Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  “That’s it, ptichka, just relax…” I blow cool air across her clit and am rewarded with a soft moan before her thighs tense again. She’s trying to resist, to reject the pleasure, but I already have my elbow in place, preventing her from crushing my head between her legs. She’s breathing hard now, her hands tightening in my hair as I resume sucking on her clit, and I push two fingers into her tight, wet opening, curving them inside her until I feel the soft, spongy wall of her G-spot. Her pussy clamps tight, quivering around my fingers, and her hips arch off the bed as I intensify my sucking. She’s close, I can sense it. My heart is thumping heavily in my chest, my breathing coming fast as the ache in my balls grows unbearable, but I restrain myself until I’m certain she’s on the verge. Then, and only then, I give in to my own need.

  Pulling my fingers out, I move up, covering her with my body, and line my cock against her swollen entrance.

  “Come with me,” I say hoarsely, meeting her gaze as I penetrate her in one hard stroke, and her body obeys me, her tight, wet flesh clenching around me, milking my cock just as the orgasm hits me. Her beautiful eyes go soft and unfocused, her face twisting with ecstasy as her fingers dig into my sides, and I hear her choked cry as my seed spurts out. It feels like every muscle in my body is vibrating at the same time, my lungs working like bellows as the pleasure blasts through me in scorching waves, and as I collapse on top of her, I know that this is it.

  I’ll never want another woman again.

  I don’t know how long it takes until the aftershocks die down, but by the time I find the strength to push myself up on my elbows, Sara has recovered enough to realize what happened, and horror creeps across her face. Like me, she’s breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with post-coital glow, but there’s no joy in her gaze, only the sharp glitter of tears.

  She’s regretting this, beating herself up again, and I won’t stand for it.

  “Don’t.” I dip my head to kiss her cheeks as the tears spill out, streaking down her temples. “Don’t, ptichka. Don’t feel bad. You did nothing wrong. It was all me. I hurt you, remember? I gave you no choice.”

  Her breath trembles on her lips as I rain kisses across her face, and I feel her shaking underneath me, her hands twisting in the sheets as the tears keep coming. I’m still inside her, my softening cock buried in her body, yet she’s trying not to touch me, to curl in on herself and reject the connection between us.

  I wanted her pain and I got it—and it’s tearing me up inside.

  I don’t know what to do, how to calm her, so I just keep kissing her, stroking her as gently as I can. The thirst for vengeance is gone, and all that’s left is regret. Once again, I’m the cause of Sara’s suffering, and this time, it’s infinitely worse. This time, I know her.

  I know her, and I care.

  She’s still crying when I withdraw from her and get up to dispose of the condom in the bathroom. When I return with a wet towel, I find her curled on her side, with the blanket drawn up to her neck.

  “Here, let me clean you up,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off her naked body, and when she doesn’t object, I run the towel over her soft folds, soothing the sore, swollen flesh and wiping away the evidence of her desire. She’s no longer crying, but her eyes are still wet, and the moment I’m done, she huddles back under the blanket, pulling it over her head.

  I’m about to climb into bed with her when I hear the vibration of my phone on the nightstand, where I left it in case of emergencies.

  Frowning, I pick it up and glance at the screen.

  Change of plans, the message from Anton reads. Velazquez is moving to the Guadalajara compound in 2 days. It’s tomorrow or never.

  I bite back a curse, fighting an urge to throw the phone across the room. Of all the shitty timing… We just finished working out all the logistics of the plan and were going to strike in six days. But if our target is changing locations, we’re back to square one in terms of planning. It might take several weeks to scope out Velazquez’s Guadalajara compound, and our client, a rival drug lord, is already getting antsy. He wants Velazquez gone as of yesterday, and he won’t look kindly upon a delay.

  Anton is right. We have to act now.

  Get the plane and the supplies ready, I text back. We’re flying out early morning.

  Got it, Anton responds. I assume you want the Americans on her?

  Yes, I text. Tell them to stay close near the clinic.

  The last time my team and I had to go out of the country on a job, I hired a few locals to watch over Sara in our absence and report to me on her movements. They’re highly vetted, and though I don’t trust them nearly as much as my guys, so far I’ve been pleased with their services.

  They should be able to protect her while I’m gone.

  Setting my phone alarm to go off in four hours, I climb under the blanket with Sara and pull her into my embrace, curving my body around hers from the back. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away, and as I close my eyes, breathing in her scent, a feeling of peace settles over me.

  Nothing is resolved between us, but for some reason, I’m certain that it will be, confident that we’ll make this work, whatever “this” turns out to be. It’s the only way, because I can’t picture my life without her.

  Sara is mine, and I’d die before I set her free.

  33

  Sara

  * * *

  A persistent buzzing drags me out of sound sleep. For a second, I’m so disoriented I think it’s the middle of the night.

  Rolling over onto my side, I blindly grope for the vibrating phone. “Hello,” I croak, grabbing it from the nightstand without opening my eyes. My lashes feel glued together, my head so heavy I can barely lift it off the pillow.

