Darker Than Love

by Charmaine Pauls

  He’s strong, this ruthless captor of mine. Strong and superbly fit, his body a deadly weapon under those perfectly tailored clothes.

  “Tea,” he says in that smooth, deep voice of his, so different from his brother’s rougher tones. “As per the princess’s request.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, reaching for the cup. My hands are visibly shaking, my breathing is shallow, and I’m sweating—and none of it is an act. I can smell the clean, masculine scent of his cologne—something sensual and airy, like pepper and sandalwood—and his nearness unsettles me, making my insides riot with a confusing mixture of fear and desire. Even if he wasn’t danger personified, I’d be drawn to his magnetic good looks, but knowing what I know about him—about what he does and what he might do to me—I can’t control my helpless response to him.

  Even my tiredness recedes, leaving me jittery and high, as if I’d downed two liters of espresso.

  I’m acutely aware of his gaze on me as I bring the cup to my lips and take a sip, suppressing a hiss at the scalding temperature of the water. I’m trying not to look at him, to just focus on my tea, but I can’t help staring at his hands as he reaches over and grabs a beer. His fingers are long and masculine, and though his nails are neatly groomed, the calluses on the edges of his thumbs belie the elegance of his appearance.

  This is a man used to doing things with his hands.

  Terrible, violent things.

  A normal woman would be repulsed by the thought, but my heart hammers faster, and an aching pulse starts between my legs, my underwear dampening with liquid heat. The darkness in him calls to me, making me feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  It’s as if like recognizes like, the wrongness in me craving the same in him.

  Ilya picks up the remaining bottle, his hands thick and rough, with a few tattoos on the back. There’s no pretense in him, no attempt to hide what he is behind an elegant mask. “To new friends,” he says, clinking his bottle against his brother’s and then, more gently, against my cup of tea. I risk a glance at him, but catch Yan’s hard green gaze instead.

  I quickly look away, but not before a betraying flush crawls up my neck and covers my face. “To new friends,” I repeat, staring into my cup as if I might see my fate written in the tea leaves. I’m not sure I want Yan to know about the effect he has on me—though he probably already does.

  I’m not exactly at the top of my game tonight.

  “Yes, to new friends,” Yan murmurs, his large hand landing on my knee to squeeze it lightly.

  Startled, I look over at him and see him tipping back the beer, his strong throat working as he swallows. It’s a strangely sensual sight, and my insides clench as he lowers the bottle and meets my gaze, his eyes darkly intent as the hand on my knee moves a couple of inches up my thigh, closer to where I’m wet and aching.

  Oh, God.

  He knows.

  He definitely knows.

  “Ilya,” he says quietly, still holding my gaze. “Make us a couple of sandwiches, will you? I think Mina here is hungry.”

  “She is?” Ilya sounds confused as he stands up, and I look up to find him frowning at us—specifically, at my thigh, where Yan’s hand is resting so possessively. Slowly, tension permeates his big body, his hands flexing at his sides as his gaze swings to his brother’s face.

  “I don’t think she’s hungry,” he bites out, his voice low and hard. His eyes cut to me. “Are you, Mina?”

  I swallow thickly, unsure of what the right answer is. If I’m reading this right, Yan has just staked some sort of an exclusive claim on me, one that I would reinforce if I admitted to this made-up hunger.

  Is that what I want?

  To send away the brother who’s been nice to me, so I can be alone with the man who proposed dumping my body in the river?

  “A… a sandwich would be nice.” The words don’t seem to belong to me, yet it’s my voice saying them, even as my brain scrambles to figure out the implications. “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Ilya’s mouth thins. “Fine. I’ll see what we have in the fridge.”

  And turning around, he stalks off, leaving me on the couch with his brother.

  4

  Yan

  I turn to Mina, my heart pounding with dark triumph. I was almost certain I’d read her correctly, but now I know for sure.

  She wants me.

  She wants this.

