Fuck. Had I heard too much, or seen something?
The song was R&B. He looked at me as if to say, ‘problem solved.’
Maybe he did say that.
But it was pretty clear: there would be no leaving, the door would stay locked, and I was going to have to dance.
I moved toward the stage, and started back up the doggie steps, my stomach churning.
“Don’t go on the stage,” he said.
I froze, and looked over at him. The heat of his gaze sent a flush through me that was scandalously... well, hot.
So hot. The back of my neck crawled with a delicious feeling, and I was mortified to feel a wave of hot liquid swell up in the silver panties. I could feel red crawl over my cheeks.
“Um... don’t you want—?”
“Come here.”
His accent didn’t sound anything like Andrej’s, which was a strange thing to notice at the time, but I was in a tunnel and he was the only thing at the end of it.
I glanced nervously back at the door. “I don’t... we’re not supposed... to...”
His head moved slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what I was saying and he wanted me to say it again. He lifted his hand and beckoned me with his fingers, the way you would call over an underling.
My eyes went back to the door, as though anyone was coming to help me.
I wasn’t a hundred percent on even wanting to be helped. The side of my body closest to him was tingling as though he was stroking me with a feather. Fear wasn’t too far out of my mind, though; this guy looked mean and dangerous.
And hot. So hot.
“The door is locked,” he said, and I jerked my eyes back to him. I felt my mouth open, but I said nothing, because the air was locked in my chest, which felt like a horse was standing on it now.
“No one is coming until I tell them to,” he said, picking up the phone and tipping it side to side before setting it back down and turning off the music.
The pulse of the strip club below reverberated in the floor and walls. It seemed extra loud now that his phone was turned off.
“No one can hear you,” he said calmly. So calmly it took me a minute to process what he had said.
What it meant.
My heart actually stopped in my chest. This was it, I remember thinking. This guy was here to knock me off.
My mind went hazy. I thought about running; breaking down the door with my bare hands. But the moment I moved in that direction, Serial Killer’s hands shot out, clamping down on my wrists. They were warm, soft, strong hands, and he didn’t squeeze my wrists, but it was clear: I wasn’t going anywhere.
“No one is coming for you until I say so. So until then, Natalia, you are all mine.”
The cold that had been growing in my stomach spread out through my whole body. I felt my head moving side to side—was I shaking my head at this guy?—and my feet moved on the floor, trying to take me backward.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t... I don’t do this kind of thing.”
I bumped into the stage almost immediately. My arms were stretched, and he was holding me as calmly as though I hadn’t moved. As soon as I made contact with the stage, I melted against it; my knees had pretty much given up on working and my legs were Jell-O.
He was out of his chair and standing in front of me, against me, in a flash. His hard body was against my skin, and I could feel the solid curves of his pecs, the firmness of his abdomen, the... er... large, solid outline of his cock against my thigh.
Somehow, just like that, he pulled my wrists behind me and transferred them to one hand. His lips were right next to my forehead, and I could feel his breath snaking over me like a caress. I had this completely insane idea that I would give anything—anything—to feel his lips on my forehead.
This is what I was thinking right before I was murdered?
His other hand moved up my back, and I shivered. Embarrassed that goosebumps had washed over my skin, I felt myself flush.
Then he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back.
Okay, I thought. The honeymoon is over.
I struggled to get my hands out his grasp, but they weren’t going anywhere. He had me pinned to the stage floor, pressed against it on my front side, and his hand had such a strong, firm grip in my hair that I couldn’t do anything but look up at his face.
“You can’t do that!” I hissed, but even as I did, I realized how futile it was. He could do it; he could do whatever he wanted. “It’s against the—”
“No one is here,” he repeated.
His voice and his expression were strangely—disturbingly—calm, not the way you’d expect a man who had you by the hair on a strip club stage, alone, locked in a room, to sound. He sounded like he was making toast for someone and telling them he was putting butter on it.
I struggled again. I didn’t want to, but instinct was taking over. I was blabbing, yelling, sassing, and I wanted myself to shut up, but the words just came out of my mouth. “Listen, you freak, fuck you!” I heard myself saying.
This guy was likely to get mad, and he seemed like a real bastard. The quiet ones always are. I forced myself to close my mouth, and I rolled my eyes around, looking for a weapon of some kind. As if I could get my hands free to use it, I thought miserably.
“Ow,” I said, as he pulled a little harder on my hair.
Maybe, I thought, I could sweet-talk him long enough to get him to let his guard down.
“Look, Al, listen. I’m not really a stripper, okay? You have the wrong gal. I know a lot of girls downstairs who can—”
Somehow, my body was getting turned around. I was disoriented as he stretched my hands up to the pole and wrapped something around them, fixing them above my head. I was still thinking about that while he pulled my panties down.
Then I thought, oh, shit.
Back to fighting, I decided.
“You fucking bastard! Fuck you!” I tried to kick backwards at him, but he very calmly pressed against my body and pushed my legs apart and against the table. One hand came around my face and covered my mouth, a thumb sliding the length of my neck in warning: shut up.
