My body has almost tricked itself into falling asleep when I hear a moan. My eyes snap open, and my heartrate doubles. I don’t want to think too much about the way my blood starts ripping through my veins, or where it’s all going. That wasn’t a moan of arousal, but one of pain, fear. I don’t think my dick got the memo. Or even worse, maybe I just can’t tell the difference anymore. Maybe I don’t care.
Another whimper, tiny and unlike any sound I could have imagined Miel Conde making. I cautiously turn my head to look at her, as if trying not to spook a somnambulatory deer in the headlights. I can see the rapid movement behind her shut eyelids, the uneven hitch in her breathing. Her cherry-plump lips are slightly parted, letting another little gasp slip out. She’s having a nightmare.
I’d never have guessed that even monsters could have those.
I watch her for a little longer, unsure what to do. My instinct is to go to the woman, to offer comfort and safety until the terrors subside. But that’s not something either of us wants. Miel Conde isn’t mine to comfort, isn’t mine to fix. She’s a broken doll that needs to be gotten rid of once and for all.
That’s true enough, but it’s also true that I find myself unable to fall back asleep until the whimpering quiets, and my captive settles back into stillness.
Chapter Nineteen
Miel
Bright morning light wakes me, piercing through the tall windows all around me. I lift myself into a sitting position, using the rope binding me to help pull my aching body up. This wasn’t the first night I ever spent on a bare floor, but it had been a while. My body has softened in the past few years.
After rubbing the fitful sleep out of my eyes, I notice the large shape on the mattress. Close enough for a good view, but my bindings are tight enough that I can’t reach to touch. Andrews, flat on his back, fast asleep. With the morning sun illuminating his silhouette, he looks like a resting god. A resting god waiting for a woman’s kiss to wake him.
What the actual fuck?
I push myself back as much as I can, as if distance from the man will fix my broken brain. He took all the pieces I’d loosely placed back together and shook until they were all even more jumbled than they were to begin with. I feel almost drunk; my head and body don’t feel like my own. I don’t recognize the thoughts tumbling through, the bizarre skipping of my heart and glowing deep in my gut. Who is this bitch? It sure as hell isn’t the Miel I’ve known for the past twenty-eight years.
My raging thoughts are a storm big enough to fill this whole room, deafening me, but Andrews doesn’t stir. He was gone all night, and I must have slept through his return. I take quick inventory of my body, but I don’t think he touched me.
He still hasn’t touched me.
I should be relieved, but I can’t stop wondering what it would feel like if he had. When this man puts his hands on me, would it be gentle, curious, or a possessive claiming? Are his big hands still soft from detective work, or has the past year calloused them? I know this man intends to hurt me, but how? What will Reggie Andrews take from me?
Finally sensing my eyes on him, Andrews blinks into wakefulness. Those hard abs easily lift him into a sitting position, and he turns so we’re facing each other. Eye to eye. It’s that way just for a moment, just the two of us and the silence between, but then he lifts to his feet. I’m surprised when he releases the far end of my rope, but he doesn’t untie my wrists. Instead, he leads me like a dog to the single stall restroom across the open floor.
He turns his back when I sit on the toilet, and in a movie, this would be the part where I jumped on his back and strangled him with my own bindings. But in reality, I have to piss so fucking bad, I can’t even contemplate wasting this opportunity. He turns back as soon as I’m done, pointing at the toothbrush, toothpaste, and baby wipes on the counter by the sink. With the rope slackened between us, there’s no reason for him to still be keeping his distance, but he does.
I brush my teeth and clean up as best I can with the wipes. A whore’s bath, how fitting. I mean to say it out loud, but it doesn’t come out. My throat is dry and my tongue heavy, but when I go to drink from the sink, he pulls me away. Literally, like you would tug a Pomeranian away from a tempting puddle.