  Her blue eyes are wary as I take the cup from her hand and set it down on the coffee table, then clasp her hand and stand up, pulling her to her feet. Her palm is small and clammy in my grasp, shaking slightly. She really is nervous, this strange girl who’s willing to sleep with a man who kidnapped and threatened to kill her.

  “Come with me.” Somehow, my voice is cool and steady, even as my blood burns with the need to possess her, to throw her down on the couch and fuck her right here and now, Ilya’s nearness be damned.

  “C-come where?”

  Instead of a reply, I lead her to my bedroom, ignoring the hesitation obvious in her halting stride. Pulling her into the room, I shut the door behind us, and turn the lock for good measure.

  Then I face her.

  Her pale face is flushed with a delicate peach color, her lips parted as she stares up at me. “Are you…” She moistens her lower lip. “Are you going to kill me? Afterward?”

  A dark smile tugs at my lips. “What do you think?”

  She swallows. “I’m not sure.”

  “Yet you’re here. Why?”

  She doesn’t reply, but her color heightens, answering me as clearly as if she’d spoken the words.

  She’s here because she wants me.

  Because she feels this hunger, too.

  I’ve been hard from the moment I laid my hand on her knee and saw her pupils dilate in response, but the need that’s pounding through me now is almost violent in nature, savage and uncontrolled. I like pretty things, and she’s pretty all right, but this is so much more. I’ve never wanted a woman this much, have never known a craving so consuming. I was going to toy with her, to prolong the delicious anticipation of this moment, but my hands reach for her of their own accord, pulling her toward me as I bend my head and claim her lips in a deep, darkly carnal kiss.

  A tiny gasp escapes her throat, a sound half of protest, half of surprise, but instead of pushing me away, her small hands reach up to clasp my head, her fingers sliding into my hair as she presses against me in unabashed desire. She tastes like honey-flavored tea, her mouth sleek and warm as her tongue tangles with mine, her teeth sinking aggressively into my bottom lip.

  Whatever self-control I still possessed evaporates at the tiny hint of pain. With a low growl, I back her against the bed, yanking the sweater over her head and throwing it aside as she falls backward onto the blanket. Underneath, she’s wearing a white tank top with no bra, and the sight of her erect nipples under the thin fabric sends more blood surging to my groin. Vision turning hazy with lust, I climb onto the bed and straddle her narrow hips. Her torso is slender, almost too much so, but her breasts are deliciously round, surprisingly full for her tiny build. My hands ache to touch them, to mold them in my palms as I drive deep into her body, and I give in to the craving, roughly palming the soft globes as I bend to kiss her ravenously again.

  She responds with a matching aggression, her tongue pushing against mine and her hands tearing at the buttons of my shirt. A couple of buttons go flying, and I hear them skitter on the floor, but I couldn’t care less about the destruction of my clothing. My own hands are already ripping at her tank top, tearing it off her body as I keep devouring her mouth, unable to get enough of the addictive honey taste.

  The rest of our clothes come off in a frenzy, my Italian slacks tangling with her ripped jeans on the corner of the bed, and then I have her naked and squirming underneath me, her nails raking down my back as I rain biting kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her gorgeous breasts. Her taut nipple pops into my mouth, and I su
ck on it, reveling in her gasping moans as my hand travels down her body, skating over her narrow ribcage and flat stomach before reaching the smooth columns of her thighs and the heated slickness of her sex.

  She has a bellybutton ring, I note with a still-functioning corner of my mind, and a few lines of writing tattooed on her left side. I want to explore it all in detail, to slow down and look over her sleek body, committing it to memory, but the lust beating at me is too strong to be denied. Pushing her thighs apart, I move down, my mouth watering at the thought of tasting that warm wetness.

