Unholy Promises

by Roxy Harte

  It seems like a million years ago, it still doesn’t seem real. It was Mattie who carried the bundle across the snow to the waiting helicopter, leaving a trail of blood in the white snow. Am I a horrible person that I wasn’t thinking about the baby when I dropped to my knees and picked up a handful of red snow? God, Luka, will I ever forget? I close my eyes, thankful that the baby lives.

  I really need to let go of the past…I know I do.

  Should I go to Wales? No. I don’t need the Welsh countryside to relax. I chug from the bottle. I need to be here with Luka.

  “You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

  Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  Chapter Ten

  Thomas

  Across the alley from her apartment, I hide on a rooftop. The drive took longer than I anticipated but I am here and she is here, confirmed when I spy her through my binoculars. She is with him, the red-haired coworker from the party. Naked and riding him, she is wrapped in the throes of passion, and all I can do is stand here, watching. I want to be angry and jealous, seething, anything—

  I am being watched.

  The feeling rips through me like a bullet and I duck deeper into the shadows, barely breathing as I realize not watched, sought. She leans from the window, seeking who she felt watching. The streets are empty, she finds no one, and because of my greater need to find my brother, I can justify following her when she comes flying out, taking the concrete front steps two at a time. I don’t have to catch up to her, knowing instinctively where she is going—the hunted always go home for the holidays, and if my hunch is right, she still thinks of the warehouse as home. Knowing how she felt about her parents, about her brothers still living in Sweden, her heart does not lie there…but is it with the man she knew as Luka? I pray so and not for the sake of my brother.

  Was it planned for me to enter the warehouse through the hidden back door? No.

  Was it wise?

  Probably, most definitely, not, I decide as I stand next to the bed, watching her sleep. If I had to guess, more likely she passed out. Her breathing pattern hinted at it and the bottle of ouzo clutched in her fist confirms it. Panic surges quickly when I see the small pillbox, former contents strewn across the velvet comforter, but as I quickly calculate how many could fit if packed full, there are not nearly enough missing to cause her death. She merely swallowed two or three. I pick one up to read the initials on the side by the flicker of a bedside candle. Vicodin.

  Stupid girl, mixing painkillers and alcohol…

  Her color is high, breathing normal for one having consumed a massive amount of ouzo. I check her pulse anyway—slow and steady. Her hand jerks and I catch the falling bottle just in time, carefully settling it onto the nightstand. If I were a smart man, I’d leave now. I wouldn’t stroke her cheek, I definitely wouldn’t lift her hair to my nose to inhale her scent. Spinning a strand of spun gold around my finger, I caress the silkiness, knowing I am playing with fire and longing desperately to be burned.

  I am a lost man. I know it is so as I allow my fingertips to travel of their own accord, following the elegant line of her jaw, her neck, her collarbone.

  Unbearable softness. Self-torture.

  Years recede to nothingness as my control slips and I am transported…my hand sliding beneath the silk robe to rub over the smooth curve of her bare shoulder, causing the fabric to fall open, revealing her perfect breasts. Facing my own insanity, I couldn’t stop myself now if I wanted to, the pull back to the past is too great, the need, the desire too strong. Closing my eyes against the screaming rational side of my brain, I enjoy the rush, the remembrance of what it was like to own her. Squeezing the soft, round, utter perfectness of her breast, I remember the time she was mine to do with what I would. Catching her nipples between thumbs and knuckles, I pinch and pull, longing for her response, and I am not disappointed. A soft moan escapes her lips and it is more than I can bear.

  I want to rip my clothes off. It would be worth being tried as a traitor to spend one more night in her arms. Would it be worth being tracked, hunted…by her?

  The answer is no. Having Eva become my hunter would be worse than death. I turn quickly, my rational mind winning.

  “Luka?” Her soft whisper startles me. Turning, I see her eyes mere slits against the candlelight. Blindly, she reaches—calling out for me—and I can’t turn away.

  “You’re home. I’m so glad you’re home. I had the worst dream. I’m so glad…”

  “I’m here, Eva.”