“Here,” Andrews breaks the silence at last, twisting open a new plastic bottle of water and placing it in between my bound palms. I lift it to my lips and drink as much and as fast as I dare. I know from experience that chugging the whole bottle at once, like my body begs to, will only leave my stomach empty again in a few minutes. I pull back when he tries to take the half-full bottle away from me, and he sighs, as if holding a woman captive has turned out to be more trouble than he expected. “I’ll give it back, I promise.”
“Oh, well, if you promise,” I begin sarcastically, but let him snatch the bottle away and twist the cap back on. Beside the dwindling pack of water on the floor is a box of granola bars, and he pulls one out and unwraps it, placing the bare bar in my palms. I down half the snack in one greedy bite. Peanut butter. I fucking love peanut butter. I don’t let my face show any reaction, though, stretching the second half of the bar into a couple smaller bites. He has the water bottle waiting for me, and I slowly drain what’s left.
Then he strings me back up to my original position, standing in the center of the room with my arms stretched above me.
“Have you grown some balls yet, or are you going to leave me here again?” I taunt, newly invigorated by the meager breakfast. “Should’ve known a pussy ass cop wouldn’t have it in him. All talk.”
I expect him to ignore me again, but instead he is up in my space in a second, a big hand wrapped around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds me there, and the grip makes my whole body burn. Not in fear, but in something akin to delight. Why is this the way my body reacts to being dominated by this predator, to knowing he holds my life in his hands?
“I decided what I’m going to do with you,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. His face is so close to mine, I can see the exact curve of his lips, the dilation of his pupils. I wonder what he sees on mine. “I was going to hurt you the way you hurt me, but that won’t bring me any pleasure. Not the way it did you. So I’m going to hurt you in the way I know best, the way that gives me the high that blood gives you. And when you learn to like it—and you will—that’s when I’ll kill you.”
Chapter Twenty
Andrews
My pulse roars in my ears, and it’s a struggle not to tighten my fist around her golden throat. Finally, a flicker of fear in her dark eyes, but that’s not all. I see a glint of curiosity, too, before she shuts her face back down. She doesn’t understand what I mean, not truly, but from the way she responds to my chokehold, we both know she’ll like it. Maybe not at first, and maybe she’ll never allow herself to admit it, but this is what she wants, what she’s always needed. Not just any rough hand, not mindless brutality. Artful, controlled pain, obsessive possession. I don’t know why a woman with her history would crave submission, I’m not a fucking psychologist. But I’m a man who knows how to read women, and apprehensive desire oozes out of her every pore.
After a beat of silence, she laughs, a cold and humorless sound. “Is this supposed to be a surprise, that you’re going to rape me? Of course you are. Countless men have already done that. Go ahead, take the scraps they left behind. For me, it’s just another Wednesday.”
I release my grip on her throat, almost throwing her back with the force of it.
“I’m not going to rape you,” I say, letting honest disgust bleed into my words. “I’m going to take what you owe me, what I deserve after all you’ve done to me. And you’re going to give it to me. Willingly.”
Fear again, flickering in and out of her eyes like a split-flap board on the busiest travel day of the year. It’s not really the assault that’s she’s afraid of. Like she said, that kind of shit can’t hurt her anymore. What scares her is that she knows I’m right. She’ll give this to me willingly, because she feels it to
o. This dark, toxic, reprehensible pull between us. I felt it the first time I saw her, wielding a knife in that basement, and I buried it deep. But now I know how to shape the feeling into a weapon, one I can use against her. Miel Conde spent decades suffering. She’s all scar tissue and impenetrable walls now. The only way to hurt her is to finally give her a taste of freedom from her pain, and then rip it away. Viciously and permanently.
It’s sick. It’s fucked up. And it will be so much more satisfying than any other retribution I’ve spent the past year concocting.
I don’t give Miel too much time to stew over it, largely out of impatience. I clean myself up, down a half dozen granola bars, and get to work.
