by Anna Zaires
“It’s very nice,” I say, watching as Julian hangs my coat in the closet by the door and then takes off his own jacket. I can’t take my eyes off him, and I realize that a part of me still fears that this is not real—that I’ll wake up and find out that this was all just a dream . . . that Julian had truly died in the explosion.
The thought causes a shudder to run through me, and Julian notices my involuntary movement. “Are you cold?” he asks, stepping toward me. “I can have the temperature adjusted.”
“No, I’m fine.” Nevertheless, I enjoy Julian’s warmth as he pulls me toward him and rubs my arms for a few seconds. I can feel the heat of his body seeping through my clothes, chasing away the memory of those awful months when I thought I’d lost him.
Wrapping my arms around Julian’s waist, I hug him fiercely. He’s alive, and I have him with me. That’s all that matters now.
“We’re ready for takeoff.” An unfamiliar male voice startles me, and I let go of Julian, looking back to see the blond driver standing there, watching us with an unreadable expression on his hard face.
“Good.” Julian keeps his arm around me, pressing me against his side when I try to step away. “Nora, this is Lucas. He’s the one who dragged me out of the warehouse.”
“Oh, I see.” I beam at the man, my smile wide and genuine. This man had saved Julian’s life. “It’s very nice to meet you, Lucas. I can’t even begin to thank you for what you did—”
His eyebrows arch a little, as though I said something that surprised him. “I was just doing my job,” he says, his voice deep and slightly amused.
The corner of Julian’s mouth lifts in a faint smile, but he doesn’t respond to that. Instead he asks, “Is everything ready for us at the estate?”
Lucas nods. “All set.” Then he looks at me, his face as expressionless as before. “It’s nice to meet you too, Nora.” And turning around, he disappears into the pilot’s area at the front.
“He drives and flies planes for you?” I ask Julian after Lucas is gone.
“He’s very versatile,” Julian says, leading me toward the plush seats. “Most of my men are.”
As soon as we sit down, a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman comes into the cabin from somewhere in the front. Her white dress appears to have been poured on her curves, and with the full layer of makeup she has on, she looks as glamorous as a movie star—except for the tray with a champagne bottle and two glasses she’s holding in her hands.
Her gaze lands on me briefly before sliding over to Julian. “Would you like anything else, Mr. Esguerra?” she asks as she bends down to place the tray on the table between our seats. Her voice is soft and melodic, and the hungry way she looks at Julian sets my teeth on edge.
“This should suffice for now. Thank you, Isabella,” he says, giving her a brief smile, and I feel a sudden sharp stab of jealousy. Julian told me once that he hadn’t fucked anyone else since meeting me, but I still can’t help wondering if he had sex with this woman at some point in the past. She looks like a bombshell, and her manner makes it clear she would be more than willing to bring Julian anything he wants—including herself, naked on a silver platter.
Before my thoughts can travel any further down that road, I take a deep breath and force myself to look out the window at the slowly falling snow. A part of me knows that this whole thing is insane, that it’s illogical to feel so possessive about Julian. Any rational woman would be overjoyed to have her kidnapper’s attention deflected away from her, but I’m no longer rational when it comes to him.
Stockholm Syndrome. Capture-bonding. Traumatic bonding. My therapist had used all of these terms during our few brief sessions together. She had been trying to get me to talk about my feelings for Julian, but it had been too painful for me to discuss the man I’d thought I lost, so I stopped going to her. I did look up the terms later, though, and I can see why they would be applicable to my experience. I don’t know if it’s as simple as that, though, or if it even matters at this point. Naming something doesn’t make it go away. Whatever the cause of my emotional attachment to Julian, I can’t turn it off. I can’t make myself love him any less.
By the time I turn back to face Julian, the flight attendant is gone from the main cabin. I can hear the jet engines roaring to life, and I automatically fasten my safety belt, as I’d been taught to do my whole life.
“Champagne?” he asks, reaching for the bottle at the table.
“Sure, why not,” I say, and watch him deftly pour me a glass.