  “I’m glad, Master.” She pulls me down to her lips.

  It is a soft, wet kiss, her lips relaxing beneath mine as I take full possession of her mouth, devouring her, forcing my tongue inside, doing my best to fuck her with my tongue, but she won’t allow it, latching and pulling on my tongue like an infant sucking on a breast. I resist, but she forces me to stay, mouths joined, her sucking, hard, harder, finally releasing my tongue so that I can get my own revenge. I offer a similar experience to her top lip, pulling, sucking, nipping. Then, not to leave any bit out, her bottom lip. I am not as gentle with her bottom lip, sucking hard until she moans. I release her lips, only to pull her chin into my mouth, biting the tender skin, feeling her hard jawbone between my teeth.

  “Oh God, Master, I need you like this, just like this. But I’m so tired.”

  “I know, Evie, I’ll do all the work tonight, you just enjoy yourself.”

  “I promised you a massage, Master. I was going to start at your feet. I bought oil earlier, your favorite, lavender blended with rose and myrrh. I want to give you a massage, Master. I like it when your toes wiggle and you growl at me to rub your thighs,” she explains in a sleepy voice, eyes closed, sleep-talking. I should be ashamed that I am so close to taking advantage. “You want me to think that you are in a hurry for me to get to your dick, but I’ve figured out the truth of it.”

  “Have you, Evie?” I push against her, trying to hold back, kissing and nipping my way around her neck as she remembers the past. I mentally chastise myself for being a rogue, silently promising myself that I won’t let things progress too far. After all, I’ve been living as a Master Dominant, surely I can control this…

  “Your feet are ticklish,” she accuses, and I bite down hard on her neck to change the subject. Her pulse throbs beneath my tongue as I hold her still with my teeth, sucking hard against her jugular vein as I lift her by her neck until she is arching and moaning loudly.

  “Master, oh God, Master.” She sighs against me.

  I pinch a nipple cruelly, rolling it hard between the pad of my thumb and a knuckle. I pin her legs and hold her, arching and squirming. She cannot pull away, I’m not willing to let go.

  I’ve left sanity and returned completely to the man I was with her. Master.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been called Master. In San Francisco I am Fyre, Lord Fyre, Sir, even Mister, but I’ve allowed no one to call me Master. I have and always will be her Master only. Even as I think it, I know we are doomed. I cannot go back to my life without her. What have I done?

  Her gasp brings me back to the present.

  I release her nipple, knowing it will be bruised and angry-looking in the morning, similarly I know her neck is marked. My mark, ownership, I am reclaiming Evie.

  “You are mine, Evie,” I demand.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Who do you belong to?” I press a knuckle into her ribs, making her squirm in pleasure-pain. “No one else has claim to you, Evie. Only me. You are mine, now and forever.” I press into a lower rib and she screams out, hips hunching against my thigh. “Say it!”

  “You, Master,” she promises breathily. Her arching hips demand release and I stall her motion mid-hunch, pressing my thumb deep into her rib cage. Her screamed protest is music to my ears. She falls back into
the mattress. God, she is out of it, her eyes are glazed and I wonder again just how many Vicodin she swallowed. I catch her hand as she tries to touch herself, not allowing her to find the release she needs.

  “Not yet,” I whisper, pushing her hand farther away.

  “Master,” she pleads.

  I know how desperate she must be. Eva is one of those rare, wonderful women who can reach orgasm solely by having her breasts played with. I have given her just enough to set her on fire, but not enough to climax. I lick her right nipple, sucking softly, drawing deep. A sob forms in her throat. I will not give her the rhythm she needs to climax. Slowly I rise over her, promising, “You will come when I say you may.”

  “Yes, Master.” She pouts, then presses a kiss to my shoulder, just before she latches down, teeth burying painfully into my pectoral muscle. I take the pain, surprised again by the minx in my bed. Even drunk, barely lucid, she knows what buttons to push, and I never realized just how well she learned me until this moment.

  “God, Evie.” I spasm against her, thinking she may have just broken skin.

