by Raven Dark
I’ve tormented him? The accusation, as if I’m some wicked whore who has tortured him with the promise of something I’ve never delivered shatters my soul.
“Oh, God, you fucking bastard. I hate you.”
He groans as if my words excite him. His cock twitches against my ass, seeming to confirm the notion. His hips pull back, his hands seizing my shoulders as the head of his cock teases my core.
Michael thrusts into me, driving in hard and deep.
I toss my head and cry out, half pain, half need. He’s so damn long and thick he hits every nerve, making me spasm against the bar.
He lets out a long, needy groan and grinds into me hard. His hands are massive on my shoulders, his grip like steel. I can feel the intensity in him; he’s like a man starved, a man whose been deprived of something vital for so long that one taste threatens to rip away all of his control.
He thrusts in and out with long, deep strokes. I moan and whimper; with my hands bound and unable to brace myself, my shoulders rear up, my pussy clenching greedily.
“Fuck.” His fingers dig deeper into my shoulders and he lets out a string of what must be Russian curses. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it sounds hot as fuck, brutal and harsh and possessive.
Pain vanishes, giving way to waves upon waves of pleasure from which there is no escape.
“Ah, shit, Michael, you fucking bastard!”
His hand seizes my chin, locking me in place as he drives in and out. I jerk my head, but he cups it tighter and speeds up his pace. I make a high, helpless keening sound in my throat. The sound gets to him, because his control seems to snap.
Michael fucks me hard and fast, his hips slapping mine. He grips the bar, giving himself leverage and grunts his pleasure. The bar rattles dangerously to the rhythm of his thrusts. Bottles and glasses shake and crash to the floor. The wine bottle smashes, and he doesn’t care.
Fuck, he’s like a wild animal, one I think I just let loose. I’m sopping wet, ready to come apart any second.
He wraps my hair around his fist, yanking my head up. The sting makes me wild and I come apart, panting and sobbing and thrashing in his grip.
I scream. “Oh, God, oh, God, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Shit. Fucking beautiful. Come on my cock, Aurora.”
Another orgasm rips through me and I fall apart again,
Michael curses and thrusts into me a handful of times, and then growls in release.
As soon as he slips out of me, he gives a triumphant rumble. “You come so nice, kravitsa.” He leans against me sweeping a burning hot kiss across my shoulder. I twist under him, but he slips his arm around my waist, almost gently, and kisses my other shoulder. I know that the juices spilling down the inside of my thigh are as much mine as his. The thought guts me.
“Really nice. You were everything I thought you’d be. Worth the wait.”
The callousness, the pure, selfish satisfaction in his voice fuels my outrage.
Never have I been a violent person, but if my hands weren’t still tied behind my back, I would be trying to claw his eyes out.
I arch my back and shrug my shoulders in an attempt to get him off of me, but he is having none of it, and spins me around to face him.
I don’t want to look at him, can’t face the satisfaction I know I’ll see in his eyes. He leaves me no choice, cupping my nape. His lips press a warm kiss on my forehead.
“Mine.”
Only now does he finally step back, doing up his pants and then his belt. The sight of it makes me feel used and filthy and shameful.
“Give me back my hands,” I demand, hoping he is sated enough to leave me alone for now.
With a mocking twinkle in his eyes, he steps close enough that our chests are pressed together and reaches behind me to free the shirt from my arms. Knees weak, I turn away from him and grip the bar, dying to crawl into a deep hole as far from him as possible.
Silent, he begins to pull up my underwear and pants, but I shove his hands away. “I can do it myself,” I snap, as I hastily yank up my pants.
“You might as well learn now, kravitsa, you are mine to do with as I please. Telling me no is not going to be an option for you.”
His words drain the fight out of me. Knowing there’s no way to get him to back off, I stand there and let him straighten my shirt, let him put me back together again. I’m too shell-shocked and numb to fight anymore.
“Let me help you.” He takes my elbow. “I’ll get you into a bed before you collapse on the floor.”
