Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

No, she’s a survivor.

  “Are you sure?” My question sounds gruff, my vocal cords so tight they’re choking me.

  Games of dominance and submission are a particular pleasure of mine. I’ve held off on exploring them with Aislinn though. After what she’s been through—I haven’t wanted to risk triggering painful memories of her past.

  They say memories can’t hurt you, but “they” don’t know shit. Memories are an avalanche of regret and remorse, held at bay by a flimsy unlocked door, easily opened.

  The thumb of Aislinn’s hand slides along my neck. Back and forth, back and forth. “Yes.” She pulls away, just enough to look me straight in the eyes. Hers are wide and pleading. “I trust you.”

  Aislinn trusts me? After what I did to her?

  I swallow hard. “Okay. I’ll go easy. And we can stop if—”

  A pained wince momentarily tightens Aislinn’s features. She shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t want easy. Or gentle. I want you to be you. Damon King—the ruthless and powerful monarch of Manhattan’s underworld.”

  “Aislinn …”

  She returns my hard stare. “Be my monster tonight, Damon. Prove to me that giving up control isn’t the same as having it taken away.”

  Jesus. My gut clenches at the darkness that rises up in my soul. The thoughts Aislinn is putting inside my own mind shouldn’t be so tempting. “What’s your safe word?”

  “I-I don’t have one. I don’t know that I’ll be able to speak.”

  I think for a moment. “Then snap.” Holding Aislinn’s wrists, I look down at her elegant fingers. “Show me.”

  Once she does, I kiss the back of each hand. “That’s good. If you do that, I will turn the lights on immediately. We can try again, or not, another time. Okay?”

  She gives a shallow nod. “Okay.”

  I rise to my feet, my voice stern. “Remove my belt.”

  There is the slightest tremble of Aislinn’s fingers as she pulls the leather through the metal buckle, then slides it through the belt loops. “Stand up and cross your hands behind your back.”

  A flash of fear passes over Aislinn’s face, her bottom lip trembling slightly just before she sinks her teeth into the plump flesh. I stare at that lip as I step closer, invading her personal space while I wrap it around her wrists, securing her arms behind her back. The supple leather makes it an effective restraint.

  She is wearing an ivory silken slip, the kind that reveals as much as it conceals. An angel of temptation. Beneath the fabric, her nipples are tight furls of need. “You’re wet right now, aren’t you?” I ask, circling my palms over them, feeling the abrasion against my palm. Aislinn moans when I remove my hand to continue charting a path downward, along the raised frets of her ribs, the flat plane of her belly, the smooth jut of her hipbone.

  The hem doesn’t reach her knees and I curl my fingers beneath it, my fingertips grazing her inner thighs. “Fuck, I can feel your heat from here.”

  Aislinn shivers, inching her legs apart. I laugh menacingly, feeling myself slip into this scene as I lean down to whisper in her ear. “Nah. You’re going to have to earn this. Back on your knees.”

  I haven’t seen Aislinn in this position since the night of her attack, and I take a moment to revel in the sight of her willing submission. Fragile straps bisect her shoulders, the creamy material almost indistinguishable from her skin. Her breasts rise and fall with fast, shallow breaths, and I can read her uncertainty—not about her decision to ask for this. But about the details she no longer controls.

  Life always comes down to details. A single forgotten instruction can lead to the failure of the most carefully crafted plan.

  But well-executed moments elevate an event into an experience. A memory that stands out from the rest.

  Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I lower the blinds. The sudden, inky darkness makes Aislinn distinctly uncomfortable. I can’t see her face any longer, but I can hear her breath catch in the back of her throat as I curve my hand around her neck, her pulse jumping against the press of my fingers.

  With my free hand, I release the button of my pants, then lower the zipper and remove both my pants and boxer-briefs. Normally, a knife would be strapped to my ankle, but I sharpened it earlier. It’s in my closet now.

  My dick bobs in front of Aislinn’s face, straining toward her lips, her warm breath wafting over my impudent crown.

