Obsession Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 2)

by Anna Zaires

  I will fuck her until she breaks and admits she belongs to me.

  She’s crying when I turn back to face her, the tears mixing with the wetness on her cheeks. “Peter, please…” She reaches over to grip my hand, her slender fingers wrapping around my palm imploringly. “Please, just let me go. This isn’t what you want, not really. I can’t be your family. I can’t be their replacement. Can’t you see that? It’s just not meant to be. What you want is not—”

  “You are what I want.” Tugging my hand out of her hold, I fist it in her hair and wrap my other arm around her waist, molding her against me. She sucks in a sharp breath, her peaked nipples brushing against my chest, and my cock throbs, hard and ready against her stomach as I say thickly, “You, Sara, are everything I want. I don’t give a fuck about the past, or what is or isn’t meant to be. We make our own fate—we choose our own destiny—and I chose you. I don’t care if the whole world thinks it’s wrong, if I have to fight an army to hold on to you. I found you, I took you, and I’m keeping you—and I’m never going to set you free.”

  19

  Sara

  I expect Peter to fuck me then, right there in the shower, but he releases me and steps out of the stall, jerking a towel off the rack and wrapping it around me as I follow him out. He dries me with brisk motions, and then he grabs a towel for himself. His movements are rough, uneven, his eyes glittering darkly as he finishes toweling off and throws our towels back on the rack.

  He’s angry or hurt or a combination of both, none of which bodes well for me.

  Clasping my elbow, he leads me to the bedroom, and when we get to the bed, I fall onto it, my legs refusing to support me for a second longer. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, my stomach growling with emptiness, and I realize I haven’t had anything to eat since those peanuts on the trail.

  Peter must realize that too, because he stops and eyes me with a dark frown. “Do you want dinner?”

  I nod and force myself to sit up, wiping the tears off my face with the back of my hand. “Please.”

  “All right.” He strides to the closet, grabs a robe, and throws it to me before putting one on himself. “Let’s go eat.”

  As we consume the stir-fry Peter quickly made, I fight the disconcerting sensation that I’m waiting for the guillotine to fall. My captor hasn’t said a word since offering me dinner, and I have no idea what’s going through his mind. Whatever it is, though, he’s watching me with a hard, intent stare, and that scares me.

  The dinner delayed whatever he was going to do to me, but he still plans to do it.

  It’s possibly the worst timing ever, but I can’t put it off any longer. The clock is ticking in my head, every passing hour increasing my anxiety. “Peter…” I put my fork down, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “Did you get the pill?”

  His jaw tightens, and for a second, I’m convinced he’ll say no. But he just gets up and walks over to the counter, where a white paper bag is sitting next to a laptop.

  Picking it up, he brings it to me, and I eagerly grab it from him. Inside is a pink pill in glossy white packaging with Japanese writing on it. Only the manufacturer’s name is in English, but I’m certain it’s the pill I need.

  Tearing through the packaging, I pop the pill out and swallow it with half a glass of water. With any luck, we’re still in the safety zone, and the pill will do its job. Not that it matters, given what Peter says.

  Child or not, he’ll never let me return home.

  The despair threatens to overwhelm me again, and it’s all I can do to tell him in a semi-normal tone, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  No matter how strained things are between us, I have to keep in mind that he didn’t have to give me this pill—that he could’ve forced his will on me in this matter, too.

  Peter nods curtly and begins clearing the table. I’m still dead tired, but I make myself get up and help him just as Ilya and Yan come down the stairs, discussing something in Russian. Yan is laughing, but Ilya looks pissed, making me wonder if the two brothers are having an argument.

  Peter barks something at them, and Yan glances at me with a grin before replying in rapid-fire Russian.

  Ilya looks like he’s about to blow, but he just grabs an apple from the bowl on the table and stomps back up the stairs.

  “What were you just talking about?” I ask, frowning as the brown-haired Russian sits down behind the counter and opens the laptop lying there. I’ve been eyeing that computer all through the meal, wondering how to get my hands on it, and I’m disappointed to see a password-protected start page before Yan angles the screen away from me.

