at him, shocked.

  Why was he doing this? Words failed me, and when I was silent for a few long seconds, he let out a breath. “Good. I’m going to take my hands away, but you’ll stay like this.”

  He obviously wasn’t as smart as I thought, and I was grateful. As soon as his grip was gone, I slid my hands behind my back and hooked the bra closed, while attempting to climb to my feet. I moved as fast as I possibly could—

  The result was I ended up face-down on the bed, the comforter smashed against my nose, and it was hard to breathe.


  Shit, shit, shit! I scrambled up on my arms, but his strong body crushed against mine, pinning my hips to the edge of the bed. And he’d been ready for me to try it because his hands seized my wrists and wrenched my arms behind my back. Without support, I flopped down on the mattress, which muffled my startled cry.

  I wasn’t going to allow this to happen. Goddamnnit, fight! I slammed my heel down on the top of his foot. He grunted with displeasure, and suddenly red-hot, excruciating pain radiated up my arm. The agony of him twisting my wrist stole my breath and made me into a statue.

  “Don’t do that again,” he ordered in his harsh, deep voice. “Fighting me is pointless.” There was a loud smack as his palm connected with my backside, delivering a blow. “You’re mine now.”

  7

  LUKA’S TERRIFYING WORDS twisted in my mind and a glacier crept in to surround me.

  “This is how it is,” he said, devoid of emotion. “It’s going to be hard, but we’ll get through it. You’ll do what I say, whether you want to or not.”

  “I won’t! Get your hands off of me!”

  His grip twisted, sending more fire along my arms. “You will, or, as I already told you, you’ll be punished.” He used his foot to kick my feet further apart and pressed me down into the mattress. “Hold this position.”

  My brain emptied of coherent thought when the back of my skirt was lifted. When I tried to break free, his hand came down and slapped against my ass, stinging me through my panties. I choked on air and froze. He used my panic to position me again, pushing me into the mattress so my back was flat and straight.

  “Perfect.” His single word, uttered in a low voice, made me tremble. “In fact, prove to me how perfect you are, Addison.” His tone mocked me. “Tell me pi to the eighth decimal place.”

  It was as if my brain hit a wall going sixty miles an hour. “What?”

  He slapped his palm against my already flushed skin, and this one really, really hurt. “Pi to the eighth decimal place. Now.”

  I whimpered. Was he fucking serious? I swallowed a breath and forced my mind to cooperate. Maybe if I got through this bizarre exercise, he’d let me go. “Three,” I said in a shaky, confused voice, “point one four . . . one five . . .” I didn’t want to think about the number, I wanted to think about what was happening. I needed to think about escape, but it was like he was doing this to control every part of me. “Two—”