I Know What Love Is

by Bianca, Whitney

  It's like no time has passed at all.

  He hauls me up and throws me on the bed. I lay there, trying to catch my breath, as he yanks my jeans and panties down my legs. He drops the jeans on the floor but lifts my little pink panties to his nose, a hint of a smile on his hard face. I know he's been waiting for this moment, even longer than I have. He tosses my panties into the corner and points down at me.

  “Don't move,” he says. This time I obey, my eyes following him as he unzips the black bag from the trunk. He pulls out the coil of rope, running the rough hemp strand through his hands. “Why did you go to my house?” he asks. When I don't answer, he sucks his teeth and gives me a dark look. “Why?”

  “I don't know,” I lie. He chuckles like the devil he is and shakes his head. He doesn't believe me. He places his palms on the bed and leans over me.

  “Did you go in the garage?” he asks, a fire raging behind the green of his eyes. I shake my head no, furrowing my brow. I remember now that his truck was parked in the driveway, not in the garage. At the time, I didn't think anything about it. The garage was the last place I wanted to revisit and I ran out of time, besides. He loops the rope around my neck in a fast movement and tightens it before I can stop him. “I had plans for us. Even when I didn't know where you were I was planning.” He ties the rope in one of his impossibly simple but difficult knots, his fingers moving with ease. “I built you something. A gift.” My heart is beating in my ears so hard it's almost hard to hear his words. He drops his head to whisper directly in my ear. “A cage.”

  “What?” I gasp out, giving him a sharp look.

  “Ironic, eh?” he says, but there's no humor in his eyes. “I planned to keep you in a cage, but I ended up in one instead.” He takes a step back and wraps the end of the leash around his forearm, pulling it tight and forcing me to sit up. The rough rope is already cutting into the sensitive skin of my neck and a weird feeling comes over me.

  I don't know when it happened, but somehow, I've lost control.

  I don't like it.

  Not one bit.

  He strokes my cheek and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I can't stop them from falling, so I don't bother. He runs his rough thumb over my lower lip, then hooks it in the side of my mouth, forcing me open wide.

  “Joanie,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He runs his thumb over my bottom teeth and then thrusts it in my mouth. I moan, but I can't move away, even if I wanted to. The leash is pulled taut and I have no relief. I blink away my tears and stare up at him, trying to figure out the barrage of feelings rushing through me. “I'm a fucking idiot when it comes to you, you know that?”

  I let out a sigh through my nose and nod, my eyes never leaving his. I understood. Believe me, I understood. I'd been such a fool over him for so long. The need to punish him had taken over my life. Now that it was over, what did I have left? What did I have left of myself?

  Keeping the rope taut, he forces me over onto my back. He shoves his jeans down low on his hips and pushes my legs open with his knees. He positions himself against me and thrusts inside of me with no warning. I arch my back, the movement forcing the rope to tighten around my windpipe. I gasp in air as he fucks me hard, all gentleness and semblance of softness gone. I grip his shoulders, trying to hold on, my nails digging into his shoulders and drawing blood. He growls, baring his teeth, at the pain. He pulls the rope tighter and stars burst behind my eyelids. I clench my jaw as he drops his whole weight onto me, holding me down. He grabs my wrists in one of his big hands and forces them above my head.

  I can't move.

  I have no defense against him. My consciousness zeroes in on the friction between us, how he's able to push himself so deep into me that I can't tell where I end and he begins. He grinds his hips against me, our bones banging together, again and again. He fucks like he's desperate, like he needs an answer to a question I don't know the answer to. My body responds without my permission and the orgasm explodes at the back of my brain. My vision goes black and my whole body locks tight. My mouth drops open in a silent scream and for several long moments, the pain and pleasure overtakes me.

  He captures my mouth in his, kissing me through the violences of my climax. Then he drags his mouth away and rubs his rough cheek against the soft underside of my arm. A moan deep in his throat is the only warning I get. He bites down hard on my arm and I cry out in pain. His lips turn red with my blood and he licks at the wound he's caused. I can only watch him, tears dripping into my hair. His eyes roll back in his head and he bucks into me like a man possessed. I can feel his cock jerk inside of me, his orgasm just as violent as mine. Then he hinges up and off of me, pushing away. He rolls over onto his back, throwing his hands above his head, his ribs roughly expanding and contracting with the force of his breathing.

  I can only lay there on my back, feeling throughly beaten. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. When I can move again, my hands find the leash around my neck. I fumble with the knot, hands shaking, trying to get it off of me. Finally, when it comes free, I throw it across the room. I push myself up and straddle him so fast, he can barely react. His cock is still hard and I take it in my hand. He jumps against me, his muscles in his stomach tightening. I guide him inside of me and then slam my hips down, taking all of him in one swift motion. He tosses his head back, his face tight. I ride him relentlessly, and it has nothing to do with pleasure.