  Her pussy is as pretty as the rest of her, pink and smooth, completely shaven, and I dive right into my feast, my tongue lapping at her soaked slit before moving up her folds. “Oh, fuck,” she moans, her hips rising convulsively as I reach my target, and her hands bunch in my hair, squeezing tightly as I suck, then rhythmically lick her clit, letting my teeth graze it in between. She’s salty sweet, as delicious as I expected, and my cock throbs with a desperate need to be inside her, my balls drawing tight against my body as I up the tempo, craving her orgasm as much as I do my own.

  Her moans grow in volume, her hips pumping up and down with rising urgency as I continue, and I feel the exact moment it happens for her. With a cry, she arches against me, her eyes scrunched shut and her whole body shaking as more richly flavored wetness coats my lips and tongue. I wait a couple of seconds for her spasms to ease, and then I move up, covering her with my body.

  “Wait,” she gasps, her eyes popping open as I wedge my knee between her thighs, spreading them apart. Her pupils are dilated, her face pink and glowing with a hint of perspiration. “I’m not on the… I don’t have—”

  “I’ve got it,” I growl, unable to believe I almost forgot something so basic. Holding myself up with one hand, I reach into the tangle of clothing in the corner and fish out a foil packet I always carry in my wallet. My teeth make quick work of the wrapper, and I roll the condom onto my cock before guiding it to her slick folds.

  Then I press in, blood pounding in my temples.

  5

  Mina

  I tense, my breath seizing in my lungs as he pushes in, his thick cock penetrating me slowly but inexorably. I’m wetter than I recall ever being, but even with my body primed for his possession, I feel a stinging stretch. He’s big, and it’s been far too long for me.

  He must feel the difficulty I’m having because he pauses, his jaw locked tight and his green eyes fiercely narrowed on my face. “Am I hurting you?” His voice is rough, hoarse with lust, his powerful shoulders tense above me. There’s no trace of his urbane veneer now, no hint of the smooth sophisticate from the bar. Without his tailored clothes, he looks like the savage predator he is, his large, hard-muscled body as lethal as it is perfectly proportioned.

  “No, it’s…” My voice shakes. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want him to stop. It might be twisted, but now that we’re here, I feel like I deserve this, both the pain and the pleasure. This man, this killer, he’s my punishment and my reward, a dark gift to myself for making it this far.

  His nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing further, and I feel the last shreds of his self-control disintegrate. With a guttural sound deep in his throat, he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head, and surges into me, penetrating me all the way in one hard thrust.

  I gasp, my insides burning from the ruthless stretch, yet my body arches against him, my legs wrapping around his hips to take him even deeper. It hurts, but underneath is a perverse kind of comfort, a reassurance that I’m here, that I’m alive to feel this way.

  He doesn’t let me catch my breath this time. Dipping his head, he claims my lips in another deep, devouring kiss and begins to move, the power of his thrusts pushing me into the mattress. His mouth is hot and rough, flavored with my slickness and a hint of beer, and I find myself kissing him back with the same aggressive hunger as the pain morphs into wild, primal pleasure. I’ve never come more than once during sex, but my body draws taut again, the tension in my core growing and coiling tighter. Feverish heat pulses through my veins, and my heart races as if trying to escape my chest.

  The release that hits me feels like a volcano going off inside my body, incinerating everything within. My vision goes white, my panting breaths deafeningly loud to my ears as every nerve ending I possess sparks to life. With a shattered cry, I arch against him, my inner muscles spasming around his invading cock. It’s too much, too overwhelming, yet somehow, I live through it, and as I’m coming down from the high, he groans hoarsely in my ear as his cock throbs deep inside me in his own release.

  I must’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion immediately afterward because all I recall when I wake up is a cool, wet towel between my legs, cleaning and soothing the tender flesh. I don’t remember him withdrawing from me or disposing of the condom, or even letting go of my wrists. I do, however, have a vague recollection of being held against a large, warm male body and feeling oddly peaceful and secure.

  Battling residual grogginess, I sit up and look around. Light is seeping through the heavy shades, so it must be morning. Also, I’m alone. However, I can hear the rumble of male voices through the door.

  They’re still here, and I’m still their captive.