  “I was just telling my brother that he needs to find himself a nice girl,” Yan explains in English, his grin widening as Peter shuts the dishwasher door with unnecessary force. “You know, like Peter did with you.”

  “Oh, I see.” Given Peter’s reaction, I suspect the language Yan used with his brother was quite a bit saltier, but I’m not about to pry further.

  I’d rather not know what this little band of killers truly thinks of me.

  Yan busies himself with the computer, and I wipe down the table and the empty counters, feeling the need to do something even though I’m ready to collapse. I don’t know what awaits me upstairs tonight, but I feel peculiarly on edge, my instincts screaming that I’m in danger. Maybe it’s the hard, closed-off expression on Peter’s face or the barely controlled violence in his movements, but I’m reminded of our meeting in Starbucks all those weeks ago, back when my captor was nothing more than the lethal stranger who tortured me and killed George.

  Back when I didn’t know how dangerous he could really be.

  Outside, the storm is raging, the wind driving icy rain into our windows. I shudder, remembering how it felt to be out in that, and tie the robe tighter around my body.

  “Cold?” Yan asks, and I turn to find him looking at me with a half-smile. Unlike me and Peter, he’s fully dressed, his dress slacks and button-up shirt stylish but far too formal for lounging around the house. I have a feeling he doesn’t care, though—either about the appropriateness of his clothes or much of anything in general. Even when he’s smiling or laughing, there is a cold, distant quality about Yan Ivanov, as though he doesn’t feel the emotions he’s displaying.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if Ilya’s smooth-mannered brother is a psychopath, in the clinical sense of the word.

  “I’m fine,” I say and glance over at Peter, who finished putting away the leftovers and is now watching me with narrowed eyes, his powerful arms crossed over his chest.

  “Are you done?” he asks in a hard voice, and my heart sinks as I realize I can’t put off whatever’s about to happen any longer.

  I made a mistake, and I’m about to pay the price.

  20

  Sara

  When we get to our room, Peter leads me to the bed. Stopping in front of it, he removes his robe, letting it drop to the floor, and then he unties mine and pushes it off my shoulders, leaving me naked. He seems fully in control, the volatile anger leashed for the moment, and despite my nervousness, my thighs clench on a surge of heat as he brushes his knuckles over the sensitive skin of my upper breasts before cupping each mound and gently rubbing his thumbs over my nipples.

  “You look scared,” he observes, his silvery gaze hard and opaque. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” His fingers close on my nipples, pinching with startling force, and I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his wrists.

  “Tell me, Sara.” He pinches my nipples harder, the pressure bordering on pain. “Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

  “I—” I gulp, my heart hammering as I tug futilely at his wrists. “I don’t know.”

  “I could hurt you.” His sculpted mouth twists as he releases my nipples, leaving them erect and throbbing as his hands slide down my body to grip my hips. “And sometimes I want to. You know that, don’t you, ptichka? You’ve sensed it.” His cock presses against my stomach, hard and insistent, and my breath catche
s in my throat, my core tightening with a heated ache despite the chill spreading through my veins.

  “Yes.” I can’t bring myself to lie, even though that might be smarter, might pacify the monster peering at me through the dark metal of Peter’s eyes. “Yes, I have.”

  “Oh, ptichka…” Mock sympathy fills his voice as he gives me a hard push. “Of course you have.”

  Startled, I fall backward onto the bed, but instead of climbing over me, Peter bends down and straightens a moment later with the tie from my robe in his hand. Anxiety shoots through me as I comprehend his intentions, and I react instinctively, rolling away as he climbs onto the bed next to me.

  He catches me before I can roll off the bed, and I find myself face down on the mattress, my lower body pinned by his weight and my arms forced behind my back as he knots the tie around my wrists. His movements are quick and sure, ruthless in their efficiency, and only seconds pass before my hands are thoroughly restrained, the terrycloth fabric looping around my wrists in a soft but unbreakable hold.

  I yank on the restraints, panting into the mattress, but there’s no give in the tie, no way for me to get free. “What are you doing?” My panic intensifies as I feel him climb off me. “Peter, please… what are you doing?”