He hands it to me, and I sit back in my spacious seat, sipping the bubbly drink as the plane starts rolling.
My new life with Julian has begun.
Chapter 3
Julian
Sipping from my own glass, I study Nora as she looks out the window at the rapidly shrinking ground below. She’s wearing jeans and a blue fleece sweater, her small feet clad in a pair of chunky-looking black sheepskin boots. Uggs, I think they’re called. Despite that off-putting footwear, she still looks sexy—though I far prefer seeing her in summer dresses, her smooth skin glowing in the sun.
Watching her calm expression, I wonder what she’s thinking, if she has any regrets.
She shouldn’t. I would’ve taken her regardless.
As though sensing my gaze on her, she turns toward me. “How did they find out about me?” she asks quietly. “The men who kidnapped me, I mean. How did they learn of my existence?”
At her question, my entire body tenses. My mind flashes back to those hellish hours after the attack on the clinic, and for a moment, I’m gripped by that same volatile mix of burning fury and paralyzing fear.
She could’ve died. She would’ve died, if I hadn’t found her in time. Even if I’d given them what they wanted, they would’ve still killed her to punish me for not giving in to their demands sooner. I would’ve lost her, just like I lost Maria.
Just like we both lost Beth.
“It was the nursing assistant at the clinic.” My voice comes out sounding cold and distant as I place my champagne glass back on the tray. “Angela. She was on Al-Quadar’s payroll all along.”
Nora’s eyes glitter brightly. “That bitch,” she whispers, and I can hear the pain and anger in her voice. Her hand shakes as she puts down her own glass on the table. “That fucking bitch.”
I nod, trying to control my own rage as images from the video Majid sent me slide through my mind. They tortured Beth before killing her. They made her suffer. Beth, whose life had held nothing but suffering since her asshole of a father sold her to a brothel across the Mexican border at the age of thirteen. Who had been one of the very few people whose loyalty I never questioned.
They made her suffer . . . and now I will make them suffer worse.
“Where is she now?” Nora’s question brings me out of a pleasurable reverie where I have each member of Al-Quadar strung up and at my mercy. When I look at her blankly, she clarifies, “Angela.”
I smile at her naïve question. “You don’t have to worry about her, my pet.” All that remains of Angela are ashes, scattered on the lawn of the clinic in the Philippines. Peter’s brand of questioning is brutal but effective, and he always disposes of the evidence afterwards. “She paid for her betrayal.”
Nora swallows, and I know she understands exactly what I mean. She’s no longer the same girl I met in that club in Chicago. I can see the shadows in her eyes, and I know I’m responsible for putting them there. Despite my best efforts to keep her sheltered on the island, the ugliness of my world touched her, tainted her innocence.
Al-Quadar will pay for that as well.
The scar on my head begins to throb, and I touch it lightly with my left hand. My head still aches occasionally, but other than that, I’m almost back to my normal self. Considering that I spent a good portion of the last four months as a vegetable, I’m quite content with this state of affairs.
“Are you all right?” There is a concerned expression on Nora’s face as she reaches up to touch the area abov
e my left ear. Her slender fingers are gentle on my scalp. “Does it still hurt?”
Her touch sends pleasure streaking down my spine. I want this from her. I want her to care about my well-being. I want her to love me even though I stole her freedom—even though, by all rights, she should hate me.
I have no illusions about myself. I’m one of those men they show on the news—the ones that everyone fears and despises. I took a young woman because I wanted her and for no other reason.
I took her, and I made her mine.
I make no excuses for my actions. I feel no guilt either. I wanted Nora, and now she’s here with me, looking at me like I’m the most important person in her world.
And I am. I am exactly what she needs now . . . what she craves. I will give her everything, and I will take everything from her in return. Her body, her mind, her devotion—I want it all. I want her pain and her pleasure, her fear and her joy.
I want to be her entire life.
“No, it’s fine,” I say in response to her earlier question. “It’s almost healed.”