“Natalia, I want you to listen to me very closely,” he said, his stubble scraping my cheek, his lips right against my ear. A shiver of delight rolled down my spine, but it was followed directly by a wave of cold fear. I thought about biting his hand, but that seemed like a very bad idea.
I felt his left hand travel from my hands, which I was just starting to realize were bound by leather to the pole, down my left arm, over my shoulder, and along my ribcage, before stroking me right across my bare bottom.
“Hey!” I exclaimed into his hand, but it came out “mmmuuuh.”
“If you want to be a stripper and a little slut,” he continued, as though he were talking about the weather, while his hand traveled all over the back of my body. I felt his cock against my right buttock, and I looked down at that moment to see what his right hand was doing. “That’s your business.”
His right hand was flat against the table, strength coiled inside of it.
His voice was a whisper against my neck. “But working for men like Andrej Sulov is very, very dangerous.”
As he made this pronouncement, he moved his hand along my right buttock, along my hip, and up my torso, then back down. I had to close my eyes, overwhelmed by the deadly mixture of lust and fear twisting inside of me.
His warm body left me, and I felt his left hand seize me at my lower back, pushing me against the stage and holding me in place with large, strong fingers that allowed me to make no mistake: I wasn’t squirming away anywhere.
The first stroke landed right across my ass, in the center, and at first I was so surprised I didn’t even know what had happened. I thought it was ice water. The slap reached my ears after the icy sting, and that’s when I realized what it was.
He had just spanked me.
The burn of the swat welled up from deep inside me, spreading out across all of my skin, and a
glow was crawling across my face. The next two slaps came before I could get my thoughts together.
I was getting spanked.
By a total stranger.
“What the f—”
Another hard smack on my bottom knocked the air right out of me. My ass was burning now, the heat radiating in waves to my lower back and my thighs.
“You need someone to teach you a lesson, Natalia,” he said, each word punctuated by a hard slap on my bottom.
I pulled on the strap binding me to the pole but lost my footing as I tried to kick back at him. He squeezed me harder at my waist, and the spanking rained down on me faster. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Stop it!” I yelled at him. “What are you—?” I squeaked. I meant to say, “Crazy?” but I couldn’t get it out. “Ow! Fuck! Stop!”
He didn’t.
I went limp, and he slowed his spanking, which was a relief. I closed my eyes. If I just gave in, maybe he would slow down. I didn’t think I could take much more. My ass was throbbing, the heat rolling over me in waves, every smack biting into the intense sting that already burned there. “Please,” I blubbered. “Please stop.”
“I will stop,” he said, giving me another hard smack that made me whimper, “when you promise me, you will act like a lady.”
“What?” I yelled. What the hell?
“Act,” smack, “like,” smack, “a lady.” Smack.
Even though my bottom was on fire, and tears were streaming down my face, I had a flash of anger. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
He spanked me again. “Say it.”
I sobbed.
Okay, I thought. I wasn’t quite cut out for defiance. My ass really hurt. And worse than that, I could feel my pussy throbbing, and a wetness that was threatening to slide down my thighs.
I had no idea what that all meant, but I needed to get out of this situation. Specifically, I needed him to stop spanking me.
Another swat ripped against my flesh. “Tell me you are going to act like a lady, Natalia.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, okay.” I sniffed.
His hand rested on my ass, and his skin was hot against mine. His touch brought the fire in my muscles to the surface, where it raged, throbbing so fiercely I had to shift my feet. His touch turned to a caress, and it felt awful and wonderful at the same time. “Okay, what?” he growled.
I had suddenly forgotten what he wanted. “I... I... I...” I stammered.
Another slap, a little gentler, but still painful, rained on my sore ass. “You’re going to act like a...” he prompted.
“Like a lady!” I almost shouted. “Yes. I will act like a lady. Please. Just please stop spanking me.”
I was out of breath, my butt burned, and I was shaking. My face was red-hot.
And my pussy was throbbing.
His body ceased to touch mine. A wave of heat rose up on my tender skin. I tried to look back at him, but he was in my blind spot.
“Are you going to stop working here, Natalia?”
I let out a shaky gasp. Yeah, sure, buddy, whatever.
“Okay,” I said. It came out a little more like a question. Because really, it was. Stop working here? A spanking?
This guy was just a crazy pervert.
A hot, crazy pervert.
Fuck, Natalie, stop it.
He was against me again. His fingers slid down to my thighs, and I cringed as he touched the slippery wetness of my arousal. With an expert’s touch, he slipped one finger into me, and I expected more, but he stroked my clit, as though he knew my body for decades. I shuddered. Most guys are so stupidly klutzy with your body you’d rather they didn’t bother, but this guy stroked me and I thought I would come with one more touch.
But he didn’t give it to me. His finger traveled back down, dragging my juices up to the hole of my ass.
My face went hot again, because I squirmed. I couldn’t help it. From my chest a moan threatened to escape, so I bit my lip.
“I will be watching you,” he breathed onto my neck. “And I don’t ever want to see you here again.”
His hand was above me as he untied the straps holding my hands, and I fell forward when they were loose, because he pushed against me. I was so dizzy with arousal, fear, and confusion that I lay on the plastic tabletop, and he pushed my hair up so that my cheek was bared toward him. His touch with my hair was delicious, even though he loomed behind me like a demon.
