Pretty Hostage

by Julia Sykes

  He didn’t relent. Mateo had always been gentle and careful with me, but this facet of himself he was showing me now was far rougher and more demanding.

  “Mateo, stop,” I begged, jerking against his hold.

  He frowned down at me, his hand pausing just above my knee. “When we’re in my bed, you’re not in charge, florecita.”

  The low warning made my panties grow damp with a rush of fresh arousal, but my fear didn’t abate.

  “I can feel your hot little pussy through my jeans,” he said, his voice rough with hunger. “You like this.”

  He resumed his progress, pushing up my dress.

  “No!” I shouted, panic slicing through my desire.

  He stilled again, his massive body tensing. “I know you want me to touch you,” he ground out. “Why are you fighting this?”

  I cut my gaze away, my cheeks burning with shame. “I don’t want you to see my thighs.”

  His hand instantly withdrew from my leg, coming up to cup my cheek instead. He turned my face, commanding my attention.

  When I peeked up at him, I found that the sharp hunger in his black eyes had softened to something like sorrow.

  He released my wrists and stroked his fingers through my hair in a soothing rhythm.

  “I know I reacted badly when I saw your scar,” he said, the words deep and even. “That had everything to do with me, not you. I think you’re perfect.”

  My eyes burned. I wanted so badly for that to be true, but it simply wasn’t.

  “There are more,” I admitted on a pained whisper.

  He dropped a kiss on my lips, a sweet reassurance rather than a harsh claim.

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Sofia.”

  “I’m not.” The first hot tear dropped down my temple and fell into my curls. “You only think that because you haven’t seen all of me.”

  He shifted his weight, moving off me so that he laid on the bed beside me. He didn’t stop petting me, and I was so grateful for the contact that my heart squeezed in my chest.

  “There is nothing you could show me that will change the way I feel about you,” he swore. “Let me see.”

  I couldn’t refuse him. Not without pushing him away. And I needed him too desperately to risk that. I could only hope that he would keep his promise.

  If I bared myself to him only to be rejected, I’d break again, just like I did when I was thirteen years old. And this time, I wasn’t sure if I’d be strong enough to stop myself from repeating the cycle of addiction and shame.

  Closing my eyes, I fisted the soft material of my dress in both hands. I felt the swirling ridges of the pretty, decorative embroidery against my palms as I revealed the ugliest parts of my body to him.

  I heard Mateo hiss in a disgusted breath, and I withered inside.

  “This wasn’t an accident,” he said tightly.

  “No,” I admitted thickly, my tears coming faster. “It wasn’t.”

  Nothing accidental could have left the neat, perfectly straight lines that marked my flesh. Some were longer than others, some deeper. Most were vertical, but a handful of horizontal and diagonal patterns broke up the monotony. The lightest scars were as thin and fine as white thread. The deepest were dark, puckered furrows. Like the one on my inner thigh.

  “Who did this to you, Sofia?’ he demanded, completely repulsed by the sight of me.

  I cringed, wishing I could sink into the mattress and disappear.

  His thumb hooked beneath my jaw, tipping my face back. “Look at me,” he ordered.

  My eyes opened, automatically responding to his command. Hot tears obscured my vision, and I was relieved that I didn’t have a clear image of his contempt to burn into my brain forever.

  “You have to tell me who did this,” he insisted.

  “Me,” I said miserably. “I did it.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for what was done to you,” he growled. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll take care of it.”

  My stomach twisted, far more painful than any of the tidy little marks I’d cut into my skin. I batted his hands from my face, pushing up onto my elbows and scooting away from him.

  “I do blame myself, because I did it!” I yelled the awful truth at him, so he would understand the full horror of what I’d done. “I’m the one who ruined my body! It was a stupid, angsty teenage phase, and I ruined my body forever because I had behavioral issues.” The words were bitter on my tongue, and I heard my mother’s voice issuing from my own lips.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, the rough quality to his tone softened by confusion. “You hurt yourself?”

