God, I fucking hate that bitch. Only Miel Conde could have found a way to ruin my life with her own destruction. My only respite is knowing that she hates me just as much as I hate her, hates that she craves our brutal sessions just as much as I do. We’re well and truly fucked, the two of us. Mutually assured destruction. I was wrong when I thought only one of us would be able to walk away from this alive. Neither of us can.
What am I going to do?
I won’t get away with this, one way or another. I wasn’t built to be this kind of man, to be vicious and greedy and uncontrolled. I turned my life upside down in my thirst for revenge, only to be destroyed by the woman I intended to vanquish. All I can do now is make sure she goes down with me. When we burn, we’ll burn together. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
A cab honks at me as I jaywalk in front of it, and I flip it off. I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is that I had to get away from her. If I didn’t, I would’ve been back on her already, taking more from a woman who’d just given all. As a good Dom, I should have picked her broken body off the concrete floor, cleaned her, warmed her, made sure she was okay. But I’m not her Dom, and she’s not my Sub. I don’t know what we are to each other. I won’t risk pushing Miel too far, too soon, but I also won’t take care of her when she needs it. She’ll let me use and abuse her without a fight, but she’ll also try to kill me in my sleep.
It’s fucked up.
That’s all we are.
Fucked up.
I can’t remember the last time I thought of anything that wasn’t Miel Conde. I’m always thinking about hurting her, feeding her, hating her, needing her. She’s taken up permanent residence in my head since the first moment I laid eyes on her. She’s taken everything from me, absolutely everything, and still, I want her. God help me, I want her. Not the way a man wants a woman, but the way a conqueror wants a kingdom, the way a hunter wants his prey. I want to own her, possess her, control her. Fuck. I always knew my desires were twisted, but this is next level.
I’ve become everything I hate, everything I spent a lifetime seeking to destroy.
And I’ve never felt more alive, more myself.
It sickens me, horrifies me, thrills me, all at once. I’m the devil himself, walking down the streets of Miami, invisible in sheep’s clothing. I’m worse than Miel, really. Miel never denied what she was, never pretended to be anything else, never tried to escape her destiny. I spent decades playing the saint, forcing my own twisted rules on everyone and everything around me. I made a career out of being righteous and judgmental. And for what? I know now more than ever that I’ll never find the satisfaction I crave within the confines of the law, of checks and balances and paperwork. I’ve been chasing a lie. Putting a thousand bad guys in prison will never bring my father back, never fill the void he left behind. I don’t know what will, but I feel closer to it than I ever have.
I must be wearing my inner battle on my face, because a group of women down the block are eying me nervously. When I offer my most charming smile, they only grab their purse straps tighter and hurry their steps, flocking close to the street lights like moths.
So I turn around and return home, back to the one woman who will never be afraid of me, no matter what terrible atrocities I inflict on her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Miel
The next day, Andrews shows up with a three-pack of Fruit o’ the Looms, some kind of hot tea, and a fucking donut. When he approaches me to untie me so I can accept the gifts, I shrink back. Never trust a nicety, especially when it comes on the heels of cruelty.
“Why?” I ask simply, the word straining through my bruised throat.
Andrews sighs, rubbing at his head. He’s overdue for an edge-up.
“I don’t know, okay?” he admits on an exhale. He hasn’t lied to me once, but for some reason, this feels like the truest thing he’s ever said. “Are you going to try and kill me again?”
I search myself and feel obliged to answer with the same amount of raw honesty he just gave me. “Probably not.” It doesn’t mean I’ll go down willingly, but somehow, I know it’s true. I’m not one to repeat my mistakes.
He nods, unties my ankles completely, and loosens my wrists just a little. I quickly climb into a pair of polka-dotted briefs, and then he hands me the tea.
“Honey and lemon,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. “For your throat.”
He feels guilty, but not for recklessly toying with my life. No, his contrition is over the half-assed care he’s extending in the aftermath. He’s just as confused by his actions as I am.
I take a seat on the mattress to sip my lukewarm tea and down the donut—a fluffy strawberry thing—but Andrews remains standing, towering over me. He leans lightly against a pillar, but his every muscle is coiled tight, ready to snap into action, should I provoke him in any way.
“Have you ever done that before?” I ask, my throat still tinged with soreness. I know the answer, but I want confirmation. “Choked a woman like that?”
He pauses for a moment, contemplating a lie, but in the end he just shakes his head.
I take a small strawberry bite, swallow it down. “Why did it make me feel like that? Almost… good.”
I don’t know if I would say I fully enjoyed the sensation, but I know I didn’t hate it, not the way I should have.
“I’m not a doctor.” Andrews shrugs, shifting on his feet. “But it’s the same as the spanking, the bondage, all that. When you push your body to the edge like that, it makes your hormones and shit go crazy. The adrenaline rush can feel like a kind of high, and it magnifies every other sensation. It’s as much in your head as it is in your body. Some people get off on the danger, on the pain itself.”
I want to ask more about that, but he can’t explain to me why I’m so fucked up. No one can.
“And what do you get off on?” I ask, polishing off the donut. “The power and control?”
