by Lana Sky
“Y-yes. I mean, yes, he did.”
Maxim nods. “And you read it? You agree to the terms?” He takes another sip of water, throwing his head back so far that I can’t see his eyes.
My heart skips a beat while he’s not watching. “Yes.”
“And you agree to all of them?” His gaze cuts through me as he lowers his head again and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I nod twice this time, but my stupid fingers twitch as if betraying the lie. I lace them together and dig my nails into the webs between the ones on my left hand. The pain bites deep—but not deep enough.
“Come here.” He sets the water bottle aside and waves his hand, each finger flexing at the joint.
I stand and cross over to him. About a foot away, I stop—not consciously. It’s the way his expression changes that makes my heels dig into the floor.
“Turn around.”
I do. Hot fingers trace the back of my neck in return, sliding beneath the collar of my sweater to follow the line of my spine underneath. I jerk on the tips of my toes. I can’t help it. Each of his nails brushes my skin. Caresses. Pinches. The pain shoots through me like the shock I got when I played with the electrical sockets as a kid. Hot and punishing.
“You agree to the terms?” As he speaks, another hand runs along the back of my head before gripping my ponytail. He tugs the elastic loose and stray pieces of hair get caught in each yank.
“Y-yes—” A sharper tug on my scalp turns the word into a gasp. My eyes water at the burning sting. I can’t stop myself from reaching up, trying to brush the pain away.
“Don’t.” He spits the word out, grinding it into my skin. My hand falls. My body sways. Then he tugs harder, forcing me to step back into him. Against me, he feels like a brick wall, built unlike any other man I’ve ever been with. Solid.
“I will make this time quick,” he tells me. “Afterward, we will decide whether or not to continue.” His accent hardens, revealing what he really means. I will decide. “Do you understand, kotyonok?” Two of his fingers twist a piece of my hair, drawing on my scalp as I register that strange word. A nickname? “No. I think you don’t,” Maxim says before I can complete my train of thought.
All of a sudden, I’m let go. Without his support, I stagger forward and nearly trip over my own feet.
“Leave,” he commands behind me. “Lucius will take you home. You can keep the money, but I will not have you waste my time.”
He marches toward the pedestal, moving with so much tension that it sounds like a goddamn thunderstorm just broke out in the middle of the room. I can only stare as he fishes the chisel from the potted plant, spraying dirt through the air in an arc. Like blood.
I don’t know how long I stand here. It feels like seconds. I’m trying to move—I am. Just as my toes twitch a fraction of an inch, he whirls around. When his eyes find mine, I don’t see anything else. Just them: black. Dark. Deep. The moment my breathing hitches, it’s like a switch being flipped. He shakes his head and the shadows disappear as he beckons me closer with a crooked finger. When I don’t react, the finger becomes his entire hand, his voice like a roll of thunder.
“Come.”
I rush over to him, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. Once again, something makes me stop just beyond his reach.
“You didn’t read the contract, kotyonok,” he tells me, his voice catching on the edge of an unstable sound I only have one word for: a growl. He takes a step toward me.
I jump. Frowning, he takes two more. My nerves kick into overdrive and I stagger back three as sweat runs down the back of my neck. I’ll never be able to return this damn sweater now. As if knowing that, he grabs me by the wrist before I can go any farther. His fingers bite down over the edge of the sleeve. I hear a ripping sound.
“Look at me.”
I can’t disobey. Maybe because I never stopped looking. His eyes glow again and I swear I can see myself in them: a dumb little bitch too scared to run.
“I will give you five minutes,” he tells me. One of his hands comes to cup my chin and my lungs heave to breathe him in. He smells like musk. Like anger. Like sweat. The rough pad of his thumb grazes my cheek, sliding to the corner of my mouth. He presses, dragging my lower lip down as his eyes stare dead into mine. “Five minutes to change your mind. That is long enough for most.”
