by Jenika Snow
Through the window I could see a massive house. There were cars lined up, each one waiting their turn. I watched one of the vehicles ahead of us, this sleek red sports car. One of the staff opened the door, and a gorgeous blonde in an equally gorgeous ruby-colored gown stepped out.
The man who accompanied her was older, maybe even double her age. They walked up the massive steps that led to the front door, and then we were moving forward.
I was still wet between my thighs, the arousal and orgasm Cameron had brought forth in me not dimming in the slightest.
Blood rushed through my veins, this excitement and fear coursing through me. Once it was our turn, the back door was opened. Cameron stepped out, then promptly held his hand out for me.
I slipped mine into his much larger palm, allowing him to pull me out gently, and together we ascended the steps. My mind was whirling, my pulse racing. I could hear music coming from the inside. I wanted to ask what this event was about, but I knew better. And truth was I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about the men who were here, ones who were most likely dangerous, just as much as Cameron.
We headed inside, and my breath was stalled in my lungs at the sight before me. Crystal chandeliers, a smoke-filled atmosphere smelling of sweetness, and servants walking around with silver trays and champagne flutes filled with bubbling liquid took up my view. I saw a few other servants with trays filled with hors d’oeuvres, the staff’s backs stiff and their expressions blank.
The guests were in expensive outfits, diamonds and gems dripping from them. The men looked severe and intense as they spoke to each other. The women appeared to be more ornamental than anything else, their heads downcast, their expressions void.
I didn’t miss the fact that some of the men eyed me, their gazes lewd. I felt Cameron wrap his arm around me, pulling me closer to him. I sank against his hard body, feeling like nothing could touch me.
I knew he didn’t have to bring me here, didn’t have to show me off. He wanted to because he knew he could protect me, keep me safe. Twisted reasoning or not, I trusted him.
For the next twenty minutes we walked around. I held a champagne flute in my hand, the liquid warming in the glass because I wasn’t drinking it fast enough. Cameron spoke with a few men, his voice even, the respect they had for him clear.
And then one man started speaking in another language, his voice clipped, his words clearly angry, even though I didn’t know what he said. The man had gray, thinning hair, and his eyes were these thin little black beads. He stopped in front of us, a young, voluptuous, and busty woman hanging on his arm. She too had her head downcast and couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
Cameron’s arm was still wrapped around me tightly, but his fingers digging into my waist told me he was focused on the man he was speaking with, not realizing what he was doing. I slipped out of his hold, and he stopped speaking and looked at me.
The man started rambling off in that other language, and Cameron turned and barked out a string of words. The other man paled, his back going straight, his eyes narrowing. Cameron looked at me again.
“I’m just going to walk around, see the art.”
Cameron looked me in the eyes, his gaze penetrating, intense. He finally nodded, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think he wouldn’t know where I was.
I walked down one of the hallways, the guests thinning as they congregated with each other at the front of the house. The art was colorful, erratic even. I kept moving, looking at each piece. There was a set of open double doors to my right, and I moved closer. I didn’t want to be nosy, but the lights were on, and I saw even more art. Surely if no one was allowed in here, the doors would be shut.
I stepped inside, the lights dimmer than I’d originally thought, the corners hidden with shadows, making the art seem ominous. I walked around, the scent of old leather, roses, and something darker filling the air.
The sound of wood creaking behind me had me looking over my shoulder. A man stepped inside, his focus on his cell, his face cast in a scowl. He said something low, too low for me to understand.
He shoved his cell in his pocket, went to turn around, but then spotted me. For a second he just stared at me, his dark eyes seeming like endless pools. It gave me the chills, made me frightened. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to be in the same room with him.
“You like the art?” His voice was thickly accented.
I nodded, not sure why I felt so nervous, so off-kilter. I wanted to go back to Cameron. I went closer to the door, but he shifted, blocking me.
His smile was so dark I grew uncomfortable. Warning bells started going off, red flags flashing in front of my eyes. I needed to get to people, to the crowd. There I’d feel safe, just like at the club, being swallowed whole by the sea of bodies.
“Are you here alone?”
I shook my head, my throat far too tight to manage any words. Force them out. Show strength. “I’m not alone.” The need to run, to lash out, to fight ran strong within me. I was pressed to the wall, my hands flat on it, the sweat starting to form on my palms. He moved closer, the cloying, suffocating sensation of his cologne making me sick.
I tried to look around his shoulder, but he’d backed me into a corner, the people at this event farther away than I would have liked. I was blocked by his grossly large frame.
He breathed out hard, the scent of his liquor-laced breath wafting over me, the need to gag strong. My stomach was twisted, turned around. I was in flight or fight, my mind screaming to be rational, that I couldn’t stop this man if I wanted to. But my body wanted to lash out, to survive.
“So small, fragile.” He looked into my eyes, his smile grotesque. “I’ll have fun breaking you, girl.”
I didn’t know what came over me, but this surge of power, of strength took hold, making me feel—realize—I was not this asshole’s victim. I brought my knee up, rammed it right between his thighs, and felt really damn good when he grunted in pain.