Andrews nods easily. “It’s another kind of high, to hold a life in your hands, to give pain at your will.”
That, I understand.
The tea is cold now, but it still feels good, and I know as long as I’m still working on it, Andrews will entertain this conversation. I take a slow sip.
“Why haven’t you tried to fuck my mouth?” I ask, and for some reason, that’s the question that seems to catch my captor off guard. “Isn’t that, like, the ultimate domination?”
Andrews snorts. “I’m not putting my dick in your mouth, woman. You’ll bite it clean off, no matter the consequences. You won’t be able to help yourself.”
I should be flattered by this rendition of me, the image of unrestrained violence and spite, but for some reason, it hurts a little. He doesn’t trust me.
And why the fuck should he?
Another slow sip.
“Is this shit normal?” I ask, loosely gesturing at everything between us. The way he talks about it, it’s as if this kind of thing is common knowledge. “Or are you some kind of sick perv?”
“A little of this, a little of that,” Andrews says, with a bit of a smirk. “A lot of people are into this kind of thing, but I’m not really doing it right, not with you.”
My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
Andrews crosses his arms, a motion that makes his thick arms look even more dangerous than usual. If he really wanted to, he could kill me at any moment, snap me right in half. “Well, in the real world, you’re supposed to have a safe word. A word that would make me stop whatever I’m doing, no matter what.”
I nod thoughtfully. Of course he wouldn’t give me that. I’m just his toy, and no one tells him how he gets to play with me.
“In the real world, does the person like me ever get to be in control?” I ask. “The person getting tied up and hurt?”
A slow exhale. “That’s what most people don’t understand. That person is always the one truly in control of a scene.”
I’m almost done with my tea, but I have one more ques
tion.
“That’s the other thing you’re not doing right? You’re not letting me have that power?”
His amber eyes burn into me, always an infinite depth of unreadable emotion.
“You’ve always had the power, Miel. You just don’t know how to use it.”
Chapter Thirty
Andrews
In the late morning light, Miel Conde looks like a fucking angel.
An angel of death, maybe, but an angel nonetheless.
Golden light drips over her shoulders, silhouetting her subtle figure. Her mane of hair, even wilder than usual after being left untended for several days, blooms around her face like a halo. Her face is a little pale, the spots under her eyes dark as bruises, but her mouth maintains a perfect pout, and her eyes are pools of midnight. I’ve memorized the placement of each of her scars, kissed the stretch marks on her thighs, brushed the tears off her face. This woman was born broken, and will likely always remain so, but she’s still a work of art. A kaleidoscope of flaws and sharp edges, tinted in bold shades of beauty she tries to hide. She is Sekhmet reincarnate, designed to be a weapon, yet known to bring healing. Infinitely feared, except by those who knew her. My very own Mistress of Dread.
She looks up at me through thick eyelashes, sucking sugar off her fingertips, and I decide I’ve waited long enough. This woman is a delicacy, all caramel and honey and mine. I’m going to sink my teeth into her, and I’ll devour every last drop.
She must see the hunger in my eyes, because she begins scooting back on the mattress, muscles taut and ready for action.
“What’s wrong?” she asks cautiously, but there’s a layer of anticipation vibrating through her words. There always is.
“Don’t move,” I say in my best Dom voice, and unexpectedly, it works. She freezes and doesn’t try to escape as I lower myself down in front of her, caging her in with only my presence. “I’m not going to hurt you this time. Not even in the ways you like.”
She doesn’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I’ll hurt her later, in ways she can’t even imagine, but first I need to show her I don’t bite. I need to show her I’m not like the others, that real sex isn’t like anything she’s been put through before. I want to show her what her body is capable of, how to understand her own needs. I can do that for her, I’m confident.
Even if she doesn’t want me to.
I start the way I would have if we were just a man and a woman, if there was nothing between us but possibility. I start with a kiss.
She doesn’t try to fight it, but she doesn’t lean into it, either. She keeps her mouth perfectly frozen, her body stiff. But I’m a patient man, and I tend to her, pouring all of my attention into those velvet sugar-strawberry lips until they begin to respond. Shyly at first, almost innocent. She mimics my motions, figuring out our rhythm, taking for herself.
When her palm tentatively presses against my bare chest, the touch burns right through me. Every finger a flame as she runs them down my abs, her breath hitching a bit with each millimeter she travels. I thank every god I can think of for shitty motel gyms, and fight the nearly irresistible urge to grab her body and pull it against mine, deeper and closer until our atoms are too tangled to separate. I touch her back, barely running my fingertips down her spine, and she freezes again. This time it’s only for a moment, and then she mirrors my action. Her hand reaches around to rest on my back, and the length of her arms paired with the width of my shoulders pulls her in close. Her already hardened nipples brush against my chest, and she moans. It’s a tiny sound, one that she quickly tries to swallow back, but it’s the only encouragement I need.
Without breaking our kiss, I push her all the way back onto the mattress, careful to keep my own body from crushing hers. Her heart is beating fast, and I recognize a different sort of nervousness, feel her hands still.
“Don’t fight it,” I murmur in her ear, keeping my own hands busy, teasing all the softest parts of her. “Trust me.”
