by Bea Paige
“I know, why don’t you tell me who you are and then, perhaps, I’ll answer your question,” I retort sharply. I know my words come out harsher than I intended but I’ll be damned if I answer any more questions if he can’t even be bothered to introduce himself.
Something flashes in the man’s eyes, then he strides towards me, stopping a foot away. He’s so close that I can feel his hot breath slide over my skin. My skin prickles at his nearness.
“Answer me!” he roars. The rage that pours out of his body is terrifying.
Terrifying and thrilling.
“Who are you?” I repeat, my voice holding steady. I refuse to look away. The last time I submitted to such a man it almost broke me. I refuse to do that again. In this fucking life or the next.
“Answer the damn question!”
“Not until you tell me your name,” I retort, not caring that my own voice is a few decibels higher than it should be. This back and forth has become more than me giving him a complicated answer to a simple question. This is about power. His over mine.
“You don’t get to question me. This is my fucking office, my fucking house. Now, answer the damn question!” he snarls. The dark curtain of his hair falling into his rage-filled eyes.
“Your house?”
Oh, my god. This is Ivan Sachov.
This man is my boss.
“That’s right, Rose. So, if you want to keep your job, you’d better answer me.” His voice lowers but is no less angry for it. If anything, it’s taken on a sinister edge.
I should be more afraid than I am. I should be running far, far away from him and the other strange occupants of Browlace Manor, but I don’t. Instead, I look him square in the eye and answer his question.
“I stretch to keep supple, to keep the pain at bay. I do it because I need to fight the demons that rule my body. I do it because I need to remember who I once was…”
Once was. It’s then that I realise I’ve seen this man before. He may have aged some, he may have bulked up, and his hair might be a few shades darker than it was when I saw him last, but there’s no doubting who he is. It would appear I’m not the only one trying to hide from my past. My chest squeezes on the realisation. All the ballet references make sense now.
Ivan blanches at my response, his olive skin turning a shade lighter. He raises his finger and grazes it across my jaw as his head dips lower. The irony of being this close to him is not lost to me given how much I longed to be noticed by him all those years ago. Back then I was just another face amongst many, back then he only had eyes for one woman; Svetlana Ivanov. She was one of the most talented ballet dancers this past decade, until her death, that is.
“Who were you?” he asks softly, in a voice so very different to the one that roared at me in anger just now.
“A ballerina. We danced in the same show La Bayadere. I was in the corps de ballet, you were the principal dancer, Luka Petrin,” I whisper, certain I’m not wrong.
For a split second he remains fixed in place, his body stiff. I watch as a dozen emotions flash behind his eyes, then he jerks back, stumbling.
“Get the fuck out of my office!” he shouts, backing away from me now as though I’m the predator and he’s the prey.
“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have mentioned,” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“GET. THE. FUCK. OUT!”
The sound of clicking heels against a hard floor comes from the corridor, a second later Ms Hadley comes rushing in. She looks between us, her beady eyes taking in the scene before her. I’m trembling violently, as much as Luka is. I mean Ivan, or whoever he wishes to be called now.
“Ivan, be calm. What’s going on?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me as though this is all my fault. I guess it is. I guess he didn’t want to be reminded of his past any more than I do.
He points his finger at me, a cruel sneer curling his lips.
“What’s going on? Rose here is about to leave. She’s fucking fired,” he snarls, his accent more marked now that he doesn’t need to cover it up with pretence.
“But I didn’t mean…” I begin, my voice trembling.
Ms Hadley walks up to me, blocking my view from Ivan. Her lips pull back over her teeth reminding me of a feral cat.
“You heard Mr Sachov. Leave at once, and don’t come back.”
Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them back refusing to let either of them know how upset I am.
“If that’s what you want,” I respond, picking up my handbag.
I grab my coat, wincing again at the pain in my back as I pull it on. I feel Ms Hadley’s stare, but I ignore her and walk right up to Ivan.
“I’m sorry to have upset you,” I say.
Then leaning in closer, pressing my fingers against his forearm, I lower my voice, so Ms Hadley can’t hear. “I know what it’s like to run from your past, your secret is safe with me.” And with that I walk out of the room.
Chapter Six
Ivan
Standing at the window of my office, I look out at the woman who just slapped me in the face with a memory of my past I have no desire to revisit.
La Bayadere.
It was the ballet where I met Svetlana. It was the start of our relationship, and the beginning of her destruction. I had been captivated from the first moment I spotted her across the rehearsal room. In an instant I had known that I’d wanted to claim her as mine, and I did. She had no choice in the matter.
I made her love me, and then I fucking destroyed her bit by bit.
Svetlana had played the part of Nikiya and I had played the warrior Solor. It had taken me the length of that tour to seduce her and fuck most of the cast. Svetlana had given me her heart easily enough, and I took it, feasting on her love from that moment on. But it was never enough.
I’d wanted so much more, and I took that as well. Except, perhaps, not all of it. Rose had somehow slipped by me.
“Ivan, can I get you anything?” Ms Hadley asks carefully, her voice cutting through the memories.
