Dirty

by Stevie J. Cole

  One eyebrow arches. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed before standing and stalking toward me. Without a word, he grabs my hair, fisting it and pulling me to the bed. He throws me down and climbs in beside me, yanking the covers over us both.

  I lie here, rigid tense, unmoving. "Well, this is cozy." For a moment, nothing but silence stretches between us. Finally, I snap and sit up. "Okay, why am I in your bed, Russian?" I hate not knowing his little game plans.

  "Because it's time to go to sleep."

  I sigh and throw my leg over his body, straddling him as I lightly wrap my fingers around his throat. His eyes lock with mine, amusement dancing within them. "Ronan. Why?"

  His gaze drags over my face. "Because you're mine."

  For all the times that he has told me I'm his captive, that I mean nothing... and now he wants to claim me. Not as a captor claims his captive, yet still a prize of sorts. It bothers me as much as it thrills me. I frown and drop my gaze to my fingers at his throat. They look wrong. A lover's caress rather than an enemy's choking grip. I'm not sure which Ronan is, perhaps both.

  "Just like that?"

  "You've belonged to me ever since I took you. What don't you understand?"

  He lifts his hand and brushes the curtain of hair away from my face. "I don't belong to you," I say quietly.

  "Come now, you're smarter than this. Surely?" He grins like the devil. "Soon enough, everything will belong to me."

  "Then call me your captive and we'll both know where we truly stand."

  "But you aren't." His smile deepens, his hands gliding along my sides.

  I groan and dig my nails into his throat. "Know this...if I didn't know you'd stop me for whatever reason, I'd walk out of this house and never look back."

  "So you are too afraid to leave?" He sweeps a tendril of hair from my face. "Not so brave now, little kitty?"

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stem my temper. "How far would I get, Ronan? The front door? The gate? Moscow?"

  He twirls the piece of hair around his finger, his eyes flickering. "I won't know until it happens." He sighs. "And isn't that exciting?"

  I shouldn't like this push and pull, the insane workings of his mind, but I do. We are still at war, and I haven't completely lost yet. "I'm glad my captivity amuses you so much." I sit up, glancing down at him beneath me. "How tragic that you have to imprison a girl to get her to fuck you."

  One side of his lips twitch up before he grabs my arms and rolls me over, pinning me beneath him. He places both my wrists in one hand, using the other to hike up my dress. "I'm certain if I touched you right now, you'd be wet for me, Camilla." He smirks. "You always are."

  I say nothing and he presses his hand between my legs, slipping a finger beneath my underwear. A satisfied grin pulls at his lips. "Stockholm Syndrome," I say, fighting the lust he induces far too easily.

  "Doubtful." He rams his finger inside me so hard I gasp. I close my eyes as he ruthlessly fucks me with his hand. Every time I think I've had my fill of him, he makes me want more. No, need more.

  I feel him shift and there's the slide of a drawer opening, the rustling of him fumbling in the dark. And then the cool tip of a blade presses against my throat. Butterflies swarm in my stomach and my pulse picks up.

  His finger swipes over my clit, the sensation sending my stomach into clenching fits. And then, he stops. The blade drags over my breasts, my stomach. "Do you want me to fuck you, Camilla?" he whispers against my skin. I bite my lip as my skin erupts in goose bumps. His weight settling over me as he shoves my legs apart. "Do you?" He spits on my pussy, rubbing it in. "You're so wet for me. My power. My control." The blade of the knife caresses the crease of my thigh. "I could cut you...what would your pussy look like covered in blood?" He sucks in a breath as though he can't contain himself. The blade scratches down the inside of my thigh and I tremble, fighting back a moan. My entire body shakes with anticipation. I want to feel the slice of the blade on my skin, the scent of my blood in the air, and mostly I want to watch Ronan lose control at the sight of the crimson liquid coating my skin. Because he will, it's his sole weakness and in turn, it has become mine.

  "Why don't you find out?" I breathe.

  The burn of the blade as he cuts my thigh sears through me. I grit my teeth on a moan as he wipes his hand from my thigh to my pussy, smearing the blood. "So very pretty, Krasivaya."

