by J, Bella
“Saint, please—”
“You liked it, didn’t you? When I kissed you.” I pulled the skirt of her dress over her ass, white satin panties teasing me into a frenzy. “When I slipped my tongue in your mouth, did you want it to be your cunt? Did you wonder what it would feel like to have my mouth suck an orgasm out of you?”
I kicked her feet apart, forcing her legs wider. “When I had you on my breakfast table, did you want me to fuck you? Was your body on fire for me, your pussy wet?”
“No,” she whimpered. “No.”
“Liar,” I gritted out and leaned over her, my chest against her back. “If I had to drag a finger through your cunt, what would I find, Mila?” I trailed my palm across her ass. “Will I find your body ready and needy for me?”
Her cheek flushed, her tears no longer running freely. I placed my lips against her ear and inhaled the citrus scent of her hair. “Should I touch you and find out?”
I traced a single finger down the slit of her ass, over her panties, and I felt her body move beneath mine as she took a deep breath.
“Saint, don’t do this.” Her voice lacked conviction, a measly stain of fortitude.
“Prove me wrong, and I’ll stop. But if I find you wet for me, I will take you, and I will fuck you until you scream for me.”
Her hips moved, and I smiled as I slipped a finger inside her panties, pulling it to the side, exposing a firm, round, sensual ass cheek that practically begged to be punished with red, burning flesh.
I sat up and glanced down, wanting to see if her pussy glistened for me. My cock pressed against the zipper of my pants, throbbing and aching with a need to fuck. The second I slid my finger into her, I groaned when her needy little cunt welcomed me—all soaked and ready.
“Jesus Christ.” I pulled my finger out of her, just to sink it back in. This time, her hips moved, her body wanting to play along. “You’re wet, Mila. Your body is weeping for me. That means—”
“That means nothing,” she spat, this time putting a little more effort into trying to sound convincing. But she couldn’t fool me. Not when her body responded to me in this way.
I sank my finger back into her. “On the contrary, it means everything.” I reached deeper between her legs and replaced my forefinger with my thumb inside her as I searched for her clit—the little bundle of nerves that would send her spiraling out of control.
Her body arched as I pressed on the sensitive nub, my thumb continuing to work her pussy.
I could hear her breathing becoming more labored, her body moving more freely to the rhythm while I finger fucked her—harder, faster, never letting that nerve center from under my fingertip. My mind was in a fucking frenzy, every muscle in my body begging for release. But I wanted to watch her come undone by my hand—watch her try to fight the pleasure I forced from her. There was also a part of me that wanted to see her succumb, witness her lose control as she lost herself to the wicked lust that had her body tied in a vise.
Abruptly, I stopped pumping my finger into her, releasing her clit from under my fingertip. The moan that rolled from her lips was exquisite—a sound between pleasure and agony. Pain and desire.
“Do you want to come, Mila?”
I glanced at her face, her eyes shut, and biting her bottom lip. She didn’t answer, and her refusal to respond forced me to show her who was in control by slapping her ass—hard—a handprint instantly scorched onto her skin. “I asked, do you want to come?”
She yelped, her lip trembling, yet her hips kept moving, searching, begging.
“I’m going to give you one last chance to answer me, or I swear to God I will walk away and leave you like this.” I leaned down, my chest against her heaving body and lips against her ear. “Do. You. Want. To come?”
“Yes.” There was slight hesitation in her voice, uncertainty, but I took it. I accepted her answer and touched her entrance with a single finger.
“If you want to come, then you have to do it yourself.”
“Wha…what are you saying?”
I brushed her hair away from her neck and placed my lips on the skin below her neck. “Fuck my finger, Mila. Make yourself come.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just keep moving those greedy hips.” I thrust my cock against the side of her ass. “You try to pretend like you don’t want it, that you hate me and despise my touch, yet your body says something else. So, if you want that release your body so desperately craves, you’ll have to take it.”
She remained silent, not even moving as she took rapid breaths.
“I’m going to count to three, and if you won’t start fucking my finger, I’m going to leave.”
“Saint, don’t—”
“One.”
She moaned, turning her face down on the table.
“Two.”
“Jesus,” she whined, and I could practically feel her fight, feel her determination to not give in to her body’s needs. To the weakness of the flesh, a battlefield between hate and lust.
“Thr—”
She flexed her hips and took my finger inside her, her body greedy for my touch. I let out a heavy breath and added another digit, rewarded with a whine from her lips. A pang of carnality slammed against my core, and I could no longer control it. I needed relief from the throbbing ache that threatened to tear me in half. Everything about her—her body, her scent, her skin, her soft whimpers—it all torpedoed straight through me and tore my self-control to threads.
I let go of the back of her neck, and she made no attempt to escape me. To escape my onslaught on her body. The hunger had taken control of her, and her need for pleasure had overcome her will to fight.
With Mila still riding my hand, I pulled my cock from my pants and gripped it tightly in my palm. This wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be inside her, watch her ride my cock until sunrise. I wanted to feel her heat around my dick, feel her pussy swell as she reached the edge.