I could still feel his thigh against mine, and I was frozen with fear and desire, both hoping that I would hear his pants unzipping and feel that obviously large cock against my wet thigh, just before he filled me up with it. My pussy throbbed; I wanted him inside me, just one more touch like the one before, and I would be screaming in ecstasy, I knew it.
It seemed like a long time passed like that, and it was pure torture. I no longer felt my throbbing ass, until he placed a hand on it again. “Next time,” he said, his hand moving over my hot, welted skin, “I won’t be so gentle.”
And then, just like that, he walked to the door. I saw the glow of his phone in his hand. I stood up, dizzy, looking for my panties, completely disoriented.
“Get dressed,” he said, without looking back at me.
I fumbled for the bottom half of the costume and put it on shakily. I almost fell again in those ridiculous shoes.
The door opened.
Andrej was outside. He looked at me, and the mystery man said something in Russian in a low voice and walked through the door.
Andrej followed him, after giving a final look back at me.
I looked around the room, stunned. I don’t know how long passed, me standing there, wondering what the hell had just happened. My eyes fell on the stage, where a pile of cash was stacked. I hadn’t seen it. I blinked at it stupidly. My ass throbbed.
The door opened again, and Andrej was red-faced, angry, glaring at me. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled, his accent stronger than ever. “Get out of here. Out! Get out of my club. Never to be coming back!”
Well.
Like I said, I was a realist. I did some quick calculations: the door was open, I was leaving, and I was broke. Never mind the rest of this shit, I’d think about it later.
I grabbed the cash, and I hurried past Andrej and into the dressing room. I was sure he, and anyone else who looked, could see my red ass, so a wave of humiliation rolled over me, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I grabbed my clothes, not even changing out of the stripper costume, except to peel off those stupid shoes and put on my own flats.
Then I walked as calmly as I could down the stairs, everything happening in slow motion. Two girls were on stage, doing the handcuff routine, the men staring at them like zombies. A redhead named Renee smiled at me and then frowned as I walked past her without saying anything, and I thought I heard her say “bitch” as I walked away. I continued right to the back door, which I figured was a bad choice as soon as I got there, but I wasn’t going back in. I was almost out.
The alley was dark but empty. Some lights were on in the buildings on either side of the place; at least someone would see me if I died here.
I walked fast, almost running, my breath ragged.
When I got down the alley, I gave one look back as I hailed a cab. It was pretty much a miracle there was one on Brighton at that time of night.
I saw an expensive black sedan parked right behind the door I had exited. It was tinted so dark the sun could have been inside and I wouldn’t see it.
The lights came on just as I looked at it.
And I just knew he was in there. Watching.
The wind picked up my hair and I was frozen again. Frozen by that same feeling—half-fear, half-dark, pulsing attraction.
“You want a cab or not, sweetheart?” the driver yelled, breaking my trance.
I opened the door. Did I?
The cabbie looked skeezy, but it was a real cab, and yellow. I sank into it, giving the sedan one last look. I think I wanted Mystery Man to know I was pissed of
f.
Or was it something else? My eyes were drawn to him in that sedan like a magnet, and inside my chest I felt something throb.
“Shit or get off the pot,” the cabbie said.
“Take me to... up the street here,” I stammered, pointing straight ahead.
“How far,” he drawled, annoyed.
“I’ll tell you,” I snapped.
“You got—?”
I had the bills in my hand. They were all clean, new, stacked about a half inch high, and wrapped in a white wrapper with yellow edges. I saw a bunch of zeros, but I didn’t think it could be real money or a real number. Still, the top bill was a hundred, and I yanked it out and tossed it up front as I cut him off. “Here,” I shot.
I could do a lot of better things with a hundred dollars, especially since this pile was sure to have a bunch of ones in the center and evidently, I’d just lost my job.
But damn if I couldn’t think of anything else to do besides ride down Brighton Avenue to the very end, wherever that was, with my hundred-dollar bill, and see where I got.
Chapter Two
Alaric
The last time I saw Natalia in anything but a photograph she was five years old, and she was a real brat.
Well, things had changed in fifteen years, that was for sure—except for the brat bit.
When Andrej pointed her out to me, I was sure I had the wrong girl. All those goofy features I’d seen morph a little in photographs had come into being on her face to make a masterpiece: full lips, quirky nose, and wide eyes with straight, Slavic lids. Her hair was still blonde, a shade or two darker, but blonde, long and cascading to her shoulders, straight and thick.
Shit, I thought. She was gorgeous. She’d blossomed into a stunner.
I get stunning women all the time, but there was something different about her. A kind of regal, ethereal beauty that cut through the ridiculous costume she was wearing and the neon glow and trashiness of that place.
It had been two years since I’d checked in on her, which was part personal shit and part paranoia. It had obviously been too long. I’d thought she was on the straight and narrow. She’d looked like a nerdy little brat who would get some kind of scholarship the last time I saw her. No drugs, no boyfriend. Wearing a sweatshirt the last photo I saw.
His for the Taking Page 2