He turns away again, letting me go, and it’s like for those five minutes I don’t fucking exist. I just stand. Stare. Maxim goes at the stone block again, chiseling out the woman’s shape. Despite her flaws, he beats her body into form, carving at the line of her hips, her eyes, her hair.
Thwack!
I swear that sparks fly with every blow.
Abruptly, he sets the hammer down again. “You’ve made your choice.”
I don’t even see his hand move before his fingers snag my collar, dragging me closer. Step by step. When I’m close enough, he moves so that I stagger against the table rather than into his chest.
“On your knees, kotyonok.” His voice sounds normal again, still deep but less bitter. His fingers rake through my hair once before gathering it roughly into a ponytail. “Now.”
He turns away again, letting me go while the command hangs in the air, a terrifying challenge.
This is the part where I earn that little signing bonus.
Chapter 4
A thousand dollars is all I need. I tell myself that as I drop to my knees, bracing my hands on either side of me. My nails scrape the marble, slightly bending away from their beds. From the corner of my eye, I spot a swath of dark red. I’m only inches from that puddle of blood.
Disgust can’t even fully set in before I feel him behind me, his massive palm running over the top of my head. “Turn around.”
He’s staring down at me, still holding the chisel, when I finally do. And I know the truth, here and now: No amount of money in the world is worth this.
Black eyes follow the line of my gaze and he smiles. “Not tonight, kotyonok,” he tells me, setting the weapon down again. “No toys. Tonight will be quick.” The smile fades as he cups my jaw and tilts my head back while manipulating the clasp of his jeans. “Open wide. At least pretend that you have what it takes before you run.”
Run. His thumb pries my mouth open before the thought finishes. He sighs at the sight, flexing his hips to help loosen his jeans. He’s wearing black boxers underneath, but even they don’t disguise the shape of him. Big. Too big.
“Don’t,” he warns, the tip of his nail scraping my cheek before I even realize that my mouth is starting to close.
My lips freeze, half open, drool drying on my tongue. With none of the fanfare I’m used to, he peels his boxers down. His cock springs free.
My lips flutter together. Apart. Together. He’s hard already. Thick veins circle the shaft, flexing in time with his pulse. It’s not the length of him that makes me gulp—it’s his sheer size. There is no way in hell I can take him.
“I told you to open.”
I don’t catch the look that crosses his face until it’s too late. His hand leaves my chin and moves to my throat, squeezing. I open my mouth so wide that I hear my jaw pop, but the pressure doesn’t loosen. It gets tighter as he shifts in closer, jerking my head back. My brain goes away to that cold, quiet place where I can just ignore my body. My nails cut into my palms and I feel again. The pain is like a fence.
But it breaks the moment his hand slides around to the back of my neck and takes control over how much I can turn my head. I smell him: musk, raw, animal. His shirt covers most of his abdomen—I can only make out the definition of his hips. They seem carved into his skin. I remember the weapon resting inches away from my head and come up with another word. Chiseled.
“We will make this quick,” he promises, his voice gritty.
I’m not trying to feel, not trying to see—but I can’t miss the moment his hips jerk forward as he pries my jaws apart and then slams in. My teeth keep him out on the first thrust—my mouth just isn’t wide enou
gh. He has to force it open, using his fingers while yanking me forward.
That’s all I know before my throat closes up. It’s ripped open. My gag reflex goes haywire; I’m choking as he thrusts again, rocking on his heels, his mouth clenched in determination. The next second, he’s just a blur. My lungs are exploding.
He’s too big. Too deep. Too rough.
I can’t breathe!
I try to push away, my hands clawing at his hips.
“Let me in,” he commands as his cock slides over my tongue for a jagged second. The moment I try to suck in air, he slams back in, almost as if savoring the exact second I start to panic.
Everything goes black. White. My only coherent thought is to breathe in through my nose. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! But it’s impossible considering that my stomach is trying to crawl out of my throat. Something blocks its way hard, fast, ramming it back down.
“There.” His fingers move through my hair, manipulating my head back farther. “Take all of it…like this.”