  “Master me,” she demands between gritted teeth, still clamping skin and muscle between her teeth, and I am lost to her, manipulated coldheartedly into granting her desire but I don’t care. It’s been too long and I need her as much as she seems to need me.

  My fingers find her soft, wet folds. God, she is so fucking wet.

  Pressing my middle finger into her vagina, I fuck her slowly with just that one finger, letting her arch and moan beneath me but granting her no quarter. Slowly, softly, gently, I play with her folds, spreading her wetness. She will pay for the teeth imprint welling with blood in orgasms. I make a pact with myself that I will not release her until she has paid in full with at least ten orgasms this night. I push my finger inside her again and she moans with the relief the sensation brings. Remembering, I begin the stroke I know will push her over the edge. Stroking harder, deeper, faster, until she is panting, begging for release. I push her harder, not giving her the words she longs to hear, pushing her over the edge with the rhythm I learned so long ago. She screams with the intensity of the first.

  “Did you ask permission to do that, little one?” I demand as her screams turn to pants. Not expecting an answer, I pound my fingers into her harder, stretching her, filling her with a second finger. And then I press in a third. With my free hand, I push against her soft belly until I am certain I have found her sweet spot, then crush her G-spot between the heel of my palm and my fingers working their terror on the inside. She cannot stop the next orgasm or the one that immediately follows it, screaming with pleasure, not asking permission to come.

  “You are such a bad girl, Eva. You know I’m going to have to punish you now,” I promise as she lays on her side recovering. So tired, still drugged, she doesn’t resist when I push her onto her stomach. Pulling my leather belt from my slacks, I secure her wrists, wrapping the leather around and around, almost to her elbows before I buckle it tight.

  With her head to the side, she breathes heavily, still laboring post-orgasm as I pull the small jewelry box off the nightstand and withdraw a pair of shiny C-clamps attached by a twelve-inch chain.

  Pulling her up onto her knees, I kiss her temple before attaching the first clamp to her nipple. I clamp it down slowly, restricting the blood flow to her nipple, letting her feel the changing sensation as a slight pinch changes to outright pain. Her quick intake of breath signals the moment it becomes too painful to bear.

  I press her face into my shoulder, her body tense and still, but she doesn’t cry out.

  “Relax against me, Eva. Surrender to the pain,” I admonish, holding her tighter when she struggles until, moments later, I finally feel her first attempt to accept it. “Good, Evie, very nice. You please me when you do as I say.”

  I stroke her face with the second nipple clamp, teasing her with its cool, metallic caress. Slowly drawing the sensation down her throat and over her shoulder, teasing more with a slow circling of her breast before pressing it over her nipple, again I let her feel the slow change in sensation. She doesn’t take as long accepting this pain, managing it. She pleases me so well.

  Lying back into the mattress, I pull her over me, helping her find her balance as she straddles me in her trussed, groggy state. I promise myself tomorrow I will apologize; tonight, I allow myself to be cruelly selfish. When she leans over me to kiss me, I hold her upper arms, balancing her, allowing her to kiss me as she desires. Precious kisses that she willingly plants over my face and down my neck then, realizing her intent, I try to stop her, try to hold her straddled over my jeans, even as she starts the descent of kisses down my chest.

  “Unfasten your jeans, Master,” she begs prettily, her eyes closed. “I want to taste you.”

  Struggling to scoot backward with her arms tightly bound behind her back, she settles for lying across my legs, kissing a path along the edge of my waistband. She rubs her cheek into the fabric of my jeans, finding me hard and crushed within the tight confines. Through the fabric, she kisses a trail, then turns the path the opposite way and licks my length. “Please help me do this, Master. I want to pleasure you.”

  “Eva.” My voice wavers as I try to tell myself exactly why this is such a bad idea, knowing that once I am free of my jeans, there really will be no turning back.

  She licks the length of me again and the sight of her tongue against the indigo of my jeans, dipping between the folds of fabric to run along the rough ridge of metal zipper beneath, is my undoing.