  I’ve been fantasizing about these lips for the past forty-eight hours. Even as I avoided Aislinn herself. Even as I investigated her past. Even as I tracked down Cruz’s soldiers, investigated his son, and warned Lytton.

  But when her lips close over my skin, her tongue swirling around my throbbing tip, her low moan of satisfaction vibrating within my balls … reality is so much better than my memory.

  I push my fingers into Aislinn’s hair, gathering a heavy knot of it into my fist and bringing her forward, the crown of my cock sliding down the tight confines of Aislinn’s throat, her gag reflex fluttering.

  Fuck.

  The darkness envelops us both, and for a brief moment, I forget that I am doing this for her.

  This moment, this magic …

  It feels like it’s for me.

  41

  Aislinn

  Unlike last time, Damon doesn’t remind me to breathe. His hands hold my head and even with my eyes open, I can barely see. This room is not quite as dark as the closet, but it’s close. There had been a ribbon of light that slipped through the narrow gap between the door and the floor. I focused on it, which is why I noticed the dark liquid that crept beneath the door. Like spilled grape juice, but thicker, slower.

  Blood.

  The flashback is vivid but temporary.

  It evaporates as Damon’s cock reaches the back of my throat, then breaches it. I’m choking on him, my feet kicking helplessly on the carpet, my wrists testing the knotted leather binding.

  I can’t moan. I can’t cry. I can’t escape. I can’t breathe.

  A surge of adrenaline spreads panic to every muscle and nerve in my body.

  It is only when spots appear at the edges of my vision, blinding technicolor stars that sparkle and glitter, that Damon retreats. He pulls out of my mouth entirely, holding me upright by my hair as I wheeze and choke. And when he lets go, I fall to the floor, on my side.

  The carpet beneath my cheek is thick and plush, and I can feel his footsteps walking away from me. As my breaths slow their frenzy, I wonder if he will come back.

  Is this it?

  I should feel relief.

  But I don’t.

  I am disappointed, every sense straining for proof of Damon’s return. A fresh whiff of whiskey. A waft of his clean, bracing scent. The rhythmic vibration of his purposeful stride. The subdued swish of his feet brushing against the carpet.

  I’ve been wanting to explore Damon’s rough edges since he first hinted at them, rubbing oil into my skin after I fell on the marble bathroom tile. The dominant nature I find both scary and enthralling.

  Which is why he’s the perfect man to help me confront my own fears.

  Come back.

  I am concentrating so hard that I miss all the signs. Damon’s return feels like a surprise. His scent is suddenly all around me. I can hear his breath, feel his warmth.

  But the biggest surprise, the most terrifying surprise, is the strip of metal that lands—soft and cold and unforgiving—on my neck.

  And every part of me clenches in fear. The kind of fear so powerful it overrides even Damon’s intoxicating scent. My eyes squeeze shut. The smell of sweat and copper invade my nose, filling my mouth.

  Fear and frenzy and blood.

  So much blood.

  “Where are you?” Damon asks.

  I whimper, my attempt at an answer unintelligible.

  So Damon repeats the question. “Where are you, Aislinn?”

  “Here.” My answer is tremulous but audible.

  “And where else?”

  “There. Th-The closet.”<
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  “Who are you with?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “No. Try again. Who are you with?”

  I swallow, the skin of my neck pinching against the blade. “You.”

  “Who else?”

  I am silent for a moment, thinking. “You, Damon,” I finally say. “Only you.”

  I say it because it’s true. Damon King is too vital a force to allow anyone else admission to this moment, even a memory.

  The knife is lifted from my neck and I suck in a quick breath. But my grateful exhale is halted by the sharp tip at my collarbone. The remaining oxygen leaves my lungs in a shuddering sigh as it drags down my skin, into the valley between my breasts.

  I expect to feel pain, am bracing myself for the sharp burn of a wound. Instead, I jerk back at the sound of tightly woven silk fibers being shredded by a single, linear cut.

  Cool air rushes over my now naked skin. The tip of the blade grazing the vulnerable hollow between my ribs, the shallow indent of my belly button, the swollen, aching folds that weep with the need to be pierced.