  “Aren’t you listening?” I demanded, furious that he was making me repeat my sin, forcing me to expound upon my shame. “Yes, okay? Yes, I cut myself up because I was an idiotic thirteen-year-old girl who couldn’t cope with life, even though I was spoiled beyond most kid’s wildest dreams.”

  “But why would you do that?” Mateo was utterly baffled.

  Of course he was. I’d been raised in a home with everything a child could possibly want. I knew full well that my actions had been ridiculous in the extreme.

  “Ask my therapist,” I replied with venom. “Daddy sent me to the most expensive shrink he could find. I’m sure she could explain it far better than I could.”

  “I’m asking you,” he said, his voice dropping to the deep register that resonated in my bones.

  His arms wrapped around me. I tried to twist away, but he held me firm, tucking me against his chest. His fingers wiped at the tears on my cheeks, his unexpected, tender touch stemming the flow.

  I blinked, clearing my vision so that he came into full focus. He stared down at me, his brow furrowed with concern, not disgust.

  His hand rested on my thigh, touching my scars. I tensed, but he kept his palm flush with my skin, his thumb dipping lower to trace the line of the deep furrow he’d discovered when he’d spanked me.

  The direct contact with the hideous marks confused me. Why wasn’t he tugging my dress down to hide them from his sight?

  “Explain this to me.” His cadence was calm but stern.

  “Like I said. It was a stupid teenage phase.” The assertion was much weaker than it had been before, tinged with the pain I kept carefully buried beneath the weight of my shame.

  I didn’t deserve to indulge in that pain, because my behavior didn’t warrant any pity or comfort. I bore the shame as my well-deserved penance.

  His black gaze was steady and deep. I wanted to get swallowed up in those warm, dark pools and never surface.

  “There’s nothing stupid about this,” he countered evenly. “You obviously did this over time. You didn’t get all these marks in one day. Tell me how it started.”

  “It was my thirteenth birthday,” I said softly, the truth compelled by his unyielding but tender demeanor. “My mom gave me my first razor and told me it was time to start shaving my legs because I was maturing as a woman. But she didn’t show me how to do it properly. Mom was…pretty hands-off. So, I started from a bad angle, slipped, and sliced up my leg pretty deep. I’d never gotten cut like that before. The worst injury I’d ever sustained up until that point was a scraped knee.”

  I could still remember the shock of the red gash, the ruby red blood running thin in the warm water that filled the tub. I’d been so dumbfounded by the sight that it had barely even hurt at first.

  “When I showed my mom the cut and asked her what to do about it, she called my nanny and left us alone to attend to the first aid. It started healing up, but it still hurt if I moved the wrong way. Or if I pressed on it. Or if I picked at the scab.”

  I took a breath, my cheeks burning. “I know most kids would be thrilled to live in my house growing up. I had a big bedroom of my own, chef-prepared meals, and all the toys I could possibly want. But I was fully immersed in my poor little rich girl persona,” I said bitterly.

  Mateo had told me he grew up poor. He had every reason to scorn my behavi
or even more than I did.

  But he didn’t say anything cruel or judgmental. Instead, he stroked my cheek, offering warmth and support.

  “Go on,” he urged. “I’m listening.”

  I took a shuddering breath and continued. “I didn’t like that my mom dictated my style, dressing me up in frilly clothes that suited her ideal of a pretty little daughter. I didn’t like that the only time she paid any attention to me was to criticize my appearance. And if she did say nice things about me, it was always loudly in front of others so that they could hear and say what a wonderful mother she was.”

  “And your father?” he pressed when I took too long of a pause. Mateo wasn’t going to let me trail off or redirect the subject. He was steady and solid, his massive arms enfolding me and holding me with aching care while he asked me to share my most shameful secrets.

  “I love Daddy, but he was busy with work.” I echoed his familiar excuse. “He was sweet to me, but he wasn’t around on a normal schedule, and he especially didn’t have time for me if I was being difficult.”