She pulls her fingers away, and I catch her hand, not ready to forego the pleasure of her touch. Her hand is slim and delicate in my grasp, her skin soft and warm. She tries to tug it away reflexively, but I don’t let her, my fingers tightening around her small palm. Her strength is insignificant compared to mine; she can’t make me release her unless I choose to let her go.
She doesn’t really want me to let her go, anyway. I can feel the excitement rising within her, and my body hardens, a dark hunger awakening within me again. Reaching across the table, I slowly and purposefully unbuckle her safety belt.
Then I stand up, still holding her hand, and lead her to the bedroom at the back of the airplane.
* * *
She’s silent as we enter the room and I close the door behind us. The area is not soundproof, but Isabella and Lucas are at the front of the plane, so we should have some privacy. I don’t normally care if someone hears or sees me having sex, but what I do with Nora is different. She’s mine, and I don’t intend to share her. In any way.
Letting go of her hand, I walk over to the bed and sit down on it, leaning back and crossing my legs at the ankles. A casual pose, though there’s nothing casual in the way I feel as I look at her.
The desire to possess her is violent, all-consuming. It’s an obsession that goes beyond a simple sexual need, though my body burns for her. I don’t just want to fuck her; I want to imprint myself on her, to mark her from the inside out, so that she will never belong to any man but me.
I want to own her completely.
“Take off your clothes,” I order, holding her gaze. My dick is so hard, it’s as though it’s been months, instead of hours, since I had her. It takes all of my self-restraint not to rip off her clothes, bend her over the bed, and pound into her flesh until I explode.
I control myself because I don’t want a quick fuck. I have other things in mind for today.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stay still, watching as she slowly begins to disrobe. Her face is flushed, her breathing coming faster, and I know she’s already aroused, her pussy hot and slick, primed for me. At the same time, I can feel the hesitation in her movements, see the wariness in her eyes. There is a part of her that still fears me, that knows what I’m capable of.
She’s right to be afraid. There is something within me that thrives on the pain of others, that wants to hurt them.
That wants to hurt her.
She takes off her fleece sweater first, revealing a black tank top underneath. Her pink bra straps peek through, and the innocent color excites me for some reason, sending a fresh surge of blood straight to my cock. The tank top comes off next, and by the time she’s pulled off her boots and jeans, I’m all but ready to explode.
In her pink matching bra-and-panties set, she’s the most delectable creature I have ever seen. Her petite body is fit and toned, the muscles in her arms and legs subtly defined. Despite her slenderness, she is undeniably feminine, her ass perfectly curved and her small breasts surprisingly round. With her long hair flowing down her back, she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model in miniature. The only flaw is a small scar on the right side of her flat stomach—the reminder of her appendectomy.
I have to touch her.
“Come here,” I say hoarsely, my cock straining painfully against the fly of my jeans.
Staring at me with her huge dark eyes, she approaches cautiously, uncertainly, as though I might attack her at any time.
I suck in another deep breath to prevent myself from doing exactly that. Instead, when she reaches me, I lean forward and firmly grip her waist, drawing her toward me so that she’s standing between my legs. Her skin is cool and smooth to the touch, her ribcage so narrow that I can almost encircle her waist with my hands. It would be so easy to damage her, to break her. Her vulnerability turns me on almost as much as her beauty.
Reaching up, I find the clasp of her bra and release her breasts from their confinement.
As the bra slips down her arms, my mouth goes dry and my entire body tightens. Even though I’ve seen her naked hundreds of times, each time is a revelation. Her nipples are small, pinkish-brown in color, and her breasts are the same light golden hue as the rest of her body. Unable to resist, I cup those soft, round mounds in my hands, squeezing them, kneading them. Her flesh is sleek and firm, her nipples stiff against my palms. I can hear the catch in her breathing as my thumbs rub across those hardened peaks, and my hunger intensifies.