“Get off of me.” I twist away and grip the bar, trying to get a handle on the emotions roiling in me.
A low sigh comes from him before he goes to the end of the bar, picks up one of the few glasses that didn’t smash to the floor during his savagery, and pours himself a drink of water. He does the same for me, but when he sets the glass in front of me, I don’t take it.
“Let me go.” My voice is low and tight.
“Nyet.” He downs his water. “Never. This is only the beginning, kravitsa. Get used to it.”
A storm of emotions swirls. Anger with him, as well as myself, shame, sadness, and perhaps, worst of all, a strange feeling of being sated.
Michael sets the glass down. The next instant, he’s scooped me up in his arms. Holding me against his chest, he strides across the cabin to a back door and kicks it open with his foot.
“Time to sleep now.” He carries me into an impressively beautiful bedroom, taken up almost entirely by a large bed covered in thick white silk linens and a plush quilt. The headboard is an ornately carved plank in polished cherry. The lighting in the room is low, glowing from a lamp on a night table beside the bed. The subdued lighting gives the room a romantic feel that mocks my anger and puts a hell of a twisted slant on what’s just transpired out there in the main cabin.
Once more with nothing left to do but accept what’s happening, I shut down, not looking at him.
“There are comfortable nightgowns in the closet.” He nods to a wooden sliding door to the left of the bed. “Do you need help getting into one?”
I cut him a daggered glare. “Really?”
“Be respectful, Aurora.” He’s stopped at the foot of the bed adjusting his grip on me slightly. “You pleased me just now, but I won’t hesitate to blister your ass.”
“No thank you, sir.” My tone is empty and lifeless.
“Suit yourself.” Michael lays me across the bed. It’s soft and comfortable, and I can’t help but sink into it. He pulls back the blankets, then moves me over and covers me with them.
He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “Try to get some sleep. Someone will wake you when we land.”
It takes everything in me not to pick up the nearest heavy object and whip it at him. I tense, silent and plotting his death.
He flicks off the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness, illuminated by the moonlight from the window, one of the only windows I’ve seen on the jet that’s uncovered. He rubs his thumb across my shoulder. The single caress tickles my skin, but, amazingly, he manages to make it feel distant, without warmth. “I will dream of you.”
Then, without a word, his footsteps whisper across the carpet and a moment later, the doors to the bedroom snick softly shut.
I don’t sleep. Instead, as soon as he’s gone, I sit up in the darkness and fold my legs up to my chest, hugging myself. The movement causes a sting between my legs, driving home what he did to me all over again. Making it impossible to escape what’s happened.
The boyhood bully who made my life such a hell for so long seems a million miles away right now. At this moment, I’d have almost welcomed his comparatively juvenile mind-fuckery.
I shiver, staring into the darkness, shocked and angry and trying desperately to hold myself together.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of falling apart. I won’t break. I have to stay strong, because if I fall apart, he’ll destroy me, mind, body and soul. And if he does that, I’ll never escape.
&nb
sp; What I will do, the moment we land, is find a way to get as far from him as possible. All the while finding some way to stay alive and avoid the goons who work for the man I once called my father.
There has to be a way. There has to, because this can’t be my life. It just can’t.
Chapter 6
Jealous
I wake to near silence, broken by distant voices. When had I fallen asleep?
Weak sunlight fills the room, telling me it’s likely early morning. I lift my head, momentarily disoriented. An ornately crafted cherry wood headboard fills my vision.
The memories of last night’s ordeal flood back, making my stomach clench. Of course. Michael’s bed. I’m still on his private jet, and thanks to him, I still don’t know where we’re going. Have we landed? No. Michael said someone would wake me when we’ve landed.
I turn over in the bed and sit up, wincing at the burning sting between my legs. The sensation causes a wave of sadness to roll over me. All those times I’d fantasized about my first time, what it would feel like, who it would be with, and now it’s gone. Stolen. By him. By a man who’s made sure I hated him for most of my life.