My vision clears; I see his face: cold eyes and a blank expression. Black spots cover him up; they’re everywhere. One. Ten. Fifty.
Then, all at once, he lets me go. I’m on my hands and knees. Air floods in down my ruined throat, and I’m running on pure instinct. Breathe! Even taking in oxygen hurts so damn much. Almost as bad as what comes up.
My wet fingers trace my mouth when I’m done gagging. They come away warm. Slippery. A coppery taste lingers over my tongue. But he didn’t come. I know that, even before he grabs at my hair again, yanking me upright. The world spins and then I’m staring down at dust and wood. The table?
“Here.”
Something is shoved into my hand. Something small, firm and cold. My fingers scramble to identify it as a sharp pain bites into my thumb.
“Look at it,” Maxim commands, though he raises my hand himself when I’m too slow. “Feel it.”
My eyes blink, fighting to adjust—but once they do, I only want to squeeze them shut. I’m holding a knife, one of those spring-loaded ones made of silver with a black leather handle. He makes sure I see the blade. That I notice my blood already painting the edge of it.
Then he forces me to guide it down to my inner thigh. I’m too damn stunned to pull away, and with a tiny bit of pressure, the blade slices through my skin: a burning, fiery line that extends down, down, down.
“A taste,” he says while pulling the knife out of my grip. “Should you stay after this.”
The wound burns, spanning the length of my thigh, all the way down to my knee. It was a warning—one I don’t even get the chance to heed before his weight settles over me. One of his hands palms the back of my neck while the other slides around my hip and undoes the fastenings of my jeans. He pulls them down halfway and doesn’t even bother with my panties. He just yanks the panel over with the pad of his thumb.
Make no noise—that’s my one rule. No fake moaning. No whimpers. People always interpret them the wrong way. Usually, it’s not hard to stay quiet, considering that most of my clients are fat fucks who get winded from fishing my money out of their goddamn wallets. At worst, I’d have to bite my tongue to hold a hiss of disgust back.
A finger. That’s all he uses the first time, but it feels like so much more. Chisel, hammer. He tests me with one touch and then drives it home the next. Deep. Too deep.
My knees knock together, my body jerking against the surface of the table, held in place by him. A finger. I tell myself that over and over. It’s just his finger that’s sliding in, stretching me apart, tearing me open. Another.
“Relax,” he warns as his palm flexes, pinning my skull flat against the table.
His hand withdraws as he muscles in closer, his hips against my bare ass. A crinkling sound cuts the air. Foil. It must take him only a second to get the condom out because, the next, he’s in my stomach. He feels that deep, and my world narrows down to one purpose: keep breathing.
But it’s impossible when my throat is on fire. Burning. Searing. Maybe it’s out of sympathy for my pussy. How is it possible to feel this damn full? This sore.
This goddamn open.
When he moves, I see stars. I cry out, but the sound seems to egg him on. He grinds himself into me so hard the table rocks with every thrust, squealing at the joints.
I know pain: all of those “accidental” cuts. I know what it’s like when a john gets too rough or tries to gain backdoor access. This is something else. It takes me far past silence. I’m just a body, a hole, used up.
I’m not sure at which point I realize he isn’t even all the way inside me. He doesn’t fit. Not even by half. Not right away. The resistance doesn’t seem to surprise him. He just keeps ramming until my body has no choice but to relent and let him in, inch…by inch…
As he promised, he makes it quick.
One last battering thrust and he groans, his shudders racking through his body and into mine. I feel each jolt even with the condom, and then he slides out. In the hazy moments after, he says something else. Something raspy and gruff smothered into my hair that I barely comprehend.
“Good enough.”
I can’t respond. I just breathe. Loudly. Erratic. My body is one aching, used strip of flesh, but I just stay here, leaning against the table. Still shaking.
I try counting to ten, but it doesn’t work. So I settle for counting to a thousand and picturing green.
I don’t wake up. I just come to, but I can’t stand. I know that much. My stomach is cramping. My legs feel like mush, but I suffer through it all and blink up at the ceiling.