  On the plus side, I’ve obviously made it through the night. Nobody’s offed me in my sleep, which gives me hope that maybe they’ll keep their word and actually let me go.

  Quietly, I swing my legs to the floor and stand up, suppressing a wince at the soreness I feel everywhere, but especially between my thighs. I’m also a little weak and dizzy, but that’s nothing new. I feel that way most mornings, though it’s slowly getting better.

  Moving as silently as I can, I gather my clothes, minus the torn tank top, and get dressed, then tiptoe to press my ear to the door. The voices outside are getting louder, angrier.

  The brothers are arguing about something.

  “—not yours,” Ilya growls in Russian. “You can’t just keep her like a stray cat, doing whatever you fucking please—”

  “Fuck you.” Yan’s voice is equally hard. “You’re just pissed she chose me last night, and I didn’t share.”

  “Don’t fucking delude yourself. You never gave her the option to refuse. She probably figured it’s fuck you or die—”

  A loud crash cuts off the rest of the sentence, and I back away from the door, my heart hammering.

  This is bad, really bad. If I understood it right, Yan is planning to keep me captive longer, something his brother is objecting to. Not only does that lessen my chances of getting out of this alive—the longer I’m around these killers, the more likely I’m to overhear implicating information—but it also means I won’t be able to do my job.

  My real job, not the waitressing that’s my cover.

  And if the prospect of pissing off my clients weren’t worrisome enough, Ilya mentioned something about wanting to keep an eye on me until they leave town. Which, considering that the brothers were going to let me go this morning, must be today.

  Does this mean Yan wants to take me with him?

  To steal me away from here?

  More crashing sounds, mixed with Russian curses, reach my ears. The brothers are still fighting, but unless one of them kills the other, they’re likely to stop soon. Which means I have to act now.

  My searching gaze lands on the window shades, and I rush over, yanking them apart. Bright sunlight hits my eyes, blinding me for a moment, but then I see we’re on the second floor.

  Not an optimal location, but one that I can work with.

  Luckily, the window is as old as the rest of this building, consisting of two separate wood-framed panes that open outward, like French doors. The lock in the middle is rusted and painted over, but when I put all my strength into it, the paint seal breaks, and I’m able to twist the lock and push the panes open.

  The effort, minor though it was, exhausts me, but there’s no time to rest. The street outside is narrow and deserted. If I were to ca
ll for help, nobody would hear me—not that I was counting on some magic rescue.

  Hurrying over to the bed, I strip off the top and bottom sheets and tie them together. Then I knot the makeshift rope around the leg of the bed and go back to the window, holding the other end.

  It won’t extend more than a meter out the window, but anything that brings me closer to the ground is a good thing.

  My hands are shaking and I’m sweating as I climb onto the windowsill, gripping the sheet tightly. A year ago, I could’ve jumped from this height and easily walked away, but now, I’m out of shape, my bones weak and brittle. The ground appears dangerously far, the cracked asphalt looming below me like a death sentence.

  For a moment, I entertain the idea of staying, of going with the flow and seeing what happens. After all, would it be so bad to be Yan’s captive? To get those mind-shattering orgasms and sleep in his arms every night? Maybe he’d grow attached to me after a while, as much as a man like that can, and wouldn’t kill me even if I learned more about them. In fact, we could even partner up and—

  I shut the door on that thought before it goes any further. The sex hormones must still be muddling my mind for me to even entertain an idea that insane. If I stayed, I’d be nothing more than Yan’s sex toy, I’m sure of that. Besides, even if I were willing to take this kind of risk, it’s not all about me.

  Hanna needs me.

  The thought of my grandmother steadies me, as always. I can’t afford to give in to this whim, to let attraction to a handsome killer distract me from my responsibility to the woman who raised me. She’d cared for me my whole life, and now it’s my turn to do the same for her.

  “Goodbye, Yan,” I mouth silently, and tightening my grip on the sheet, I jump down.