My stomach roils and I lay my palm over it. Son of a bitch, I hope the hell I don’t wind up pregnant.
I push the thought aside and focus on the room. On the empty length of mattress beside me. I’m alone. It’s a relief that Michael isn’t lying in the bed with me. It’s light out, so at least eight hours must have passed.
Eight hours, and we’re still in the air? Where the hell could we be going that it takes eight hours or more to get there?
The obvious answer sends a spear of fear through me. I curse and throw myself out of the bed and to the window, looking out.
The plane has already touched down. It’s sitting on the tarmac, and a white limo sits in front of it. I can see the last few steps of the stairs that have been brought up to the door of the jet. Thick snowbanks rise up at the edges of the airport, where the snow from the runway has been ploughed.
Jesus, there’s a lot of snow. More than there was in New York.
Please tell me I’m not in fucking Siberia.
My eyes snap up to the airport’s main building. My brows shoot up. The building bears the name Denver International Airport, along with its distinctive logo showing blue mountains on a white backdrop.
Denver. I’m in Denver, Colorado.
Relief washes over me that, not only am I still in the States, but that I’m in an area that’s not virtually unfamiliar to me.
I’ve been here a few times with my dad before when he’s met with the Mafia members and associates who live out here. The Mile High Restaurant is still there, across the street from the airport, its neon sign glowing. That’s where my father used to take me to eat whenever we flew out here.
The memory stings, reminding me that I never really knew my father, reminding me of what I’ve lost because of one simple choice.
Looking at the peaks of the Colorado Rockies in the distance, I wonder why Michael chose Colorado. There are miles of land out here that have nothing but unpopulated mountain ranges and forests, but that doesn’t mean he’s planning on making me disappear amid some snow-covered mountain range where no one will find me until spring, if ever.
He might be going to any one of the upscale back room clubs for a meeting with some his Bratva members. He could be going to visit a relative who lives in Denver. If his plans are private, he might not even expect me to leave the plane. But I can’t help thinking he wouldn’t make things that easy on me, and I don’t like that he’s taken me to a part of the world that, at times, is as desolate as a place can get.
The sound of men’s voices drift from the main cabin, drawing my attention to the doors of the room. Michael’s deep, baritone laugh follows. Ordinarily, the sound would be panty-melting, but now it sends my anger with him raging up like an inferno.
How dare he sit out there laughing with his staff after what he did to me. The sound makes me feel dirty and used and cheap.
God, I wish I could have a nice long soak in a hot tub. Problem is, while it will wipe away the sweat and blood left on my skin from his brutality, it won’t do anything about the memory of what he did. Of his hands turning my skin to fire, of his savage grip on my hair. Of the sound of his ragged breaths in my ear as he took his fill of me, or of the feel of him spilling into me.
Nothing will ever wipe that from my mind.
Feeling suddenly as cold and desolate as the mountains, I find a mirror on the wall near the closet.
Jesus, I look terrible. My hair is a mess of wild black curls around my face, which looks pale and tired. My clothes are wrinkled, a glaring reminder of last night’s occurrence. I’ve never been the type of girl who has a meltdown if my face isn’t caked with makeup or every hair isn’t in place. That’s Isabella. But I hate people seeing me if I don’t look presentable, and especially if I look like I’ve just had a run in with an angry tiger.
Scoffing at Michael under my breath, I straighten my clothes and run a hand through my curls. I dig into my pockets and find a hair band, tying my hair back as neatly as I can without a hairbrush. Then I head for the doors to the bedroom. I still have no idea what he expects of me now that we’re on the ground, or what he might have planned. I need to get a handle on what’s ahead of me before I lower myself enough to ask him for anything, even a shower.
As soon as I open the doors, I wish I hadn’t.
Michael sits at the table with his flight captain, with Adrian, and a woman I’ve never met before. The four of them are talking and laughing like old friends, all in Russian, but the second I step out, they fall silent, and all eyes are on me.
