by LP Lovell
"Sit." I gesture to the seat, and she obliges whilst chewing her bottom lip. Dave sits down next to her and proceeds to stare at her like a creeper.
"Why am I here?" She glances nervously at him. "What do you want?"
I laugh. "What do you think I want, sweetheart?"
Her gaze falls on her lap, and she nervously picks at her nails. She looks like she's going to cry at any moment. My dick twitches at the thought of breaking her, making her cry for me. And it fucking shouldn't because she's a whore.
I lean back in my chair, allowing my eyes to roam over her petite yet curvy frame. "You're a whore," I state. She narrows her eyes but doesn't argue with me. "A whore who kills her clients... my clients more specifically."
"I didn't kill him," she whispers, and her eyes slowly rise to meet mine. "You shot him."
I chuckle. "You and I both know he was already dead." I tilt my head to the side and study her. "Honestly, I don't care. Just don't do it again. That shit's a fucking ball ache to clean up." I lean back in my chair and prop my ankle on my knee, watching her. She looks like a lamb ready for slaughter.
She frowns, her full lips pursing together. "Why did you bring me here then?"
"I'm willing to offer you a deal, but," I smile wryly, "and this is a tremendous but... I need to know that you aren't some kamikaze whore out to chop off dicks and shit. It's not good for business," I shrug a shoulder. I don't think I even care if she is. There's something about her. Hell, maybe I'm just trying to justify the fact that she makes my dick hard.
She flinches and glances down at her lap with wide eyes. I follow her gaze to where Dave's head is now resting on her bare thigh. Her fingers grip the arm of the chair hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
"Really?" Some guard dog he is. The second a beautiful girl walks through the door, and he's all over it. "Dave," I call him. She relaxes as soon as he drags himself away.
"I run Sin." I wave dismissively around the room. "And the hookers you see around here; they work for me in a capacity. They cut me in, and I, in turn, protect them. All the clients around here know the consequences of crossing the line. Me." I smile easily.
"Who are you?"
"Ezra. And you are?"
She lifts her gaze to mine. "Evelyn," she breathes.
I drum my fingers over the desk. "Tell me, Evie—"
"Evelyn..." she corrects quickly.
I fight the smile trying to make its way onto my face. "See, that makes you sound like my grandmother, God rest her soul. And well..." I drag my eyes over every single curve of her body, letting them rest on her perky tits. "You, sweetheart, are nothing like grandma."
Her eyes go straight back down to her lap, and she blushes like the sweet, innocent little thing she appears to be, but we both know better, and I can't work her out.
"Are you offering me a job?" she asks, a slight tremor in her voice.
Her eyes meet mine again and her lips part, flashing perfect white teeth. Everything about her makes me want to take the belt to her until she begs and cries. The gentle tone of her voice makes me want to draw blood, to watch it run down her perfect curves. My cock stiffens painfully, and I shift in my seat.
"I think I might have a job for you..." I lean back in the chair, and her eyes follow my every move. I know this is not a good idea. This girl is unpredictable, a risk if ever I saw one. Realistically, I can't trust her with clients, but I want to watch her skin flush crimson. I want to see how beautiful she looks when she cries. She's terrified of me, and I fucking want her fear, every last scrap of it. I want her to scream and cry as I take everything from her. I clear my throat and do something stupid. "It's five-grand a night; no questions asked, no limitations."
Those fuck-me-bright blue eyes of hers narrow on me, and there's a long silent pause. She bites her lip and nods slowly. "Okay." She has no idea what she's just agreed to.
I arch an eyebrow. “So you're not even slightly curious as to what you'd actually have to do for five-grand a night?”
"No." She smiles, those red lips of hers just fucking begging to suck my dick.
"There are three stages you must pass to work. Call it an interview if you like." I lean forward slightly. "You want the job? Phase one starts right now." I stand and walk to the door, pulling it open. Never have I been so excited at the thought of taking the belt to a girl.
She rises. Inhaling, she walks towards me, her shoulders hunched, her eyes aimed at the floor. She looks like she's marching to the fucking gallows, and in some ways, she is. Damn, some of my clients would pay a fortune for her. I turn and walk down the hallway, the sound of her heels clicking behind me. I go through the same routine I always do. I unlock the door and close it behind her, waiting in the darkness for a moment, allowing her anticipation to build before I flip on the lights.