  "I want the taste of my blood on your tongue, Ronan," I tease.

  With a smirk, he leans between my legs, his hot tongue sweeping over me. My back bows and my fingers dive into his hair. Ronan groans, his fingers digging into my thighs so hard I know he'll leave bruises. He fucks me with his tongue until I'm on the edge and then, he's gone and his mouth presses to my lips, coating them in my pussy and my blood. "Do you like the way it tastes?" He asks.

  I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him to me, kissing him hard. "There's nothing like the taste of blood and sex," I say before biting his lip. My teeth break his skin, and I swipe my tongue over it. I know I'm falling into him, sacrificing all sense of pride as I do, but I'm too far gone and drowning in lust to care.

  Like a woman possessed, my nails rake over his abs, tugging at the elastic of his boxers until his cock springs free. Gripping my thighs, he wrenches them apart and slams inside me in one thrust. A choked breath slips past my lips at the intrusion. Ronan laughs, dropping his head to my chest.

  "Krasivaya," he groans as he pulls out and forces himself back in. It's brutal, completely uninhibited and primal. He fucks me like he's laying claim to everything that I am. My body breaks for him, and I scream his name as that intoxicating rush of pleasure sweeps over me. Ronan growls, his body stiffening and his fingers tightening on my thighs hard enough that his short nails break the skin.

  His lips press against mine, hard breaths washing over my face before he falls to his back on the bed next to me.

  Yes, Ronan Cole has laid claim to me. The devil wants my soul, and maybe I want him to have it. The power he has over me terrifies me. I'm not sure I can do this.

  5

  Ronan

  The bed shifts, but I keep my eyes closed. Curious...ever curiouser of what she's going to do. The pad of her feet crossing the floor is barely noticeable. I smile, my chest thrumming with anticipation as I peek out from one eye, watching her shadow slink across the walls. Her heart must be frantic, like a little caged bird. In fact, I can almost hear it...

  The hinges to the door creak. She freezes, and I lie still. Feigning sleep. Oh, the theatrics of it all... Now, the question is, how far do I let her run before I chase her?

  She slips through the cracked doorway and into the hall. I sit up, whistling as I grab my thick coat and boots. I lace them up tight and snug. A guard downstairs shouts, and I assume she's out the door by now. How exhilarating. A hunt in the wild Russian forests.

  By the time I reach the stairwell, Donovan is at the top, doubled over with one hand on the railing as he tries to catch his breath. "She..." He gasps. "She's escaped, sir."

  I grin as I zip my coat. "I know. How many men did she kill this time?"

  "She hit Demetri over the head with a vase and—"

  "Which vase?"

  Donovan stares at me blankly for a moment. "A jade one."

  I sigh. "That was from the Ming Dynasty...but," I start down the stairs, "I wouldn't expect a savage to recognize art."

  The front door is wide open. Her tiny footprints decorate the snow. "Camilla," I sing out. "Where are you?"

  I follow the trail, my adrenaline firing off with each passing second. The artic wind howls around me and I revel in it. She must be freezing...

  When I come to the front gate I find two guards dead. Crumpled in a pile of blood. One without boots. Clever little kitty.

  I laugh, the sound bouncing from the trees surrounding my property. Boot prints track through the gate and into the woods. She's so desperate to be free, but what she doesn't realize: true freedom is only found in death.<
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  I rifle through the coat of the other guard, grab his gun, and take off after her, following her tracks in the snow. When I was a child, my father took me to hunt stag in these very woods. I recall the anticipation, the way my heart hammered when I stared down the scope at the helpless little creature. I do enjoy a thrill.

  "Camilla?" I call out again when I reach the thick of the trees.

  A branch snaps to my right and I turn, aiming the gun in the dark just before a spark and loud bang sound. Bark splinters from the tree behind me and I laugh. "You missed. Tsk. Tsk." I duck beneath a limb, snow falling onto my shoulders as I creep closer.

  "I won't miss twice, Russian."

  "Of course not." The wind howls through the trees and I catch a flash of her ebony hair against the stark white landscape. I creep among the trees and she spins around, anxiously gripping the gun. Pressing my back against a trunk, I cock the gun. "Where am I, little kitty?"