She’s still upright at the center of the room, stretched just enough to elongate her stunning figure without hurting her. I approach with the hunting knife I bought just for her, months ago, and watch her swallow hard. I lift it to her neck, running the cold metal along her jawline, and she keeps her chin up, eyes burning into mine. This is a woman who can’t be controlled, yet here she is, totally under my power. My dick throbs and hardens at the feeling, but with her eyes glued on mine, she can’t see my sadistic cockstand.
I lower my knife, but don’t let it brush her honey-gold skin. Instead, I cut through her cheap tank top with ease and toss the scrap of fabric to the ground, leaving her in just her jeans and a well-loved cotton bra. She shudders at the exposure, though I can tell she’s trying not to. Her body is a sculpted masterpiece, thick and tight. She’s built to take a punch, to stand her ground, to go down fighting. I wonder if she’s always looked like this, and if so, how El Sombrerón was ever able to keep her down. She’s far from a shrinking violet, and she proves as much by kneeing me hard in the balls when I go to cut her bra off.
It’s a bold move, with my knife practically on her, but I manage to avoid nicking her as I reflexively double over. I see her getting ready to knee me in the face next, now that she has me in this position, but I step out of her range just in time. Fucking hell. Her eyes are hard and unapologetic as they meet mine.
“You said you wouldn’t take what wasn’t freely given.”
“I said no such thing,” I growl in return, stretching back to my full height. “I’m not taking anything from you, woman, not yet. This is something I’m giving you.”
She snorts, masking any reaction as I unbutton and unzip her jeans and yank them down to her ankles, temporarily restraining her legs. I let her keep her underwear, simple gray briefs, but I’m too irate to pause and enjoy the view. I grab a coil of rope, something thinner and smoother than what I used on her wrists.
“What’s your big plan, force me to come?” she all but spits down at me as I quickly bind her ankles before fully removing her shoes and jeans. “You think no one else has done that, half-assedly gotten their whore off to make themselves feel better about what they just did, what they’re about to do? Don’t waste your fucking time.”
On one knee in front of her, I keep working the thin rope up her calves in practiced, even knots.
“I don’t do anything half-assed,” is what I say aloud. It’s not worth explaining to her that I don’t want some cheap, stolen orgasm meant only to assuage my guilt. Any bodily reaction can be forced. I’m going to earn her mind, worm myself into her pleasure centers and rewire them to suit my needs. There is no satisfaction in wringing an unwanted orgasm from her body while she tells me she hates me. What will get me off is making her want it, beg for it, and watch the self-hatred bleed from those big eyes. Letting the sick desire take concrete form in my mind should bother me, make me feel like a fucking monster, but I don’t let it. I just place the knowledge on the shelf along with everything else I’m allowing right now, everything I’ll shove back down after I’m done with Miel. What defines me today doesn’t have to define me tomorrow.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks, finally looking down at my handiwork. She tries to shake me off, but I’m already done, her killer legs bound in a tight mermaid tie from ankle to knee. It’s not my best work, but it’s by far the most erotic. Miel kicks and wiggles, letting out frustrated little grunts, but stops when she sees my face, sees how much I enjoy watching her struggle. And I do, more than I ever could have imagined. The sight of my gorgeous, monstrous captive almost naked and trussed up just for me, it’s intoxicating to the point of danger. It would be so easy to lose control. I step farther back before my dick gets the best of me and drown the thirst with some lukewarm water. She manages to hold her anger in for a moment before she snaps. “Fuck you, Andrews.”
I try not to take the obvious bait, but I can’t help myself, either.
“Be patient, woman. You will soon enough.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Miel
There’s something wrong with me.
There’s something terribly wrong with me, because instead of cold dread, all I feel at Andrews’s threats is a hot flash of anticipation.
There’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s been waiting for me all his life, like he’ll do anything to destroy me. No one’s ever looked at me like that before. It’s all intensity, all passion. For some reason, I believe him when he says my undoing will be delicious.
I should know better.
The first step to being ripped to shreds is trust.