She hardly picked up the pace, her hips rolling and rocking, fingers clawing at the table. I pumped my cock to the rhythm she fucked my finger—deeper, harder, but not faster.
My fingers tightened around my dick, and while I watched her pussy work against my hand, the sound of her wet cunt slapping against my palm, I knew she was right there. Right. Fucking. There.
I found her clit, pressed down hard, and her back arched, moans of pleasure echoing around us.
I pumped my cock harder, faster, and like a fucking wrecking ball, it slammed against my spine, ricocheting straight to the tip of my cock, and I came—the white ribbons of my orgasm staining her silk panties and ruined wedding dress.
Her body relaxed into the table, her hips not moving an inch. And that was when I heard it. The most haunting, troubling, gut-wrenching sound I had ever heard.
The sound of Mila’s sobs.
19
Mila
My legs were weak and trembling at the knees, the skirt of my dress still pulled up over my hips. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even push myself off the table.
Numb and utterly spent, I continued to lie there as sobs wracked through me. Like torn flesh and oozing sores, my tears ripped from my body as the infection spread. My veins burned with poisoned blood, my gut heavy and torn inside out. I felt wretched. Tainted, as if I was touched by the devil himself. Saint managed to turn my body against me. My head lost the battle, and I succumbed to something sordid and twisted, something that made me fall apart under his touch, and I lost control. And now that the ecstasy wore off, reality sank in, and like an anchor it pulled me underwater, and it was filling my lungs, drowning me one tear at a time.
Fabric wiped across my waist and down my thigh, and I remained still as he continued to clean me, removing every trace of the sticky mess he left on my skin. He didn’t speak, and neither did I. The silence was loud enough. Deafening.
What just happened? I didn’t know. I didn’t know whether it was something I wanted to happen or not. My emotions were just all jumb
led into a giant cluster of confusion.
“Mila—”
“Don’t, Saint. Just…don’t. I beg you.” Exhaustion crushed me, and I didn’t have any strength left. I didn’t have it in me to spar with him again. Not tonight.
Fingers brushed against my naked skin, and the torn fabric of my dress slipped over my ass and down my legs as he covered me. I managed to push myself up from the table, a wet stain pooled where my cheek was.
I wiped at my face. “May I go?” I asked, as if permission was needed for me to retire. As if I had to ask my master whether I was allowed to go to my room.
He remained still and granted me no answer, forcing me to look at him, to see if his expression gave any indication as to what he wanted from me in that moment. But there were only creases of stone and eyes of ice that stared back at me. His dark hair was ruffled in perfect disarray, his bow tie loose and shirt untucked. He seemed out of sorts, kind of like the entire fucked-up situation we found ourselves in.
The time that passed with our gazes locked felt like an eternity, neither of us attempting to make a move or speak a word. It was the most uncomfortable silence I ever had to endure, like a carving knife slowly slicing away skin from bone.
Saint lifted a hand and reached out. My first instinct was to inch away from his touch, but I had been with him long enough to know better. After what just happened, the last thing I wanted was to bait the beast.
His hard knuckles brushed down my cheek—a tender act that contradicted everything that happened up until this moment.
Brad.
My kidnapping.
The reveal of who I really was.
Marriage.
I shifted from one foot to the other, still feeling the wetness of my climax soaked into my panties, coating my thighs.
Saint took a step closer, so his frame crowded me, his close presence robbing all the air around me. “I won’t apologize, Mila.” His stare burned into my soul with no trace of remorse. “You are my wife now. I won’t ever apologize.”
I didn’t respond in any way. Nothing I said would have been able to change anything.
He dropped his arm to his side. “Go to bed. Get some rest.”
Relieved, I turned my back on him. All I cared about was getting out of this dress and succumb to the exhaustion that clamped down on every muscle.
My tears had dried, and my eyes stung. I was angered because I once again allowed him to take my tears, to take a part of me that was supposed to be mine, and mine alone. Just like the red-haired girl, I was angry at myself for allowing my tears to fall freely.
Unable to stand in the Jimmy Choo heels for a second longer, I plucked them from my feet. Barefoot, tired, and humiliated, I walked away from him. With every step, I felt the tension stretch thin, threatening to snap. I could feel his gaze on me the entire way. It was only once I descended the stairs to the bedroom quarters that I felt free from him. Free from the pull and the unease of being in his presence.
The satin shoes dangled from my hands, and when I opened the bedroom door and saw Elena standing by the window, the tears which I thought had dried stormed down my cheeks.
“Dear child.” Elena held her arms wide, and like a little girl, I rushed toward the comfort she offered. “It’s okay,” she cooed as I cried into her shoulder, my body shuddering with every tear.
Overwhelmed with emotions I’d never felt before, I cried as if I stood before an open grave, bawling with grief.
“It’s going to be okay.” Elena hugged me tightly, and I allowed myself the few moments of reprieve by soaking up the solace she so willingly provided. “You’re a strong woman, Mila.” Her voice remained soft and kind.