  “Shhh.” Gripping my elbow, he tugs me to my knees and turns me around to face him. His face is taut with lust, his eyes gleaming darkly as he says, “I’m giving you a taste of what it means to be my captive. Because that’s what you want, isn’t it? To run and have me catch you? To have me do this, so you can be free of blame?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but before I can utter a word, Peter stands up on the bed. Fisting his hand in my hair, he arches my head back, pulling my face toward his groin, and I gasp, yanking at my wrist restraints as his thick cock slaps against my cheek. His musky male scent fills my nostrils, his ball sac rubbing against my jaw, and my breathing quickens as I realize what he’s about to do.

  “Peter, please—” I begin, then clamp my lips shut as the head of his cock presses against my mouth. With his hand in my hair and my arms tied behind my back, I can’t turn my face away, can’t move so much as an inch. In the weeks since Peter has invaded my life, he’s taken me more times than I can count, pleasuring me with his mouth and hands and cock, but he’s never made me pleasure him before. And for the first time, I realize it was a mercy… a small choice he’d left up to me.

  A choice he’s now taking away.

  “Open your mouth.” His voice throbs with dark lust as he slaps his cock against my cheek again. “Open your fucking mouth, Sara.”

  I keep my lips tightly sealed even as my heart rate jumps into the anaerobic zone. It’s stupid to fight a blowjob when we’ve fucked dozens of times, but I can’t help feeling that by doing this, I’d be giving in even more… losing the last bit of me that still belongs to George. Not the alcoholic or the spy who lied to me, but the man I fell in love with back in college, the one who was my first everything.

  Peter’s face tightens, his eyes narrowing as he growls, “You want to do it the hard way? Fine.” With his free hand, he pinches my nostrils closed, cutting off my air, and when I open my mouth to drag in a breath, he shoves his cock in, all the way to the back of my throat.

  I choke, my eyes watering as my gag reflex kicks in, but he’s merciless as he starts thrusting, fucking my mouth with a hard, relentless rhythm. I don’t even have a chance to bite; with his fingers pinching my nostrils, all I’m focused on is getting enough air and trying not to gag. Panicking, I instinctively yank at my bonds, my eyes scrunching shut as saliva drips down my chin, but his thick length pistons in and out, and there’s nothing I can do, no place I can escape to.

  I don’t know how long he ruthlessly uses my mouth, but I can feel myself getting dizzy, the lack of air combining with my exhaustion, and a dream-like lethargy sweeps over me. I’ve never felt so helpless, so utterly in my tormentor’s power, and as Peter continues fucking my mouth, I do the only thing I can.

  I stop fighting and give in to him.

  The punishing thrusts don’t stop and he doesn’t release my nose, but my panic eases as my body goes soft and pliant in his grasp. I’m a rag doll, a toy to be taken and played with, and there’s peace in that, a twisted kind of acceptance. My throat relaxes, letting him in, and the gag reflex subsides as I embrace his rhythm. Each time he withdraws, I gulp in a breath, and the air sustains me as he pushes in deep, filling my throat, controlling me so completely my very life is in his hands.

  “Yes, that’s it. That’s so good… Just like that, my love…” His lust-soaked groan vibrates through me, and I open my lids a sliver, squinting up at him with watering eyes. Savage ecstasy is contorting his features, the tendons standing out in his muscled neck, and as his gaze meets mine, I feel something inside me shifting, changing in some fundamental way.

  I’m yours, my body tells him, accepting all he has to give. It’s a complete surrender of myself, yet it feels right, feels comforting and peaceful. In this moment, I want to belong to him, to stay cocooned in his enormous strength.

  To give up and let him keep me.

  All fear fades, all thoughts about the future disappearing. I feel like I’m floating, like I’m above and beyond myself. If there’s still discomfort, I don’t feel it, yet my senses are heightened, my sex wet and thrumming with arousal. It’s oxygen deprivation, my medical training tells me, but the reason doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters but Peter and his pleasure.