“No, just leave. I shall speak with you later.”
“As you wish,” she says, knowing me well enough not to press.
I hear the door click shut, and my attention refocuses on the woman I just fired as she strides down the gravel drive. She seems to be limping a little, her left knee giving way as she walks towards the iron gate and the roadway beyond. Still, she keeps moving with the same determination that she used confronting me. Looking at her now, I wouldn’t have guessed a background in dance. Her shoulders are rounded, her step awkward and she holds her body taut as though in pain…
Pain, she had mentioned that, the physical pain. There was something else too, something hidden. I’d seen secrets in her eyes and I’d recognised a piece of me in her that I didn’t like. Not one fucking bit.
Demons. She had demons, just like me.
I’d understood immediately that she wasn’t just talking about the ones that plagued her physically. No, she’d been talking about the ones that she danced to forget. That’s why, even with pain, she stretches to remain supple… supple enough to keep hold of her escape mechanism. I’d seen it written all over her face, that for her, to lose the freedom of dance would be catastrophic. Just like taking away my release would be for me.
I need to fuck, like I need oxygen to live. No, that’s not exactly right, I need to fuck and dominate in order to survive.
There is no other way for me. That need has grown into a monster I can’t satiate since Svetlana’s death, but it’s always been there. It’ll never be satisfied.
Rose can’t work for me, not just because she knows who I really am, but because she will be a constant reminder of what I had to give up. I had known the moment I’d walked in the room and found her bent over double with her hands on her calves that she was a dancer. That was certainly confirmed when she’d stood with her feet in first position with a straight back, her jaw jutting. The pose of every ballet dancer worth their salt.
“Think of a thread pull
ing up the length of your spine…”
Holding the correct posture at all times is ingrained in dancers from the moment they take up ballet. Christ knows I’ve tried to rid myself of it. I’ve bulked up my body to look different. I’ve allowed my muscles to lose their flexibility. I don’t want to dance ever again. I don’t want to be reminded of that time in my life.
Yet, you still fuck women in the dance studio where your wife killed herself…
I shake my head of the ugly thought and slam my fist into the wall. I don’t even register the pain. How in the hell had Ms Hadley managed to hire an ex ballet dancer? My housekeeper is astute, nothing gets past her, and yet this woman had. It’s the worst possible disaster.
“FUCK!” I shout, slamming my fist against the wall again. “FUCK. FUCK. FUCK!”
Rose was in La Bayadere. She knows my real name, she knows about my past and yet, despite touring with the company, I have no recollection of her.
That’s unlike me. I remember everyone. How had someone with a fucking ripe arse, full breasts and plump lips like her got past me? I’d fucked most of the damn cast at the same time as I’d chased Svetlana. How had she slipped through my grasp?
Then again, it was over ten years ago, people can change in that time. They can evolve into something more than what they once were, like Rose. Or they can become a darker shadow of their former selves, like me.
I lose sight of Rose as she exits the main gate, and I finally let out a long breath. It’s just as well she’s gone. I will find another personal assistant. This is the last time I entrust Ms Hadley with my affairs. She can run this damn household, keep Erik and Anton in check, but from now on she can stay the fuck away from hiring staff.
Striding over to my desk I pull open the middle draw and grab the length of red silk I keep in there. Lifting it to my nose I breath in deeply, remembering the nameless woman I’d used this piece of silk on last. My cock stirs.
Grabbing the phone on my desk, I pick up the receiver and dial Ms Hadley’s extension.
“Ivan?” she answers.
“I shall be dining in my room tonight.”
“I apologise…”
“It’s done,” I snap. “You have my book?”
There’s a moment’s pause at the end of the line.
“Ms Hadley, you have my book?”
“Yes. What’s your preference this evening?”
“I don’t care. You choose, and this time, don’t fuck it up,” I retort.
There’s silence again, before I hear Ms Hadley sigh. “She can’t dance anymore. It’s the only reason I hired her.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She’s sick. Rheumatoid arthritis.”
“I shall be ready at nine,” I reply, slamming the phone back onto its cradle.
Pulling back the sleeve of my shirt, I run my fingertip over the faint white scars that mark my skin. Each one represents the women I’ve fucked since falling in love with my wife and the hundreds I’ve used since she stopped living.
Rose may not bear the same kind of scars, but in that brief meeting I got the distinct impression that she and I are more alike than I’d care to admit. We’re both running from something in our past, and fuck if I don’t want to delve beneath her creamy skin and devour her soul, just like all the rest.
I walk into the dance studio where my distraction is waiting. The nameless woman is sitting on the wooden chair in the corner of the room. She’s one of my regulars and one of the most subservient. I’m not sure how Ms Hadley knew she would be the one I needed tonight, but she chose wisely this time.
The woman is blindfolded, her hands folded in her lap. She sits demurely, her knees and ankles pressed together, her polyester skirt tight around her thighs. Her head is bowed, blonde hair loose, lips parted on a breath. I watch as her chest falls and rises gently, her ample breasts straining against the tight t-shirt she wears. I can tell that she’s already wet for me. The way her thighs press together so tightly, the slight pink tinge to her cheeks, the pebbled nipples. She’s very receptive, and tonight that’s exactly what I need.