  I'm angry. Furious, actually.

  I lean forward and close my hands around his throat. His eyes widen, but he doesn't fight me. He keeps his hands above his head, his hands tightening into fists. His muscles strain, but he doesn't touch me. I strangle him, my thumbs pressing into his windpipe, as I fuck him. Blind black rage consumes me. All of the rage of the last five years flows out of me. The beaten, destroyed, broken girl no longer exists. The rage makes me strong. It makes me powerful.

  Elliot opens his mouth and his eyes bulge. His face is pale and his lips are turning blue. I don't care. I don't stop. He bucks his hips, forcing his cock deeper and I throw my head back, my hair teasing the skin of my shoulders. I ride him so hard it hurts, but I don't care. I take the hurt into myself and it only makes me stronger.

  Suddenly, his hands are on my hips. His fingers flex into my soft flesh and I can hear it like a silent cry. I know if I don't stop I'm going to kill him. I could kill him and then it would all be over. I could bury him in a hidden grave like Lassiter, where no one will ever find him. No one will care if he dies. He's an evil man who's done nothing to warrant saving.

  I should kill him.

  But I can't.

  I pull my hands away from his throat and he bows his back, gasping and choking. His hands clamp down on my hips and his cock swells inside of me before he explodes. He cries out hoarsely, his body convulsing as the orgasm takes over. I can feel the force of his orgasm and I can feel his come shooting inside of me.

  I pry his hands off of me and climb off. Grabbing my thin robe from the hook by the door, I wrap it around myself and escape downstairs. I hurry to the kitchen, knowing exactly what I'm looking for. I grab my bag and root through. At the bottom are hard metal pieces and I close my hand around them. When I pull out my hand and open my fist, the spent shell casings roll around in my cupped palm.

  Lassiter.

  I shot him. I wanted to kill him. I was strong enough. I was fast enough. I was good enough.

  I would have done it.

  I remember his face the minute he died. How his eyes went from bright and full of life to blank and dead. A wave of nausea hits me and I throw myself over the sink. Bile rises in my throat and I choke on it.

  I could have killed him, but I didn't. Elliot did.

  Hate swirls through me and I crouch down, my hands on the rim of the sink. I don't know what's happening to me. My head throbs and my stomach heaves. I gasp and choke, coughing like maybe it'll dislodge the evil from my soul.

  I can feel his eyes on me and I roll my head to look at him through. He stands i
n the doorway of the kitchen, his face in shadow. His pants are on, but unbuckled. Dried blood runs in rivulets down his arm and his neck is dusky and mottled from my hands. He keeps his distance, like he can feel the hatred that's bursting out of me.

  “I never want to hurt you again, Joanie,” he says, his voice low.

  “How is that fucking possible?” I whisper. “All we have is pain. All we have is hurt!” Without thinking, I pitch the shell casings across the kitchen floor. They ping metallically off of the cabinets and floors before rolling away into the shadows. He scrubs his hands over his face and sighs, like he doesn't know what to say. There's nothing to say.

  We're past the point of apologies.

  “Tell me what to do,” he crouches down, dropping to my eye-level. “I fucked up. Let me fix it.”

  I shake my head, pressing my forehead to the cool cabinet in front of me. Before I know it, his arms are around me and he's pulling me against his chest. I don't bother fighting. It's useless. Besides, it feels good to be in his arms. It feels good to bury my face in his neck and breathe in his scent.

  After everything, I still crave his touch.

  That's why I'm in the mess I'm in now because I can't let him go.

  “Tell me what to do,” he demands, his arms tightening around me.

  “No more leashes.” The thought comes to me out of nowhere, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize it's what I've needed to say to him for three days. We need ground rules. We need a basis to build on, if we're ever going to rise above all the shit that happened in the past. Maybe we can't ever move past it. Maybe I'm crazy and he's crazy and trying to be together is a pipe dream. But we're here, now. We only have each other. “No more cages. I'm not your prisoner,” I continue. He doesn't say anything, so I go on. “Whatever happens, we're a team. I have just as much to lose as you do if everything goes to hell.”

  He remains silent and I pull back so I can look in his eyes. His face is hard but I can see the softness for me in the depths of his gaze. He may be my weakness, but I make him weak as well. He doesn't want to lose me. He'll do anything to keep me. Some things never change. “I can't change that part of myself,” he says. “But I love you. I don't want to hurt you anymore.”

  “Some hurt isn't so bad,” I admit. “But I'm not your slave. I never was and I never will be.”

  “Fair enough,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my temple.