Releasing her breasts, I hook my fingers into the waistband of her underwear and push it down her legs, then cup her sex with my right hand. My middle finger pushes into her small opening, and the warm moisture I find there makes my cock jerk. She gasps as my callused thumb presses against her clit, and her hands reach up to grab my shoulders, her sharp little nails digging into my skin.
I can’t wait any longer. I must have her.
“Get on the bed.” My voice is thick with lust as I withdraw my hand from her pussy. “I want you on your stomach.”
She scrambles to obey as I rise to my feet and begin to disrobe.
I’ve trained her well. By the time I’ve removed my own clothes, she’s lying on her stomach fully naked, a pillow propping up her curvy little ass. Her arms are folded under her head, and her face is turned toward me. She’s watching me with those thickly lashed eyes of hers, and I can sense her nervous anticipation. She both desires and fears me in this moment.
It turns me on, that look, but it also awakens another kind of hunger in me. A darker, more perverse need. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the belt from my jeans lying on the floor. Picking it up, I wind the buckle end around my right hand and approach the bed.
Nora doesn’t move, though I can see the anxious tension in her body. My lips twitch. Such a good girl. She knows it would go worse for her if she resists. Of course, by now she also knows that I will temper her pain with pleasure, that she will derive enjoyment from this too.
Pausing at the edge of the bed, I extend my free hand and trail my fingers along her spine. She trembles under my touch, a reaction that sends dark excitement surging through me. This is exactly what I want, what I need—this deep, twisted connection that exists between us. I want to drink in her fear, her pain. I want to hear her screams, feel her helpless struggles—and then have her melt in my arms as I bring her to ecstasy again and again.
For some reason, this small girl brings out the worst in me, makes me forget whatever shreds of morality I possess. She’s the only woman I’ve ever forced into my bed, the only one I’ve wanted this much . . . and in such a wrong way. Having her here, at my mercy, is beyond heady—it’s the most powerful drug I’ve ever tasted. I’ve never felt this way about another human being before, and the knowledge that she’s mine, that I can do anything I want to her, is a rush unlike any other. With all those other women, it was a game we played, a way to scratch a mutual itch, but with Nora, it’s different. Wit
h her, it’s something more.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, stroking the soft skin of her thighs and buttocks. Soon it will be marked, but for now I’m enjoying its smoothness. “So very, very beautiful . . .” Bending over her, I press a gentle kiss to the base of her spine, inhaling her warm female scent and letting the anticipation build. A shiver ripples through her, and I smile, adrenaline surging through my veins.
Straightening, I take a step back and swing the belt.
I don’t use a lot of force, but she still jumps when the belt lands on the round globes of her ass, a soft whimper escaping her lips. She doesn’t try to move or crawl away; instead her small fists grip the sheets tightly, and her eyes squeeze shut. I swing harder a second time, then again and again, my movements taking on a hypnotic, trance-like rhythm. With each stroke of the belt, I sink deeper and deeper into the blackness, my world narrowing until all I see, all I hear, all I feel is her. The reddening of her tender flesh, the pained gasps and sobs that issue from her throat, the way her body quivers and trembles under each stroke of my belt—I drink it all in, letting it feed my addiction, soothe the desperate hunger gnawing at my insides.
Time blurs and stretches. I don’t know if it’s been minutes or hours. When I finally stop, she’s lying limp and unmoving, her buttocks and thighs covered with pink welts. There is a dazed, almost blissful expression on her tear-wet face, and her slender body is shaking, small tremors rippling over her skin.
Letting the belt drop to the floor, I carefully pick her up and sit down on the bed, holding her cradled on my lap. My own heart is hammering in my chest, my mind still reeling from the incredible rush I just experienced. She shudders, hiding her face against my shoulder, and begins to cry. I stroke her hair, slowly, soothingly, letting her come down from her endorphin-induced high as I come down from mine.
This is what I need now—to comfort her, to feel her in my arms. I want to be her everything: her protector and her tormentor, her joy and her sorrow. I want to bind her to me physically and emotionally, to brand myself so deeply on her mind and soul that she will never think about leaving me.