  My pulse clangs in my ears, my skin prickles with excitement. I honestly don't know if I'll kill her or not, and it's the unknown that sometimes drives the monster inside.

  "Just let me go, Ronan. You don't need me. You didn't kill me. Surely I'm more hassle than I'm worth?"

  "But now you've tried to run from me." I dart through the trees, twigs snapping and breaking under my feet. "I do have a penchant to lust for things I shouldn’t have." I stop behind a dead tree, peeking around the trunk. Camilla stands in a clearing, gun aimed, head frantically turning in every direction.

  "Well, that is something we have in common..." she says. I step out from the shadows with a grin and she points the gun at me. I shouldn't find this so exhilarating, but I do. I feel most alive when death is nigh. "But," she says, "you know what they say: you should cut such weaknesses out."

  "That is very, very true." I step toward her, the gun cold in my hand. "Cut them out."

  She raises the gun higher, aiming the barrel at my head. "A bullet will suffice."

  But she hesitates and in those few seconds, I aim my gun and pull the trigger. A loud bang echoes through the forest and Camilla stumbles back, dropping her gun to the frozen ground. "You hesitated," I say as I step forward and grab the gun.

  "Fuck!" She clutches her bicep. My chest tightens at the sight of the blood staining her white coat. She staggers to her feet and slams her palms against my chest, shoving. "Why the fuck can't you just let me go, Ronan? We both know I mean less than shit to you."

  "I'm not sure." I grin. "It is the oddest thing. One moment I want to kill you. The next I want to keep you. One moment, I want to let you run, and then the next..." I take a deep breath. "I want to chase you. It's almost as though you've driven me mad, krasivaya." There's a moment where I begin to doubt myself, a moment where I feel I should just end this. After all, you can only play with fire for so long before it consumes you... I lift the gun and press it against her temple. She stares back at me without as much as a flinch. The amber scent of her skin worms its way inside of me, bringing back the memory of how much fun it is to fuck her. "Would you have me kill you then?" I whisper against her ear.

  "I would have you out of my fucking head." She presses her body flush against mine. Her warm breath mists over my face. "You make me crave a cage while longing for freedom. I can't be caged forever, Ronan." Her cold fingers wrap around my hand, forcing the gun harder against her head. Her eyes flutter closed and she takes a deep breath.

  I should kill her.

  My mouth suddenly becomes dry, my pulse skyrockets as doubt shrouds me like an angry cloud. I see worth within her and I hate that. I've grown attached to her, like any man would a beautiful object, she dazzles me, seduces me. She is every bit as ruthless as I am.

  A queen.

  My queen. And oh the depravity we could rain upon the world—together. Madness is one step away from genius, and in that respect, she makes me wiser. I think I shall keep her. I drop the gun to my side, my fingers tingling. "I want to keep you." I cup her cheek. "Protect you."

  Her eyes flash open, locking with mine. "You're the only one I need protecting from."

  I smirk, my thumb gently caressing her chilled cheek. "Ah, krasivaya, I'm untouchable. No one can protect you from me." The clouds clear, the moon bathing her in a faint light. If there were such a thing as love, I'd like to think I could love her. But monsters cannot love, only wallow within depravity and sordid thoughts.

  "No, but what do you think will happen here? You hold me captive and I try to escape at every turn?" She places her hand on my chest, her brow wrinkling as she stares at it as though she's not certain what force placed it there. "I'm left wanting you while hating you, hating myself."

  A satisfied grin shapes my lips as I lean in, placing my mouth against hers. "We only want things that are bad for us. We're bad for each other." I kiss her gently. "So very bad. You threaten my control; I threaten your freedom."

  "Then we're permanently destined to be enemies."

  "I wouldn't have it any other way." I kiss her again. Harder. Deeper. My hand rubs over her arm, slipping over the warm blood from the bullet hole. "I like the way you bleed for me."

  "And I like the way you make me bleed." She pulls away and drops her chin to her chest like an ashamed child. "That's the problem."

  "Come," I say, threading my fingers through hers and leading her out of the woods. "Let's get you warmed by the fire, little kitty."