“I can’t do this,” I sobbed. “I can’t fight him anymore.”
Elena leaned back to look at me. “Then don’t.” She wiped a lingering tear from my face. “Don’t fight him anymore. Save your strength. Use it wisely and fight only the battles you know you can win.”
I balked and inched back. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that there are still a lot of battles you will have to face, battles you will need to win. But Marcello isn’t one of them.”
“How can you say that? He is not only a battle, Elena. He’s full-on, raging war.”
“Exactly. Think about it, Mila.” She wrapped her fingers around my shoulders. “Would you rather have him as an enemy you know you can never beat? Or as an ally who can win you a thousand wars?”
I continued to stare at her, allowing her words to settle in my mind as I tried to make sense of it.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” Elena continued, her voice soft, almost musical. “You look at him with hate, with anger. But not at him. It’s not him you hate, or he who angers you. You’re angry at yourself. You hate yourself…for not hating him.”
“That’s not true.” I stepped back and sat on the king-sized bed, placing my palms on the silk sheets. “Whatever you think you saw is not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” The edge in my voice was laced with conviction. “It’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.” She sat beside me, the mattress not even moving under her tiny frame. “I know this because I was once where you are now.”
My eyes snapped up to hers in surprise.
“Thirty-two years ago, I was forced to marry a man I could hardly look at. A man who I thought was incapable of love, who would only use me. Like you, I fought him every step of the way. I refused to give in.” She turned her gaze toward the window. “Until one day I realized I was wasting my strength fighting something I couldn’t change.” She turned back to face me, her expression soft. “Instead of fighting, I allowed myself to fall for my husband and to be happy. It’s the best thing I ever could have done.”
It was in her eyes. I could see it. The love. The happiness. The fulfillment. There was no trace of any regret or resentment.
“You fell in love with him?”
She nodded with a smile. “Deeply.”
“Did he love you back?”
She glanced to the side and shrugged. “I think so. I had three miscarriages before I realized I’d never be able to give my husband an heir. I was sure I’d lose him.”
“Over something you had no control over?”
“Having a child and continuing their legacy is one of the most important things for a man who comes from a powerful family. Especially the firstborn son. But Alfonso stayed with me, supported me,” she glanced in my direction, “won wars for me until the day he died.”
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself against the heartache. I was so captivated by her story that I didn’t even realize I had stopped crying. That my heart no longer raced with fear or anguish.
“Well, I’ll let you get some sleep.” She placed a chaste kiss against my temple and straightened. “Think about what I said. I can promise you, once you learn how to figure out which battles you can win, your life will be much easier.”
The click of her heels resounded, and I turned as she reached the door. “Six months.”
She stilled.
“He said he’ll let me go after six months.”
Her blonde hair ruffled as she looked at me over her shoulder. “Question is, will you want to go?” The weight of her words lingered when she left and closed the door behind her. I wished what she said made no sense, but it did. Earlier, when he had me pinned over the dining table, my dress bunched up around my waist, his hand between my legs—I felt it. I felt the pull, the anticipation, the fire. It threatened to burn me to ash if it wasn’t doused with release. Tears didn’t flow from my eyes because of what he was doing to me, but rather because of what I was doing to myself. I was torturing my own body by refusing to acknowledge what it really wanted. Him.
It made me feel rotten, as if the lechery festered in my core because it was wrong. It was wrong for me to want him in that way, wrong for me to yearn for his touch. The mind wasn’t meant to fight the body. It was
n’t strong enough to conquer the body’s most primal desires and carnal instincts. The clash between the two had cracked my soul, and it wept the tears that still stained the white oak.
The longer I lay there thinking about what happened, remembering how high I was on the ecstasy that still lingered in my veins, the more I realized Elena might be right. Maybe I was fighting the wrong battle. Maybe I was I wasting my strength on a war I simply couldn’t win.
Maybe it was time for me to let go of Mila and embrace my new identity as Milana Katarina Russo.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up, showered, and made sure I dressed the part—which in this case was a lilac floral dress, perfect for the summer weather. At least the yacht’s windows weren’t closed with shutters, making it impossible to see what the weather looked like outside.
It was beautiful—blue skies, crystal water, seagulls singing as they flew low over the ocean. After the discussion with Elena last night, things seemed to snap in place. Instead of thinking and acting like the victim, I needed to start being the survivor. Someone who could take even the darkest of circumstances and bend it in a way that would benefit me. Even though I’d given myself this little pep talk inside my head before, Elena just drove it home for me last night. Maybe it was knowing I wasn’t alone, that Elena had once been in the same situation as I found myself in now. She was proof this was something I could survive, although I doubted it would turn into something that could put a smile on my face thirty-two years from now.
I pulled my curls up in a high ponytail and tried to cover the dark circles under my eyes with a little make-up. Determined never to have a repeat of what happened last night, I steeled myself and squared my shoulders, prepared to face whatever came my way. If I had to play dirty in order to survive, I’d do it. There was nothing left for Saint to take, anyway, nothing sacred he could taint any more.