  I hold his gaze as the climax takes him, maintaining the connection as his seed spurts into my throat. Eyes streaming, I swallow every salty drop, and it’s only when his fingers release my hair that the strange high fades and reality kicks back in.

  Shaking, I collapse onto my side, feeling like I’m crumbling into pieces as he frees my hands from the tie. My eyes are wet, but I’m no longer crying. I can’t. The plunge into despair is too sudden, too frightening and deep. And underneath it all is sick arousal, a hunger that burns in my core.

  “It’s okay, my love,” he murmurs, gathering me into his embrace, and my shaking intensifies as his hand slips between my thighs, two rough fingers thrusting into me as his thumb presses on my clit. “You’re going to be fine. This is normal. Let me take care of you, ptichka, and you’ll be okay.”

  But I won’t be. I know it, and he knows it too.

  It takes mere seconds for me to come, to convulse in his arms with shattering pleasure. And as he holds me, stroking my hair, I know that this is it.

  The cage he promised me is here.

  Part II

  21

  Sara

  The first two weeks are the toughest. I cry almost every day, my anger and despair so intense I want to yell and throw things. But I don’t. Instead, I walk around Peter on eggshells, determined to avoid further punishment—and to make sure my captor lets me keep in contact with my parents.

  I still don’t understand what happened that night, how that blowjob broke me so completely. Sex with Peter has always had an element of darkness, but I thought that I could handle it, that I was used to the rollercoaster of fear, shame, and need. But that night was something different, something more perverse… something that cracked me open and twisted me up inside.

  That night, I danced with Peter’s inner monster, and in the process, discovered one in me.

  He hasn’t touched me like that since, though each time we have sex, I sense the desire in him, the need to dominate and torment. It’s there no matter what he does, no matter how tenderly he treats me. It’s part of him, this darkness, this urge to punish and avenge. He might fight it, but it’s there—because regardless of what Peter says, the past does influence our present.

  He’ll never forget my husband’s role in the massacre of his family, and I’ll never get past what he did to George.

  The good news is that we’re back to using condoms. I don’t know if Peter saw the wisdom in avoiding extra complications at this stage of our fucked-up
relationship, or if he’s actually respecting my wishes, but despite the copious amount of sex we’re having daily, there haven’t been any further slip-ups. Still, I anxiously count the days until my period, and when it arrives, two and a half weeks into my captivity, I sob with relief, for once grateful for the cramps and the discomfort. Peter doesn’t seem nearly as pleased, but when we resume having sex after the worst of my symptoms are over, he continues to use protection.

  Another positive is that my failed escape attempt hasn’t lost me any outside contact privileges. Every afternoon, Peter lets me watch the recordings from my parents’ house, and every couple of days, he lets me call them. The calls are always brief, both as an extra precaution against the FBI tracing them and because there’s not much I can say. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m jetting around the world with my lover, happily oblivious to the danger he presents and to my responsibilities back home. Pretty much all I can do on those calls is assure my parents that I’m fine and inquire after their well-being before swiftly hanging up to avoid their endless questions and entreaties.

  “You know, you can elaborate on our love affair a little,” Peter says after listening to the calls for about a week. “Give them some color to make it seem more authentic.”

  “Really? Should I tell them how often you fuck me, or describe how big your cock is?”

  Peter grins at my sarcasm—the one bit of defiance he doesn’t mind on occasion. “If you want,” he says, leaning back on the couch. “Or you can say that I make breakfast for you every day. I’m no expert on parents, but that seems like something they’d appreciate more.”

  I bite back another sarcastic remark and do as he suggests on the next few calls, telling my parents about some of the little things Peter does for me. It can’t be anything that would point to our location, so I stick to more personal stuff, like the fact that he’s a great cook and his back rubs are amazing. Neither is a lie; now that we’re settled in the new place, Peter is back to making gourmet meals for me, and I’m beyond pampered with daily massages. I think it’s because he can’t keep his hands off me, and since we can’t have sex twenty-four-seven, he settles for touching me in other ways, using every opportunity to stroke and rub me from head to toe. Especially toe. I’m beginning to suspect my captor might have a little foot fetish, given how often he gives me the best foot rubs of my life.