  ______

  I sit in the chair in the far corner of my room. The fire has died out and is now nothing but smoldering embers in the hearth. My gaze drifts to Camilla, sleeping so peacefully in my bed like a prized catch on display. I'm troubled, though.

  Never have I second guessed myself but with every turn regarding Camilla, I do. An evil temptress, a siren, she's dug her claws in so deep, but I find myself reveling in the pain. She's like a caged bird. As long as I keep her trapped, she'll stay. But I want to be able to open the doors and have her not fly away.

  I need to clip her wings so she'll forget she can fly.

  6

  Camilla

  Warm fingertips gently brush over my neck, stirring me from sleep. When I blink my eyes open, I find Ronan sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on my face. "And she wakes," he says.

  I roll over, hissing at the pain firing through my arm. Fuck, I hate getting shot. "That's going to scar," I grumble.

  He arches a brow, and I swear there's a touch of glee dancing over his face. "I know."

  "Helpful, Ronan."

  "A doctor is here to stitch your arm." He pushes up. "Get dressed," he orders, lingering by the side of the bed, watching me.

  I climb out of bed and go to the closet, grabbing a sleeveless dress as I glance at the long row of ridiculous gowns lining the wall. Heaven forbid there be a pair of jeans and a tank in here. It's like we're constantly expecting a visit from the Queen of England. When I walk out of the closet, Ronan opens the door to let an older man in.

  He smiles as he approaches and places a doctor's bag on the bed. Ronan moves to stand beside me, sweeping my hair away from my injured arm and over my shoulder.

  The man says something in Russian and Ronan nods before they both go into conversation. I can't understand a word of it and find it annoying. The man opens his bag, pulling out gauze, sutures, and needles. He holds up a tiny vial before jabbing a needle into the top and sucking the contents into a syringe.

  I hiss out a breath when he plunges into my arm, the slow burn of the anesthesia working its way down to my fingers. "What is it with you people and giving no fucking warning!" They both ignore me. Ronan stands beside me as the man stitches me up. Once he's finished, the doctor pats my knee, and Ronan bristles before barking something in Russian. The doctor's face washes white and he quickly puts his supplies away before bustling through the door.

  "If you constantly scare the shit out of everyone, no one will want to work for you," I say, hesitantly moving my arm back and forth, testing it as the feeling slowly tingles back. It's best not to b
e hindered when you sleep beside the devil. Ronan glares at me, and I roll my eyes. "Such a cheerful individual." I pull my arm across my chest, stretching it out with a wince.

  He walks toward the door, glancing at his watch. "Breakfast will be served in ten minutes." And with that, he steps through the open door.

  God, He gives me whiplash. One minute he's shooting me, the next he's openly telling me he wants me and now...now he's just his usual, joyful self.

  The more I think about Ronan's admission last night, the more troubled I feel because those were not the words of a man who wishes to capture a woman. Those were the words of a man at war with himself, the same war I feel. When a man like Ronan Cole wants you, there is no escape. Only acceptance or resentment. I know this and yet, freedom beckons me. I worry that the longer I stay, the more I'll want him and the further I'll fall into this pool of depravity we both wallow in so willingly. Until one day, I won't want to leave. I'll simply be his captive. His loyal puppet on a string, broken, complicit. I can't allow it. I have to fight this no matter how exhilarating his presence is to me.

  I get up and walk out of the room, lost in thought as I make my way to the dining room.

  Ronan isn't here yet, but the servants hurry around, laying out plates and pouring coffee. I take my usual seat and pick up a knife, spinning it on my index finger.

  When the doors to the dining room open again, Ronan stands between them, pristine in his designer suit. He takes his seat, servants immediately pouring his coffee and all but bowing in his presence. He glances over the rim of his coffee cup. "Do they not drink coffee in Mexico?"

  "It's Juarez, not the Amazon jungle, Ronan." I huff. "We also have electricity in case you were wondering."

  "I see." He takes a sip of his coffee before setting the cup on the table.

  Two plates are placed in front of us. Eggs Benedict, the same as every morning. He's nothing if not predictable when it comes to his comforts and the finer things in life.