  “Dr. Cobakis, we have a patient going into premature labor, and Dr. Tomlinson was called away on a family matter. You’re next in line to be on call. Can you be here soon?”

  I sit up, a spike of adrenaline chasing away the worst of my drowsiness. “Um…” I blink the sleep out of my eyes and realize sunlight is seeping in through the cracks in the drapes. The alarm clock by the bed reads 6:45—less than an hour before I need to get up for work anyway. “Yes. I can be there in about an hour.”

  “Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”

  The second the scheduling coordinator hangs up, I jump off the bed to rush to the shower—and stop dead, feeling the soreness deep inside. Memories of last night rush in, scorching hot and toxic, and all remnants of grogginess fade.

  I had sex with Peter Sokolov last night.

  He hurt me, and I came in his arms.

  For a moment, those two facts seem irreconcilable, like an ice storm in July. I’ve never been into pain—just the opposite. The couple of times George and I explored kink, the light spanking he gave me distracted me from my orgasm instead of turning me on. I don’t understand how I could’ve come after such rough sex, how I could’ve found pleasure when my body felt torn and battered.

  And that orgasm wasn’t the only one. My tormentor woke me up in the middle of the night by sliding into me, his fingers skillfully teasing my clit, and despite being sore, I came within minutes, my body responding to him even as my mind screamed in protest. Afterward, I cried myself back to sleep while he held me, stroking my back as though he cared.

  No wonder I felt so groggy; with all the sex and crying, I only got a few hours of sleep.

  Swallowing the ball of shame in my throat, I force myself to keep moving. I have to get dressed and go to the hospital. No matter how it feels right now, my life didn’t end last night. I have no idea if I did the right thing by encouraging Peter to bed me, but what’s done is done, and I have to move on.

  The good news is that I don’t have to see him again until tonight.

  Maybe by then, the idea of facing him won’t make me want to die.

  * * *

  The day flies by in a blur of work, and by the time I come home, I’m both exhausted and starved. I was so busy I skipped lunch, and though I’m dre
ading another night with my stalker, I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his cooking.

  Peter Sokolov might be a psychopath, but he’s an excellent chef.

  To my surprise—and a small measure of disappointment—no delicious smells greet me as I walk in from the garage. The house is dark and empty, and I know without going from room to room that he’s not there. I can feel it. My home seems colder, less vibrant, as if whatever dark energy Peter Sokolov emits was giving it a vitality of sorts.

  Still, I call out, “Hello? Peter?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you there?”

  No response.

  Could my plan have worked so quickly? Is it possible that one taste satisfied whatever sick craving my stalker had for me?

  Puzzled, I walk over to the refrigerator and take out a frozen dinner to pop into the microwave. It’s the healthy, organic kind, Thai noodles and vegetables in some kind of not overly sugary sauce, but it’s still dinner in a box. Too bad it’s the only thing I have energy for tonight. I should’ve grabbed something from the hospital cafeteria, but I think I was subconsciously counting on being fed at home.

  Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all, I turn on the microwave and go wash my hands.

  My tormentor is gone, and that’s a good thing.

  I just need to convince my stomach of that.

  * * *

  He’s still not there when I wake up, and though I have the vague sensation of being watched as I drive to work, I can’t detect anyone following me. Same thing when I get to the hospital and go about my day. I’m paranoid enough to feel eyes on me all the time, but the sensation is not nearly as intense as it used to be.

  If I didn’t know I have a real stalker, I’d chalk it up to my imagination.

  My parents call when I’m on my lunch hour and invite me over for dinner on Friday. I give them a noncommittal response—I don’t want to expose them to any danger either—and then I call the clinic.

  “Hey, Lydia, how’s it going?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous. “How’s everything been?”

  “Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” The receptionist’s voice turns extra warm. “Glad to hear from you. Everything’s going well. Not too busy for now, but it’s probably going to pick up in the afternoon. Will you be able to come in again this week?”

  “Yes, I think so. Um, Lydia…” I hesitate, unsure how to ask her what I want to know. I haven’t seen anything on the news about the murders, but that doesn’t mean the bodies haven’t been found. “You haven’t seen or heard anything… unusual, have you?”

  “Unusual?” Lydia sounds confused. “Like what?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular.” To allay any suspicion, I add, “I was just thinking about that one patient, Monica Jackson… You haven’t heard from her, right? The young dark-haired girl I saw yesterday?”

  To my surprise, Lydia says, “Oh, that. Yes, actually. She dropped by a couple of hours ago and left a message for you. Something along the lines of ‘thank you and he’s now behind bars.’ She didn’t explain, just said that you’d understand. Any of that make sense to you?”

  “Yes.” Despite my tension, a big grin cuts across my face. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you later this week.”

  I hang up, still grinning, and go scrub up for my afternoon C-section.

  I have no idea how Peter made the evidence of his crime disappear, but he did, and now it seems like some good came out of that awful evening.

  There might be no escape for me, but Monica is free.

  * * *

  My house is again dark and empty when I get home that evening, and as I get ready for bed, I’m aware of a peculiar melancholy. Having Peter in my house was terrifying, but he was still a human presence. Now I’m alone again, as I’ve been for the past two years, and the feeling of loneliness is sharper than ever, my bed colder and emptier than I recall it being.