The woman visibly sizes me up, curiosity and amusement in her emerald green eyes. She’s stunning, with blond hair like spun gold in a tight bun and a black three piece suit covering her enviably slender frame. Adrian sets down a napkin, the captain clears his throat, and both of the men excuse themselves, heading for the forward cabin.
“Dobrey utro, Krasavitsa.” Michael stands up and waves to the chair across from him that Adrian just vacated.
God, I love his accent, and every time he speaks Russian, it makes my heart race. And right now, he looks like he’s just had a shower. Those blond locks of his are still slightly curly, naturally tousled the way they get after they’ve been wet, before he combs them out. Damn him, he’s gorgeous.
“Come, join me and have something to eat,” he adds.
For a minute, I stand there, rooted in place, watching the captain and Adrian leave. How much do these people know about what’s gone on between Michael and me? What might they be thinking? The notion causes my cheeks to burn. I push the thought aside, focusing on the table instead, with its half empty plates of eggs and buttered toast. These people are his employees, and I am his captive. They are paid not to care. It shouldn’t matter what they think.
“What time is it?” I ask Michael. It bothers me that I can’t check my phone. Funny how you become so complacent about things until they’re gone.
“Almost eight.” He pushes up from his seat, his lips pressing into a line before he walks around to the chair he indicated. His gait is slightly stiff.
I’ve heard that when you break a bone in your childhood, no matter how well it heals, you can still feel the effects of the injury later in life. Especially in colder weather or when undo stress is put on it.
Stress, such as chasing me down at the docks yesterday.
He pulls the chair out and waits for me to sit down. “I thought I’d let you sleep a little while longer before we leave.”
So that’s why it’s so late. He let me sleep in instead of waking me right after we landed. I hate that I feel grateful to him for it. “How nice of you.”
His lips quirk at the acid in my tone. “Have a seat.”
“I’d like to have a shower,” I say tightly.
“Of course.” The way his eyes sparkle tell me he’s picked up on why I need one so ba
dly. “After. I’m eating now, and I want you here with me.” He pats the back of the chair.
I sigh and take the seat, withholding a wince at the pain between my legs. He pushes the chair in for me and brushes a kiss on my cheek. “Sleep well?” he whispers in my ear.
Oh, my God, I’ll kill him. I grind my teeth. He’s behaving as if this is some romantic morning after. As if I’m not here against my damn will.
He rubs my shoulders and chuckles, then returns to his seat.
“Is this your latest one, Michael?” The woman’s smile reveals teeth so perfect they have to be lacquered. I’d guess she’s the same age as him, close to twenty nine. Her soft Russian accent makes her sound elegant. Her eyes look me up and down again. “She’s cuter than the last one.”
“Katerina.” Michael opens a leather folder she’s handed him and looks over it. “Be nice.” But there’s no force in his tone. He points to something on whatever paper is in the folder and smirks at her. “You wrote three o’clock in here twice. You’re slipping, or have you forgotten how to count?”
I stare, until I see they’re both smiling.
She gets up, grabs the folder and swats him on the top of the head with it. Then she gives it back to him by pushing it into his big chest.
He grunts a laugh.
Lifting her eyes to me, she goes in behind him and bends, brushing a kiss on his cheek, the kind that leaves no doubt that she isn’t a relative of any kind. “You’re first appointment is at two, Michael. Try not to be late, this time. You know how he gets when you aren’t exactly on time.”
He smiles. “Da. Two o’clock. Michael always calls at two o’clock on Tuesdays.”
Even though he can’t see it, she smiles back as if he told a joke. Then she sashays toward the doors to the cabin, but not without an amused twist of her lips and a tinkling chuckle for me. Jesus. Could she be more obvious?
Her words stick out to me now as she disappears into the captain’s area. I’m cuter than his last one? I hope the hell she thinks I’m his girlfriend, and not that she’s implying I’m only one in a long line of kidnapped women.