  “And were you a difficult child?” There was no censure in Mateo’s tone, just a desire to understand.

  “I tried not to be. But I messed up sometimes, especially if I lost control of my emotions. The cutting helped with that.

  “While the accidental cut from shaving was healing, I found that if I picked at it, I could focus my frustrations and volatile feelings. The physical pain allowed me to channel my inner pain, and it provided some relief. It gave me a sense of control over my life that I’d never had before. I was able to regulate my temper, so I didn’t upset the people around me with my toxic behavior.”

  Mateo’s lips pressed together, and I suspected he was holding in something he wanted to say. But he remained silent and continued petting me, his dark eyes compelling me to confess everything.

  “Once the cut fully healed, I only lasted three days before I intentionally made another. I didn’t ask my mom to help me patch that one up.

  “I hid what I was doing for two years. It would have gone on longer if I hadn’t cut too deep. I bandaged up the one on my inner thigh, but it bled through my dress and stained Mom’s fancy upholstered dining chair.

  “Daddy sent me to therapy, and I started writing poetry to deal with my emotions instead. If I’d just done that from the very beginning, I wouldn’t have ruined my body.”

  He stroked his fingers over my thighs, rubbing my damaged flesh as though it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  “You keep repeating that phrase. You didn’t ruin your body, belleza. These marks don’t make you any less beautiful.”

  “But they do,” I countered, my heart aching. “I… I’m ashamed of them. I’m ashamed of what I did.”

  His rugged features firmed to solid granite, but his touch on my thighs remained gentle. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You were a child in pain, and you did what you could to ease the hurt. Someone should have protected you.”

  I let out a hollow laugh. “Protected me from what? Myself?”

  He cupped my cheek, trapping my face so I had no choice but to see the sincerity in his deep, dark eyes. “From loneliness. From indifference. You should have been loved, Sofia.”

  “Daddy loves me.” The assertion hitched in my throat.

  “I believe he does,” Mateo agreed. “But he wasn’t there for you. Not like he should have been.”

  He rubbed his thumb over my lips and traced the lines of my cheekbones, as though he was memorizing every detail of my form.

  “I’m here for you now,” he swore. “You’re mine.”

  Chapter 15

  Mateo

  I’d always assumed Sofia had lived an easy, blissfully happy life. I’d thought she’d been handed everything she wanted on a silver platter by a doting father who showered her with love.

  He might have provided for her, but Sofia hadn’t been loved. Not like she should have been.

  She’d been lonely and so desperate for her father’s affection that she’d chosen to cut her soft skin. She’d hurt herself in order to regulate her emotions, so that Caesar wouldn’t think she was being difficult.

  No wonder she’d become attached to me so quickly. I lavished her with the praise and attention she craved so deeply that she’d been willing to bleed for it.

  My hatred for Caesar swelled. He might not realize how his behavior had tormented Sofia, but that didn’t excuse what he’d done to her. He wasn’t forgiven, and I wouldn’t forget.

  Sofia was convinced that she’d ruined her body. I suspected those were her mother’s cruel words, inflicted on an anguished young girl who was already consumed by the longing for approval.

  No wonder Sofia was so sweet and innocent. She’d conditioned herself to be pleasant and bubbly, seeking to befriend anyone and everyone. And it was now obvious that she’d remained innocent because she was too deeply ashamed to show a man her body in an intimate way.

  The qualities that I revered were rooted in her pain.

  I couldn’t erase what had been done to my precious little flower, but I was determined to soothe that pain.

  She remained cradled in my arms, her emerald eyes so wide and hopeful that it made my chest ache. She wanted to believe what I was saying—that I truly did think she was perfect, and that I would take care of her.

  I’d fucked up by giving her space this morning. She’d interpreted my distance as rejection. I’d been trying to manipulate her into willingly returning to my arms, but I understood now that Sofia’s surrender didn’t require games like that. She needed to be held, reassured that I wouldn’t discard her for any reason.