Trust is a lie, a lure to pull you in close enough to shatter.
Trust has never left me anything but ruined.
Why would I ever believe a single word this man says to me, his eyes full of hate and fire?
I tamp down everything I’m feeling and turn myself to stone. I don’t have time to examine my fucked-up brain right now. I don’t have time to convince myself this man is just like all the rest. He’s about to touch me, and I need to shut down before he does.
It’s the only way I know.
It’s the only way I’ve survived all these years.
Three.
Two.
One.
His hands are on me. Not grabbing, not taking. Slowly tracing my edges, starting from the outstretched lengths of my arms, the lightest of touch along my silhouette. My flesh goosepimples and a shudder runs through me, and despite my expert efforts to disassociate, he’s still inside my mind. I’m not a sensitive girl. I have tough skin, half of which is scar tissue. I no longer feel their blades, their fire, their fists.
But I feel every moment of his caress.
The sensation is completely foreign, and I don’t know what to make of it, but I know I should hate it. I shouldn’t let this man have any power over me.
His hands feather down my exposed ribs, and even with my bra still on, I’ve never felt this naked. Down into the slight dip of my waist and the flare of my hips. He pauses halfway down my sides, seems to hesitate, and then his hand is between my legs. Not digging, not forcing, just cupping me through the cotton undies. My chest heaves, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying something. I don’t know what I would say. Would I tell him to stop? Would I curse his name?
He speaks first. “Has anyone ever kissed you here?”
I frown, perplexed. Despite my wealth of bodily experience, I know nothing about sex, not really. No one ever bothered to explain anything to me, and I never felt the need to do my own research. I knew what I needed to know. Sex was humiliation, hurt, devastation. Sex was for men, for their filthy pleasure. I understood it perfectly, painfully well.
But then I met Selina Palacios. She enjoyed sex, sought it out. For her, sex was pain as much as it was power. Submission without helplessness, possession and possessiveness at once. Her world confused me, scared me, so I pretended it didn’t exist.
Maybe I should have asked her while she was still around to answer. Because I know that this man wants sex from me, but nothing in his eyes, his actions, his words is anything I’ve ever experienced before.
He takes my prolonged silence for the answer it is, removing his hand and stepping back. He examines me like a butcher eying a fresh kill, decidi
ng where to slice first. But blades aren’t his weapon of choice. He’s empty handed when he approaches me again, unhooking the threadbare clasp at the back of my bra, then ripping the straps with quick, measured snaps.
I try to run, but he grabs me by the hair, whipping me back down onto the couch and tearing at my shirt. He’s not strong enough to do it one-handed, and he roars at me as if that’s my fault.
My heart is beating fast again, my breaths coming fast and hard, making my now-exposed breasts heave erratically. Andrews runs his knuckles along the small, athletic curves, his blazing eyes locked on mine.
“Don’t leave me again, woman,” he says in a low growl. “Don’t think about anyone else but me, about any moment outside of this one. Stay with me.”
Then he pinches my nipple, hard, and my body bows back, trying to escape. I might be screaming, or maybe that’s just the tornado of memories flashing through my head, too many and too fast to decipher or put into words. All I see is red, all I hear is the screaming, and all I feel is pain.
When it fades away, I register another sensation. Soft, supple lips on my breast, a warm tongue taking the sharp pain that was just inflicted and replacing it with something tingly and hot.
Just when I begin to ease into the feeling, relax my body, he pinches the other nipple, and my vision goes red again. This time, it doesn’t take quite as long for his gentle tongue to pull me out of the flashback. He repeats the process over and over, until the only pain I feel is what’s happening in this moment, pain that I know will lead to pleasure. I’m sagging in my bindings, muscles liquefied from the storm of adrenaline, terror, and ecstasy that just spun through me, when he steps back. He does the thing again, where he just stares at me from a few feet away, sizing me up, and through my hazy eyes, I see something new on his face.
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