It’s semi-dark, but there’s just enough gray daylight to let me know that it’s after dawn. The little shits have school. Mikie might try to skip without me there, if Daisy didn’t burn the damn house down trying to make breakfast.
Rent’s still due.
We need groceries. Laundry has to be done. If we don’t get some goddamn bug spray, I might have more mouths to feed once the roaches demand a seat at the table.
I have too much damn shit to worry about to lie here on the floor. Get up. I flex my toes and flinch. They hurt too. So does my fucking head.
But I’ve been through worse. That’s what I tell myself as I crawl onto my stomach and try to breathe. In and out. Out and in. Out. Out. Out.
I make one stupid noise when I try to stand up. Then I cut the pain off. He left my pants on. I slowly drag them back up and redo the clasp. My sweater feels too loose around the collar. I reach up and feel why: It’s ripped.
So much for my job at Penney’s.
The first few steps are the hardest. It takes me ten before I can cling to the wall beside the door and follow it out into the main room. The lights are off. The place seems empty. Maxim isn’t waiting there when I fumble with the front door and pull it open.
Keep moving. I brace one hand against the wall of the hallway as I head for the elevator, riding it down to the lobby. When the doors open, someone is already standing there.
“Ms. Marconi.” Lucius takes one look at me and steps aside, shrugging his suit jacket—a gray one this time—from his shoulders. He drapes it over me the moment I haul myself out of the elevator. I don’t even have the strength to argue. He smells like coffee and rich cologne. Somehow on him, the scent isn’t as offensive as it was on the Fuckfaces I screwed.
The next ten minutes pass in a blur as he steers me into that infamous black car, and it feels like I simply blink and find myself seated across from him in another café.
“Your payment,” he says, reaching into a briefcase on the table in front of him. He fishes out a stack of bills while the waitress lurking around the edges of the room pretends not to stare. Once again, we’re the only people inside, and I can make out the shadow of a man near the door, silently keeping watch. “One thousand, in full. If you would like to discuss continuing the contract, then we can—”
“No.” I have to press my hands flat against the table to keep them from fucking shaking. “I’ve got to go home. I
’ve got stuff to do.”
“Of course.” He nods and sets the money on the table between us. “As with any finalization of a contract, you have twenty-four hours to reconsider.”
“So I can go?” I’m already reaching for the money. Grabbing it. Squeezing it. Whatever happened, it was worth it.
It was.
“Yes.” Lucius nods again, and I jump to my feet.
Without a jacket, I don’t have any way of hiding the money. I fold it up as much as I can and try to shove it into my pocket. The added fullness just makes the front of my pants feel tighter, which draws a groan from my lips before I can bite it back.
“I can see you to your home,” Lucius suggests.
I should just leave and take my chances. But getting stabbed would be a rather ironic way to end the past twenty-four hours after having my brains fucked out.
“Okay.”
I make him drop me off a block down from my place, and I don’t miss the way he eyes the piece-of-shit houses. It’s nothing like the posh high-rise he’s used to.
“Have a nice day, Ms. Marconi,” he says as I scramble out onto the curb.
I don’t say anything back. Maybe I’m just too damn tired. My knees knock together with every step I take. A million deep, heavy breaths don’t seem to fill my lungs up enough. I’m panting when I stagger up the front stoop and shove the door open.
It’s still too early for the kids to be home from school. That means the person rummaging through my kitchen is either a burglar or a shitty-ass mother.
Frankly, I’d take the burglar.
“Frankie-girl!” Melanie stands in front of the sink, holding a frying pan in one hand and a dishcloth in the other. Someone must have let her in, considering that I changed the locks after the last time she’d blown through. Maybe they did it last night while I was lying unconscious on some stranger’s creepy workshop floor. That’s how Melanie rolls. She sneaks back into our lives when least expected, the biggest goddamn roach in this place.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Honestly, Francesca.” She sighs and starts to dry the pan with the rag. “Should you be talking to me like that?”