She opens her mouth, likely to remind me of all the reasons why she could never do just that, and I cut her off with another kiss. This kiss isn’t just a kiss, a kiss satisfied with lasting forever. This kiss is foreplay, hungry and devouring, promising everything that is to come.
I work her clit gently, nurturing her orgasm, coaxing it out of hiding. We’ve gotten close, but she hasn’t come for me yet, and that’s a problem. I tackle it the way I do all my problems: obsessively, relentlessly, with ferocious intensity. I know she’s climaxed before, but never willingly. Never purely for herself, never with the freedom to want it. And when she gets there, it’s beautiful. She cries out, not in fear or pain, her back arching off the mattress and her thighs trembling beneath me. I can feel the electricity running through her, see the utter lack of control in her unfocused eyes. There are no masks between us, no games or battles. This moment is pure, this moment exists outside of our pasts and our future. In this moment, she just is, and I watch her be, watch her body cling to every last shred of pleasure, every morsel of liberty. Because as soon as she feels my throbbing cockstand against her thigh, we’re right back to the beginning, with her paralyzed and thoroughly in her head.
“Just relax,” I murmur, teasing my head along her slit. God, she’s dripping, her body greedy for what her mind is so determined to fear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She unwinds slightly, compelled either by the promise of my words or by the domineering order. I work a finger into her tight channel, her inner walls taking turns trying to lock me out and trying to suck me in deeper. Another finger, and I find her G-spot. She curls beneath me again, making the tiniest of sounds. I add a third finger and torment that tender spot until she’s once again liquid beneath me, loose and outside of her own head. Then I grab my aching cock and press into her, pushing in all the way to the hilt in one smooth motion. Miel is the kind of girl who would rather rip the bandaid off than be coddled, I know that much. Her nails dig into my shoulders and she’s gasping in surprise, but all I’m aware of in this moment is her slick, warm pussy, pulsing around my cock like a goddamn gift from heaven. I could come right now, if I let myself, surrendering to magic unlike anything I’ve felt before.
But I don’t, I won’t. I summon all of my self control and begin to thrust, slowly at first. Miel’s breathing becomes ragged again, her hips instinctively matching my rhythm.
“Touch yourself,” I grunt out, and her eyes flash with confusion. “Touch yourself, the way I just did.”
When she hesitates, I grab her wrist and shove her hand between our moving bodies, press her fingers to her clit. Her wet heat tortures me, begging me to come, cruelly taking my cock tighter, deeper. I wait until I hear Miel moan again, feel the vibrato of her thighs locking around me. She won’t be able to come again, not like this, but she’s feeling good, enjoying the sensation of me inside her. In time, I’ll teach her how to bring herself to orgasm, how to come all over my cock on demand, but right now, I’m only human. I grip her hips and press into her as deep as I can, and then I allow myself my own release. She rips a guttural cry from me, milking my length like no one ever has before, making me come and come for what feels like both an eternity and not nearly long enough. As always, Miel Conde has managed to completely turn the tables on me.
I meant to give her all her firsts, to invite her into a new world of pleasure, and now I’m the one who will never be the same again.
Chapter Thirty-One
Miel
What the fuck just happened?
I’ve never had an orgasm like that before, one that didn’t feel like a betrayal by my own body. I’ve never kissed anyone like that before, like it’s something meant to be enjoyed, be shared. And I’ve certainly never touched myself before. Why would I have wanted to imitate the worst nights of my life? But now the little bundle of nerves I’ve always been so afraid of throbs with desire, begging to be played with.
It’s all too much, everything that just happened between us. Everything that happened last
night, and the day before that, and the day before that. My head hurts from battling itself, and I’m just so fucking tired of feeling so much all the time. I haven’t let myself truly feel anything since I was a kid, and now I remember why. It hurts. But Andrews has broken all the locks inside me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t lock away my inner turmoil like I used to.
But he can.
“Andrews,” I say, catching his attention as he’s cleaning himself off and pulling his pants back on. He looks back at me with confusion. I’ve never used his name before, and never said anything at all in this tone of voice. Quietly pleading, not for something to end, but for something to begin. “Can… Can you hurt me again?”
It only takes a moment for his brow to loosen in understanding. Because this man always knows exactly what I need. He’s learning to read my mind as well as he does my body, and that’s just one more senseless detail I’m dying to forget.
“Get on all fours,” he orders, and for the first time, he doesn’t spark any cruel memories. Because this isn’t an echo of anything that haunts my past. This is new, and unprecedented, and it’s Andrews. He’s not a good man, he’s put me through hell and back, but somehow, he’s not like all the others. It’s a subtle difference, but to me it’s everything. My captor is a sadist, he’s obsessive and full of righteous rage, but he’s not soulless. He’s just a little broken. Like me.
I turn over and get on my hands and knees, watching over my shoulder as he slides off his belt. With every belt loop the leather slips through, my heart pounds a little faster, my breath catching at the small crack that sounds once the belt is finally free. I watch with unexpected relief as he tucks the silver buckle itself into his hand, wrapping the leather around his palm until it fits just so.
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