This woman is more curved than those who’ve visited on the last few occasions. She has a rounded tummy and silver stretch marks across her hips and stomach. But I’m not bothered by them. I don’t search for perfection in the women I fuck, at least not anymore.
I did once. I spent years chasing the most beautiful, the most perfect of women. I wanted to own the women who were every man’s ideal, the women who would make other men hard and insanely jealous because I had them. I’d sought them out, married or not. I’d fucked them. I owned them all. Then I left them shattered and broken, a trail of misery in my wake…
Svetlana had been perfect.
Everything about her was just so damn perfect. She had been stunning, kind, warm, talented.
But perfection no longer interests me, I don’t even want imperfect. What I want is selfish release.
My attention is drawn back to the woman sitting in the chair waiting patiently. She shifts slightly, aware of another person in the room. I guess she could be described as homely. Motherly, I suppose, and perhaps she is a mother. I know she’s married, I’ve seen the indent of her wedding ring on her finger. I’m not certain why she bothers removing it. I guess it’s easier for her to pretend she’s not cheating that way.
None of that really matters to me.
Husband or not, kids or not. I don’t ask, and they don’t tell me, and that’s the way I like it.
Approaching her, I remove my t-shirt and fling it across the room. The cool air scatters over my skin, and my arms cover in goose bumps. Stopping just a metre away, I pull a flip knife from my trouser pocket and open it up. The blade glints in the dimmed overhead lights as I slide my finger over the back edge. A strange feeling unravels in my chest; a mixture of inevitability and relief. I slide the tip of the blade over my bicep and watch as the skin parts, drawing blood. There’s no pain, there isn’t even release, not in this, that comes later. I watch as my blood slides down my arm and drips onto the floor, seeping between the gaps.
My offering to the wife I had killed.
“You need to say the word,” I murmur, folding the blade back into its casing. My voice comes out broken, needy, and I fucking hate myself for showing this woman a glimpse into the hidden depths of me. Fuck that. My fists curl and I grit my teeth.
She raises her head, turning her face to me, then reaches for her blindfold.
“Don’t.” I warn, and her hand drops immediately. “I didn’t tell you to take it off. Do you need reminding of the rules?”
She shakes her head, a rush of colour spreading up her neck. I see her thighs squeeze tighter, and briefly wonder what lie she told her family, so she could be here tonight.
“Are you…?” she starts, breaking another rule.
“There are no conversations in this room, no questions, no talk. You understand that you’ll pay the consequences for such flagrant regard of the rules?” I ask, squatting in front of her.
With the knife still grasped in one hand, I slide the other up her calf and between her knees, resting it there. Her breath catches as she waits.
“You need to say the word,” I say, more firmly this time. Her knees part at the change in my voice, at the power she wants to give in to.
My fingers edge up the inside of her thigh. The softness of female skin usually has my cock twitching. Not this time.
“Say it!” I growl.
She groans, widening her legs further, giving me access to her wetness. Like all the women who come here, she isn’t wearing any underwear. It’s one of my requirements. Depending on how I feel, I want immediate access. Underwear just gets in the way.
My fingers hover just beyond the spot I know she’s desperate for me to touch. I wait for the word that will open up a world of intense pleasure for us both over the next few hours. Still she remains quiet.
My fingers twirl in gentle circles over her soft skin, and her chest heave
s as she fights her own internal battle. Perhaps tonight her delay is the thought of the husband she’s betraying or perhaps it’s just her way to build the anticipation. Either way, I’m feeling more generous this evening than usual. Though in all honestly, I need time to get my head fucking straight.
By now my cock would normally be rigid, and yet it’s barely even stirring.
I’m not ready to fuck her yet. I’m not even sure I will be. My fingers still and I pull my hand back, but her legs slam together, trapping my hand between her thighs.
“Brisé,” she says, breathlessly.
But it’s already too late. I yank my hand out from between her legs and stand abruptly. Her mouth opens on a question, but I silence her with my finger.
“No questions, no conversations, no fucking talking. If you ever want to come back here again, I suggest you stick to those three simple rules, got it?” I seethe, angry at this woman. No, not angry at this woman, angry at the woman who’s turned my head today.
Rose.
The minute I think of her bent over, her round arse high in the air, my cock stiffens.
“Fuck!” I growl, grasping my hand around my cock.
The knife falls from my hand as I yank my trousers down.
“Suck my dick,” I bite out, holding the base of my cock and bringing the tip to the woman’s lips. She lets out a moan as she reaches blindly for me. Her warm hands find my hips just as her mouth closes around the head of my cock.
“Hmmm,” she hums around me, and my balls tighten automatically in response.
With my free hand I grab the back of her head and guide my length as far into her mouth as she can take. She sucks me off, her tongue lapping at me whilst I grind into her welcoming warmth. Her moaning increases as she widens her legs, her way of telling me without talking that she’s ready to be fucked.
But she doesn’t get to choose when I fuck her, if I fuck her.