  But not by the sharp end of a dagger.

  No. My pussy is desperate to be filled by an entirely different weapon.

  With my shift torn in two, Damon drops the knife. It falls softly on the rug as he reaches behind me to release my arms. He takes a minute to massage my hands and wrists before dragging me along the carpet toward the front of the bed. His hands are everywhere at once. Skimming over my breasts and belly and the dampness between my thighs.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  My cheeks heat, and I realize that I am. I am luxuriating in the darkness, in the quiet. In the feeling that Damon and I are the only two people in the world. My yes is more of a hiss.

  We’re still on the floor, and he uses the torn silk to tie my wrists—not to each other—but to the front feet of the bed.

  Damon crawls over me, the treasure trail of hair that leads from his belly button to his groin gently abrading my stomach, his knees pressing against the curve of my waist. His breath is warm against my lips as he leans down. “Now I’m going to make you come, long and hard. You’re going to give me your orgasm because I demand it, do you hear me?”

  I nod, releasing another hiss as I buck upward, tugging at the restraints that have my arms spread like a crucifix. My spine arches, my breasts pushing against his chest, my feet struggling to find purchase on the plush carpet.

  He ends the kiss, his lips moving swiftly down my neck. His mouth closes over one nipple, his fingers twisting and teasing the other. I cry out, wondering if sex and savagery are just two sides of the same knife.

  But it’s not Damon’s knife that sears a path down my ribcage. It’s not Damon’s knife that digs into the flesh stretched over my hipbone. It’s not Damon’s knife that plunges inside my tight, wet heat.

  It’s his mouth. His teeth. His tongue.

  Stoking a fire that is quickly moving beyond my control.

  And the enraged blaze … might just consume us both.

  42

  Damon

  F or me, tonight is a reprieve from the danger that exists beyond our dark cocoon.

  For Aislinn, it is a confrontation twenty years in the making. My brave, brave girl.

  I will be her monster. The kind she need not fear. Ever.

  Whether in the blackest dark or the brightest light, I will keep Aislinn safe.

  And right now, I am going to kiss her and eat her and fuck her until her screams are loud and savage and desperate. I will fucking consume every part of her. The only pain she’ll experience at my hands will come from the sharp edge of pleasure. The kind that will have her twisting and writhing and begging. For release. For escape. For peace.

  I will give her all of those things.

  Aislinn doesn’t realize it now, but I will be her sanctuary.

  Fuck that. I already am.

  The cruelest of sanctuaries. Because I’ll never let her go.

  Aislinn is thrashing beneath me, moaning and gasping. Her lithe body is sweet and soft, her skin like a peach dipped in honey. I move downward, her legs held captive by mine as I straddle her, exploring every curve and hollow with my hands and mouth. Her thighs are still squeezed together when I reach that plump crease that splits open for me like the sweetest fruit.

  I don’t lick her, not yet. At first, I simply breathe her in. The potent scent of her arousal activates my deepest, most animalistic instincts. The impulse to grunt and rut. To maul and devour. To consume. To mark her over and over again as mine. Always mine.

  I don’t hold back the growl that leaps from my throat as I spread her thighs and open my mouth, extending my tongue for one long, satisfying lick from her crease to her clit.

  Jesus Christ. I want to make a meal out of her.

  So I do.

  I feast on every part of her. Her swollen berry of a clit, her slick folds, the subtle pleats of her ass. So many different tastes and textures all contained within one small area. I can’t get enough.

  I am so absorbed in my own enjoyment that I’m only distantly aware of Aislinn’s responses. My forearms are pressed against her inner thighs, one hand holding down her stomach, my other hand assisting in my explorations. My fingers alternate between holding her open and pushing inside her body, delving into her tight holes as she squeezes and clenches around the invasion.

  My nose is buried in her puffy mound, my lips and cheeks and chin slick with her juices.

  Gluttony has never tasted so good.

  Beneath me, powerful shudders sweep through Aislinn. She jerks at her silken restraints, her body fighting for release.