“You fucking cunt,” he gritted out. He was slightly hunched, and I knew he wanted to grab himself, relieve the pain I’d caused, but instead he raised his hand. I knew he’d hit back, knew he wouldn’t stand for me attacking him. I wanted to move, tried to in that instant, but his big body blocked me.
I tensed, bracing for the hit, but before it came I saw a shadow cross over his body. Then a hand grabbed his arm, pulling back with a force that had him stumbling.
The big brute cursed in Russian. Although I didn’t see, couldn’t see who held him away from me at this angle, I knew it was Cameron.
I felt it in the air, this charge, this intensity that stole my breath, made me weak, had me shaking. And then the Russian was jerked back and I saw Cameron. He looked furious, enraged, his eyes cold, dead.
I shifted, seeing the man’s face now, the fear that covered it.
“Damien, take her to the car,” Cameron said, never removing his gaze off the man he still held. I glanced to the side, seeing Damien, not sure where he’d come from.
“Let’s go,” Damien said, grabbing hold of my arm, steering me out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door.
The limo was already waiting at the bottom of the steps. Damien opened the back door for me and gently pushed me inside. I don’t know how long I sat there, my palms damp, my heart in my throat.
Finally the door opened again, and I saw Damien hand Cameron a white rag. Cameron slipped in, his focus on his knuckles. That’s when I saw the blood covering them. I lifted my gaze to his white shirt, seeing the splatters of red along the stark light color.
“Did you kill him?” I asked softly, almost frightened to know the answer. He didn’t say anything right away, just continued to clean his hands off. I looked out my window, not expecting a response. This was Cameron, after all.
“Whether I did or didn’t isn’t the point.”
I stared at him after he spoke. “Isn’t it?”
He watched me then, his face hidden partially by the shadows, h
is expression void.
“No.”
I slowly inhaled, not sure if I should push this. I wanted to, wanted to see what he was thinking about, what was going on in his head. I wanted to learn about him, know what made him tick. But I also knew Cameron was a mystery, didn’t let people in, and I doubted even if he trusted them.
“But I didn’t kill him, even if I should have.” He stared me right in the eyes. “Make no mistake, Sofia. I wanted to rip his balls off and shove them down his throat for even thinking he could look at you.” This draft of frigid air slammed into me. “The fact he touched you…” He shook his head slowly. “If he wasn’t who he was, and a man I need alive for business purposes, I would have fucking gutted him.”
I breathed in and out hard and fast, his words like a knife, sharp, deadly.
“And no one would have fucking stopped me.” And then this expression covered his face, this hard, cold look that I felt to my bones. It was reflected at me. And then, just as fast as it had shown up, he masked it.
Cameron turned and looked out the window, and I did the same. I watched the scenery pass us by, not sure what the sudden change in him was. He seemed angry. Was he blaming this on me?
Why does it matter? In a few days I’ll be gone—all of this behind me, my life in front of me.
But that felt so empty.
Chapter 19
The final day
He’d kept his distance, made me feel isolated. I was starting to feel, to think, this had more to do with his emotions than the fact that he didn’t want me.
I found myself moving through the house, running my fingers along the smooth wood, taking in the desolate, dark pictures. The man I had stared caring for, was more of an enigma than anything else.
He’d been beaten as a child, given away as if he were nothing. He’d fought to survive…literally, and here he was now, standing tall, above everyone else. Although my life, childhood, hadn’t been this bottomless pit like he’d experienced, I did know the darkness he felt, even if it wasn’t nearly to the extent he did.
I found myself in front of the bird painting, staring at the mouth, the bleak eyes. I felt for Cameron, wanted to be the one who comforted him, shared in his pain. But a man like him, one who had been through so much, hid what he needed. He wasn’t normal in the sense that he needed, or wanted, comfort.
The way he got rid of that darkness, that hardness and hatred, was through rough contact and violence. He’d always be like that, and I accepted it. I accepted him.
I found myself moving away from the picture and back to the room. I’d be leaving tomorrow, saying good-bye to all of this, to Cameron. God, that hurt, made my chest ache. I rubbed it, right over my heart.
When I pushed the bedroom door open, I froze, seeing Cameron over by the window. His big body kept the curtain to the side. There was a glass in his hand, presumably alcohol in it.
“Come in and shut the door,” he said, his voice soft, low.
I did as he said, but as soon as the door was shut, I felt like I was trapped, no way to escape, no real reason I would want to.
“Come here.”
I moved closer, feeling the air getting sucked out of my lungs, feeling the room grow hotter, everything becoming tighter. He stayed by the window, his focus on whatever was outside. It was dark, but there were lights on, golden illumination covering the manicured ground.
“I told you about my life.” He turned. “In a way, I suppose.” He took a small drink from his glass. “Beaten as a child, sold off to earn money for people who thought of us as nothing more than a commodity, a paycheck.” He finished off the drink and set the now empty glass on the windowsill. “And no amount of tattoos can cover up the lasting impression they had on me, or what I went through.” He advanced, one step, making me feel smaller, weaker. “And after a while I thrived on the pain, on getting it and hitting back.” He grinned, and it was fucking frightening. “That’s the type of man you allow in your bed, between your thighs.” He was an inch from me now, the scent of alcohol making me drunk. “That’s the man who’s kept you here.” He said that last part so low, so deep, I felt it to my marrow.