  Maybe I should get a dog. A big one that I would spoil by letting it sleep with me. That way, I’d have someone to greet me when I came home, and I wouldn’t miss something as perverse as my husband’s killer holding me at night.

  Yes, I’ll get a dog, I decide, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over myself. Once I sell the house, I’ll rent a place closer to the hospital and make sure it’s dog-friendly—maybe near a park of some kind.

  A dog will give me what I need, and I’ll be able to forget about Peter Sokolov.

  That is, assuming he forgot about me.

  34

  Sara

  * * *

  By Monday, I’m almost convinced that Peter left for good. Over the weekend, I scoured my house from top to bottom in an effort to uncover his hidden cameras, but either they’re all gone or they’re concealed in such a way that a layman like myself has no hopes of finding them. Alternatively, they might not have been there in the first place, and my stalker knew the things he knew in some other way. Either way, there’s been no sign of him, no contact of any kind. I spent most of the weekend at the clinic, and though I felt eyes on me as I walked to my car, it could’ve been remnants of my paranoia.

  Maybe my nightmare is finally over.

  It’s silly, but the knowledge that I drove Peter away with sex stings a little. I hoped that once I stopped being the unattainable “ice princess,” he’d leave me alone, but I didn’t expect the results to be quite so immediate. Maybe I’m bad in bed? I must be, if one time was all it took for Peter to realize I’d never live up to whatever fantasy he had in his mind.

  After stalking me for weeks, my tormentor abandoned me after just one night.

  It’s a good thing, of course. There are no more dinners, no more showers where I’m cared for like a child. No more dangerous killers wrapped around me at night, fucking with my mind and seducing my body. I go about my days as I’ve done for the past several months, only I feel stronger, less shattered inside. Confronting the source of my nightmares has done more for my mental wellbeing than months of therapy, and I can’t help but be grateful for that.

  Even with shame gnawing at me whenever I think of the orgasms he gave me, I feel better, more like my old self.

  “So, tell me how you’ve been, Sara,” Dr. Evans says when I finally go see him after his vacation. He’s bronzed from the sun, his thin face for once glowing with health. “How did the Open House go?”

  “My realtor is fielding a couple of offers,” I reply, crossing my legs. For some reason, today I feel uncomfortable in this office, like I no longer belong here. Shaking the feeling away, I elaborate, “They’re both lower than I’d like, so we’re trying to play them off against one another.”

  “Ah, good. So some progress on that front.” He tilts his head. “And maybe on other fronts as well?”

  I nod, unsurprised by the therapist’s perceptiveness. “Yes, my paranoia is better, and so are my nightmares. I was even able to turn on the water in the kitchen sink on Saturday.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows rise. “That’s wonderful to hear. Anything in particular bring it on?”

  Oh, you know, just having the man who tortured me and killed my husband reappear in my life.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe it’s time. It’s been almost seven months.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Evans says gently, “but you should know that’s nothing in the timeline of human grief and PTSD.”

  “Right.” I look down at my hands and notice a rather ragged-looking hangnail on the left thumb. It might be time to get a manicure. “I guess I’m lucky then.”

  “Indeed.”

  When I look up, Dr. Evans is regarding me with that same thoughtful expression. “How is your social life?” he asks, and I feel a fiery blush creep across my face.

  “I see,” Dr. Evans says when I don’t answer right away. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”

  “No, it’s… it’s nothing.” My face burns even hotter when he gives me a disbelieving look. I can’t tell him about Peter, so I scram
ble for something plausible. “I mean, I did go out with some coworkers a couple of weeks back and had a good time…”

  “Ah.” He seems to accept my answer at face value. “And how did it make you feel, having ‘a good time?’”

  “It made me feel… great.” I think back to dancing at the club, letting the beat of the music thump through me. “It made me feel alive.”

  “Excellent.” Dr. Evans scribbles down some notes. “And have you gone out again since?”

  “No, I haven’t had the opportunity.” It’s a lie—I could’ve gone out with Marsha and the girls this past Saturday—but I can’t explain to the therapist that I’m trying to protect my friends by minimizing contact with them. Doctor-patient privilege has its limits, and disclosing that I’ve been in contact with a wanted criminal—and that I witnessed two murders last week—could prompt Dr. Evans to go to the police and endanger us both.

  In general, coming here today was a bad idea. I can’t talk about the things I really need to discuss, and he won’t be able to help me work through my complicated feelings without understanding the full story. That’s why I’m feeling uncomfortable, I realize: I can’t let Dr. Evans in anymore.

  My phone vibrates in my bag, and I eagerly pounce on the distraction. Fishing the phone out, I see it’s a text from the hospital.

  “Please excuse me,” I say, getting up and dropping the phone back into my bag. “A patient has just gone into premature labor and needs my assistance.”

  “Of course.” Unfolding his lanky frame, Dr. Evans rises to his feet and shakes my hand. “We’ll continue next week. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Thank you. Same here,” I say and make a mental note to cancel my next week’s appointment. “Have a wonderful rest of the day.”