  “No more leashes,” I repeat, closing my eyes and leaning into him. My body throbs and aches and suddenly, I'm exhausted. But his warmth surrounding me is a comfort.

  “No more leashes. No more cages,” he affirms, trailing his mouth down to my ear. “But handcuffs and rope and belts...” he trails off, his voice promising all sorts of deviant, dirty things.

  “Mmm,” I purr, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him close. He hikes me up onto his lap and I straddle him, my robe parting to give him a good look. He takes advantage, sliding his rough hands between the cotton fabric and my skin. His fingers dance up my back as I press light kisses over his face. First his cheeks, then his nose, then both of his eyelids. I roll my hips against his, too sore for sex but craving his cock anyway.

  Bang!

  Bang!

  The front door rumbles with the force of someone banging their fist against it. We both freeze, my wary expression mirrored on his face. I scramble off of him and stand, my eyes darting to the door. The early morning sky is lightening by the second, and I can see the dark figures silhouetted in the frosted glass panes. Two of them, I realize. Probably men.

  “Seattle P.D., open up!” A man's voice calls out, muffled by the door. He raises his hand and bangs on the door again. I glance back at Elliot, who's crouched behind me on the floor. The manic light is flaring up again in his eyes, and I know if he feels like he's shoved in a corner, he'll become violent. I hold out my hand, gesturing for him to stay down. He scowls, because he knows what I'm going to do.

  Pulling my robe around me, making sure to cover any marks that might be on my neck or my wrists, I hurry to the door. I unlock the deadbolts, take a shaky breath, and open the door a crack.

  “Hello?” I rasp, making my voice hoarse, like they've roused me from a deep sleep.

  “Joan Vasquez?” The older cop says, leaning forward. They're wearing suits, not uniforms. These aren't just beat cops, I realize. They're detectives.

  “That's me,” I say, opening the door a little wider.

  “A missing person's report was filed on a Joan Vasquez,” the younger detective says, stepping forward. He's almost cute, but looks like too much of a Dudley-do-right to fit my tastes.

  “Let me guess, my mother?” I say with a rueful smile. The two detectives share a look and I know I've hit the nail on the head. Leave it to Blanche Vasquez to overreact to a few missed phone calls.

  “She said she couldn't get ahold of you,” the older detective continues.

  “I was in Denver for a few days. I forgot my cellphone at home,” I say, acting like everything is a silly misunderstanding. “She's very protective.”

  “Miss Vasquez, do you know an Elliot John Pritchard?” the younger man says, his eyes softening as he looks at me. My heart hitches in my chest and I don't have to fake a reaction to the name.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I apologize, but I have to inform you that he escaped three days ago from Huntsville Penitentiary.” He digs around in his pocket, and I grasp the doorknob like I need it to help me stay on my feet. “There's a manhunt, but he has yet to turn up.” He holds out a his card and after a moment, I reach out and take it. “We have reason to believe he's headed this way. If you have any problems, you call me at that number.”

  I stare down at the card dumbly, like I'm in shock.

  “Because of me?” I murmur. “You think he's coming this way because of me?” The detectives share another look. Bingo.

  “Just give me a call. Any problems. I'll answer.” The younger detective ducks his head, and I know he's sincere.

  “We'll catch him,” the older detective says. “They always fuck up eventually.” I drop my gaze to the card again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Elliot to the side of me. He's got my gun in his hand and his finger's on the trigger.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears on cue.

  “You have a good day now,” the younger detective says. He feels bad for me. If it were up to him, guys like Elliot would be shot on sight. I appreciate the sentiment, but I hate being pitied. I nod slowly, staring at him until he looks away. Then they turn and walk down the slate stone path back to their black sedan. Beside me, Elliot drops the gun and rolls his shoulders. Nervous tension rolls off him in waves.

  I know he would have shot them. Thankfully, it didn't come to that.

  Our secret's safe for now. The future is a mystery, but today we'll get to sleep together, side by side. We'll get to eat together and fuck and laugh and live.

  Like normal, everyday people.

  A cool breeze kicks up, lifting the hem of my thin robe and causing goosebumps to prickle over my skin. Fog settles across the grass of my lawn like smoke. I glance up at the early morning sky. It's already cloudy. I predict another gray day in lovely Seattle.

  With a smile, I slam the door shut.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My name is Whitney Bianca and I'm a new dark erotica writer. My debut book, I Know What Love Is, will arrive in August 2014.

  I'm a true fan of LOVE, romance, and sexy times.

  I enjoy writing about power plays between two people, whether they're in love or in lust. I love taking my characters to the edge and shoving them off.

  If you like to take a walk on the dark side, you're my kind of person. Maybe we can be friends.

  Shoot me an email: bia.whitney@gmail.com

  Thanks for reading!