  When Adrián had given me permission to take her, I’d claimed her to indulge my own selfish desires. I’d plotted how I would cage her, lure her in so that she thought she was choosing her captivity.

  Devious schemes had never been necessary. All Sofia needed was my promise that I wanted her, and she would cling to me and never let go.

  My darkest desires for her were easily within my grasp, and she was better suited to my twisted tastes than I could have dared to hope.

  She thrived on structure: punishment and reward. Clearly demonstrating my expectations brought her a sense of stability. She would never have to feel insecure or guess how to behave in order to please me.

  I owed her a very special reward for sharing her secrets with me.

  I shifted my hold on her willowy body, taking her lush lips in a kiss as I guided her back down beneath me.

  Fuck, she felt so good in this position; captured for my pleasure and helpless to resist me.

  I’d handled her aggressively when I’d pinned her in place for our first kiss. She’d struggled at first, overwhelmed and intimidated. Her surrender had been exquisite.

  The damp spot on my jeans proved the intensity of her arousal. Her body was mine to play with as I wished, and I wanted to taste her.

  She shuddered and sighed, melting into my hold. Her head tipped back, inviting me to explore her more deeply. I claimed her mouth with firm strokes of my tongue, my cock aching to penetrate her tight little pussy at the same rhythm.

  My cock ached in the confines of my jeans, but I knew better than to strip when I had Sofia like this, pliant and wet for me.

  No penetration of any kind. Adrián’s warning was an unwelcome voice in my head, denying me what I desired so keenly that I hovered on the edge of pain.

  I grasped Sofia’s slender wrists and directed her hands behind her head, pulling back from her hot mouth at the same time.

  She stared up at me, her pouty lips swollen and her eyes dark with lust.

  “Keep your hands there,” I commanded, my voice roughened by my own suppressed need.

  “Why? I want to touch you,” she said, soft and slow. She appeared drunk off my kiss, and the sight of her intoxicated bliss made my own satisfaction swell.

  “Because I said so,” I replied sternly. “This is what obedience means, Sofia” I stroked her cheek, and she
leaned into my touch. “You’ll obey me because you want to please me. Isn’t that right, dulzura?”

  She nodded, closing her eyes and nuzzling her cheek into my hand like a needy little kitten.

  The pleasure that pulsed through me was more than simple lust. This was what I’d craved from the moment she’d relaxed into my hold when I’d kidnapped her and tied her to a chair to be terrorized. She should have been horrified, but she’d drifted off in my arms.

  “Good girl.” I pressed my lips to her throat, feeling her low moan vibrate against my mouth.

  Mindful that my control over my own body was tenuous, I forced myself to leave her dress covering her breasts. I wanted to grip the soft fabric in my fists and rip it away, but I couldn’t allow my impulsiveness to distract me from my purpose.

  I moved down her slender form, pushing her legs wide and settling between them.

  “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, staring down at me with curiosity and dark intrigue.

  I pushed up her dress and nipped at her inner thigh, drawing a sharp yelp from her. My hands wrapped around her hips, pressing her into the mattress. I kept her trapped with my teeth, watching her jerk and struggle to escape.

  Despite her resistance, my good girl kept her hands behind her head, as though it didn’t even occur to her to try to move them.

  I kept my eyes locked on hers as I waited for her surrender.

  “Mateo,” she whimpered, her body going still.

  I released her from my punitive bite, licking the tender, red mark I’d left on her tanned flesh.

  “No more questions,” I rebuked. “Just submit.”

  I ran my tongue along the line of her scar, the one I’d first glimpsed when I’d spanked her. She stiffened, but I held her firm and continued at the pace I desired, kissing the marks as I made my way up her thighs. With each brush of my lips over her damaged nerve endings, she relaxed. The tension in her muscles melted away, and she went supple beneath my tender attentions.

  I eased her dress over her hips, and the sinful sight of her barely-there white panties drew a growl from my chest. I trailed my fingers over the pretty lace, and she arched and gasped when I brushed her clit.