  I unzip my pants and shimmy, knowing in advance how badly I am going to regret this and doing it anyway. With a final kick, I am free of the heavy weight. Eva falls over me, not even giving me time to adjust my body, to offer a better angle. Her wet tongue slides up my length, a teasing flicker along the tip. As she draws the barest tip into her mouth, I command her to stop.

  Pushing her up and back, I have the presence of mind to release the first clamp, knowing the shooting pain that will shear through her may be enough to bring her around, ruining the moment. I release the clamp anyway, holding her shoulders as a small screamed sob catches in her throat. She always tries to remain silent, I always try to force her screams. I crush her tender nipple and pull with my fingers but she doesn’t call out, instead sinking her teeth into my shoulder, burying a small moan. I do not give her time to fully recover from the first, popping the second clamp off with experienced speed. She shakes her head like a big, wet dog to keep from screaming. I hold her by the shoulders, keeping her from falling.

  She shakes herself one more time and I don’t bother to suppress my laugh. It is a joy to be with Eva, an utter and complete joy.

  “Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”

  Kahlil Gibran

  Chapter Eleven

  Eva

  It was just a dream, I tell myself, struggling to wake up, fighting the sheets that trap my legs. The pain of believing the dream is too much to bear and yet, his touch felt so real.

  A dream.

  No, a nightmare, because I had to wake to the truth.

  Sitting up, I realize reality brings with it a pounding headache. Ohmygod, how long has it been since I’ve had a hangover? But then, I’ve never consumed an entire bottle of ouzo before either…and the bottle sitting on top of the nightstand is definitely empty. Falling back into the pillow is the smartest thing I’ve done in twenty-four hours. The sputtering candle plunges the room into darkness.

  Why didn’t I go to Wales? If I’d gone to Wales, I wouldn’t be hungover. He’d promised me a time of no death. No more killing…

  In Wales, I’d be at the corner pub begging the hard stuff by now.

  Better, I think, to fight a hangover. Soon enough I will be glued to Liam’s side, forced to indulge his fantasies while I wait for the opportunity to free Daniel.

  I fight to awaken from the dream but my body wants to stay wrapped in its warmth. Cool silk slides off my shoulder,
baring my skin to the heat of the room. A raging fire still blazes in the fireplace but the heat in my dream emanates solely from the man. He is a raging inferno. Scalding fingers draw swirls of pleasure over my shoulders, my breasts and my stomach.

  In the dark silence of the room, no, in the silence of my dream, I hear my own heartbeat. Wild, erratic, pulsing blood, flames pulling back the darkness, whispers of heat promising the raging holocaust to come. I seek his eyes, not wanting to see the face of the demon taunting me.

  Dark brown, almost black, eyes glow amber in the firelight.

  I fight to sit up, to push him away and, with equal urgency draw my demon back into my arms—for he is warm, and I, I’m so cold, so empty, so alone. My demon promises life, warmth, healing. He looms above me, the bunched muscles playing over the flat plane of his stomach accentuated and deeply shadowed by the dancing flames in the fireplace. On hands and knees, his cock stands out from his pelvis straight and sure, though curving slightly left. I reach out to close my hand around his tempting length but he twists away, keeping just out of touch. His fierce, burning look of desire makes me drop my hand.

  His eyes glow as he demands, “Lift your hands above your head, Eva.”

  I am frozen by his desire, the intensity of his gaze more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt before, my dream lover even more powerful than the man. His eyes glow with a feral inner light that seems to burn into my soul, seeing need, knowing my need.

  Arms unwilling or incapable of moving on their own leave me unable to obey. I admit to my dream demon, “I love you, Luka. I love you. Please don’t ever leave me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” my demon promises in return.

  In the dream I acknowledge I am so going to regret allowing myself to dream, knowing how painful waking alone and remembering the awful truth will be. But then my dream lover’s fingers tease my nipples to aching peaks and the molten lava of his tongue burns the cool points. His mouth molds around my aching flesh, sucking deeply, suckling with the desperation of a starving infant.