  My dick is so hard it feels like it could snap in two. My hips are bucking against the carpet, seeking friction of any kind. I need a release, too.

  But my intent is not merely to satisfy my own hunger. It’s Aislinn’s lust I want to feed.

  Her moans and mutterings are frenzied. Calling out my name, begging me and cursing me in equal measure.

  That’s right, Aislinn, I want to say. Only I can have you. Only I can save you.

  And I will.

  I will.

  Again and again.

  Teeth bared, I suck the tight bead of her clit into my mouth. And I bite it.

  Aislinn’s response is immediate. Her hips rocket upward, only forcing more of her pussy into my mouth. Her scream is an agonized, ecstatic wail that goes on and on, her limbs trembling and shaking until finally turning limp.

  I unbind Aislinn’s arms, taking a moment to massage her hands and wrists and throw her onto the center of my bed. “On your knees, princess.”

  When she doesn’t move fast enough, I lift her wrists and wrap her fingers around the frame.

  Kneeling behind her body, I grab Aislinn’s hips, positioning her so that her back is a deep curve, her ass high and tight.

  As badly as I want to plunge into her body, to probe and plunder and slake the lust churning in my gut and eating me alive …

  Aislinn’s ass is just too damned tempting.

  I nearly smile as the first slap strikes her skin. Aislinn yelps, her body jerking in surprise.

  But she doesn’t let go of the headboard. She doesn’t make any attempt to move away even though she is no longer restrained. I wait another moment to determine whether it’s shock that has her frozen. But no, her back settles into that perfect arch once more, ass raised.

  Waiting. Wanting.

  And then, as my hand lets loose again, and again, and again, I can’t help but smile.

  Four slaps are all I manage. The need to be inside her is too great, too impossible to resist. I sheathe myself in one fierce thrust that has my balls pressed tight against the tender skin where ass meets thigh. The second my cock pierces her entrance, I know this isn’t going to be a leisurely fuck.

  No. This is a fuck-ing.

  I invade Aislinn’s body like an army. Like a starving, vengeful, bloodthirsty soldier intent on domination. Subjugation.


  She is the spoils of a war I never knew I was fighting.

  Aislinn Granville is my victory.

  And I claim her.

  As mine.

  43

  Aislinn

  I wake up alone. I’m not surprised, but at least I have the comfort of knowing Damon was with me last night. Not just with me while we had sex, but with me.

  The darkness hadn’t been quite so scary, knowing I shared it with Damon. I’d given him my fear, and he kept it at bay.

  I’m not so naïve to think it is gone for good, but I’m already eager to try it again.

  There had been no barrier between us. Not even a condom. And after he came inside me, Damon uncurled my fingers from the headboard and tucked me beneath the sheets. He had cradled me to his chest, rubbing the lingering tension from my hands and wrists and shoulders. I was a kitten stroked in front of a fire. Purring and stretching, limp and sleepy.

  I slept, but my unconscious was active throughout the night, processing what had transpired.

  The darkness.

  The knife.

  My screams.

  My bound wrists.

  But there was no blood. No cruelty.

  Damon, my dark knight, took my nightmare and turned it into a fantasy.

  Terror, that thorny vine that had wrapped around me all those years ago, never loosening its hold, was finally slashed and broken, in pieces at my feet.

  I’d fallen asleep in darkness, sheltered by the strength of Damon’s arms around me, the reassurance of his steady heartbeat drumming against my shoulder blade, the bulge of his still semi-erect cock against my ass, the touch and press of his hands on my naked skin.

  I had woken several times during the night when the echoes of memory and reality had clashed—Marisol’s screams of pain and my cries of pleasure, Marisol’s husband’s vengeful grunts and Damon’s possessive growls.

  But each time, Damon’s mouth had been at my ear, offering soothing words of comfort as his arms tightened around me, gently rocking me back to sleep. Except for when I rolled over, needing comfort of a different kind. There too, he had acquiesced. Our hips rolling toward each other in a rhythm that felt as inevitable as the tide. My climax not the terrifying slam of a rogue wave but more like a deliciously lapping current, carrying me safely back to shore.