“The man I’ve grown to care about…” I was saying it more to myself than asking it as a question, but the truth was between us. He knew it. I knew it. And there was no point in lying.
“Have you not grown to care for me?” He reached out, grabbed a lock of my hair, and rubbed it between his fingers.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t right now anyway.
He kept rubbing my hair. “Like a distant memory,” he whispered, almost to himself. But as soon as he let that piece of hair go, this hard mask covered his face. “I’ve come to realize the weakness you are to me is far too dangerous.” He looked into my eyes, this piercing, soul-catching expression. “It’s not what I want or need.”
He turned, but I grabbed his hand, a bold gesture. He looked over his shoulder, down at my hand, his focus severe. “Don’t you fucking see?” he said, his voice low, dangerous…deadly. “You are here for my pleasure, nothing more.” He gave this humorous, scary laugh. “What did you think would happen, little girl?”
I didn’t speak, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know what to say, how to respond. I didn’t know how to be honest with him. I wasn’t going to let his words affect me, wasn’t going to let him try and push me away. At least not before I told him I cared for him, wanted him.
“I do care about you.” And then, right in front of me, I saw that wall shifting, breaking down, being exposed to me.
He turned fully around to face me, that wall still breaking down. And then, before I knew what was going on, he pulled me in close. His anger was right there at the surface, and the internal war he fought was clear. He held my body to his, the stiffness of his erection pressing into my belly.
Would tonight be rough? Would he take me for the last time in the totally demented way he’d always told me about, threatened he could do to me? Sure, he’d been on the rougher side when he’d taken me, but he’d held me afterward and stroked my skin when he thought I was sleeping.
The feeling of his hand on my head, stroking my hair, gentle, caressing sweeps down the length, had me wishing for more time. I wished things could be different. I wished this could be permanent.
He took me to bed then, laying me down softly, being so gentle it almost brought tears to my eyes. This was not a side I’d ever seen in Cameron before.
He took my clothes off, his hands soft, sweet even. The kisses, licks, and nibbles made me think of this as a good-bye, that one moment where he was mine and I was his. Once we were naked, his body on top of mine, his hard cock nestled right between my thighs, I was the one who reached down. I was the one who grabbed his dick, placed the tip at my entrance, and urged him to penetrate me.
I wanted to feel him deep in my body, stretching me in the way he always did. This was our last time, and although I hated it, wanted to demand he accept what was going on, admit he had feelings for me, I kept my mouth shut.
And then he did push into me, rocked back and forth, kept his hand on my throat, and took control. He was gentle, not rushing it, and a part of me knew he wanted it to last. A part of me knew he wanted me to stay, even if he didn’t say the words, even if he wouldn’t.
I let him fill me up, claim me, make me understand I was the only woman, the one who held his attention. It didn’t matter what tomorrow held. In this moment I didn’t care about anything but being with him.
And when we both found that completion, and he filled me up in the most basic of senses, he pulled out and lay beside me. He held me, pushed my hair from my face, and stared into my eyes. The tattoos, his scars, the life he’d led and the one he continued to lead, didn’t mean anything in that moment. It was just a man and a woman.
It was just us.
I pulled back and looked at him. This mask was on his face once more, that darkness that recognized me so well, that related to me like the other half of
my soul.
“Maybe I don’t have to leave.” I didn’t know if he’d answer, didn’t know if he’d react. He was silent, still—his hand still on my body, his focus still on me. And then his jaw hardened, his eyes went flat, and I knew, just knew, come morning, he wouldn’t be in the bed with me. Whatever internal battle he was dealing with was not something I would be allowed to witness.
I don’t know if that broke my heart or reminded me that this was exactly who I’d fallen in love with.
The next morning
I slowly opened my eyes, the sun coming through the partially opened blinds washing over me, an invisible blanket of heat, comfort. I was alone in bed. I knew that without even turning and looking at Cameron’s side. This longing took place right in the center of my chest, this pressure, this emptiness.
I would go home today, or whatever my shitty apartment could be called.
A part of me hoped Cameron would force me to stay, make me his prisoner…only his. I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, clutching at this feeling of being alive, of not being alone anymore.
He was hard in all ways, indifferent, cold. But when he looked at me, I saw something shift. I felt it in him, this wave crashing to the surface, brutal, violent almost, but also so beautiful.
I didn’t want to move, just wanted to let the situation filter over me, consume me, take me under until I was one with it. But the sound of the door opening had me glancing over, hoping, wishing it was Cameron.
I wanted him to tell me I was his, only his, that he wouldn’t let me go. I wanted to be his prisoner. I wanted to be the woman he turned to in order to find that pleasure.
I wanted to be his outlet, because in the end that’s who and what he was to me. I knew things wouldn’t be the same without him in my life, giving me that beautiful torment, that painful pleasure.
But it was the maid, her focus on the ground, her hair in a severe bun. She set a tray on the end of the bed, not speaking to me, and turned to leave. The door had only been shut for a moment or two before there was another knock. I pushed myself up on the bed and brought the sheet to my chin.