I watch for her reaction as the enormous wooden cross against the far wall illuminates. Her eyes pop wide for a second, but she quickly recovers. She glances away from me, reaching for the silver cross at her neck. Curious, a religious whore.
"Sweating like a whore in church, sweetheart?" I laugh.
"I'd hardly call this a church," she mumbles.
"Ah, but there is a cross."
She swallows and I hear her breath hitch slightly. She's uncomfortable. Well, this could be interesting. "Strip."
She drops her gaze to the floor, her shoulders stiffening. "Do you want me to have sex with you? Is that phase one?"
I snort. "I don't fuck whores." I don't want to fuck her. I want to hurt her and then fuck her, whore or not.
Her jaw clenches and she closes her eyes as she reaches behind her, slowly unzipping her dress. The material falls around her ankles and she removes her bra and underwear, standing in nothing but her patent leather red heels. "Should I take my shoes off as well?" she asks.
Fuck, no. "No." I keep my voice level, calm, controlled. I keep my distance. Everything I do is done for a reason. I never touch them until they're tied up.
My eyes trace the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, her perfect arse leading to long legs that drop into fuck me heels. And her skin, her beautiful skin is so pale she almost looks unreal. I narrow my eyes on a scar, running in a perfect line down her spine and disappearing beneath her thick hair. I step forward and scoop her hair to the side. She flinches when my fingers brush her skin, but she makes no other movements. She doesn't even look at me. Now that her hair is draped over her shoulder, I see that the scar reaches the base of her neck, and there's another line spanning her shoulder blades. A cross. She has a cross carved into her skin. The black hair, the pale skin... if that scar were anywhere else I would think this was some weird religious emo shit. But, well, you can't carve your own back. That scar is a deal breaker. There is one thing I promise my clients, and that is perfection. Anything less will tarnish my reputation of supplying exclusive merchandise. In a strange way, the scar adds to her mystery, but I can't use her. I should tell her that, let her walk away, but I don't. I don't say a word because I want this. This is no longer business because I just made it personal. I close my eyes and inhale her sweet scent.
"Go to the cross," I tell her. "Stand in front of it, face the wall. And do not look at me."
She nods silently and does as instructed. I watch her arse as she walks away from me and I smile. Her gaze remains fixed on the wall when she stops in front of the cross. Excitement mounts in my chest as I step up behind her, standing close enough to feel the heat from her body. Her breaths stagger, her shoulders tense.
"Are you scared of me, Evie?" I smile.
Her head slowly twists to the side, her eyes glancing back at me. "No," she whispers, holding her gaze with mine. I should punish her for looking at me, but I don’t because I like what I see in her wide eyes. Fear. It’s evident in the subtle tremble of her voice, in her erratic breaths. And damn, how much harder can my fucking dick get?
She gasps as I press my body against hers, and slam her against the heavy wood of the cross. "You
will be, little killer," I promise against her ear. I skim my fingers over the skin at her waist as I move toward her shoulder and then trail down her arm. Her breathing accelerates, and I can see her pulse beating rapidly at her throat. I wrap my fingers around her wrist and pull it up, raising her arm and securing it within the leather cuff. I repeat the process with her other wrist, and loosen the cuffs, leaving her to stand easily. Sweeping the hair off her neck, I gently brush my lips over her exposed skin. "I have a feeling you're going to be a strong one," I whisper against her ear. These are the words I tell every single one of them. Why? Because it makes them want to be strong. It makes them want to please me. And why would they wish to please a guy they don't even know? Because I'm good at what I do. With only a few strategically placed touches, I can make her feel connected to me. It's a gift.
The thought of watching her skin turn pink, of listening to her cry and beg causes my cock to press against my fly. I grab her hips and yank her arse back against my erection. "Do not turn around. Do not try to look at me again," I say. She keeps her eyes fixed on the wall, steeling herself, pretending she's not afraid. I can practically hear her thrumming heartbeat. That sound is like music to my ears, but I don't want brave faces. I want tears. I want screams.
I grab a handful of her hair and yank her head back. "I'm going to hurt you, sweetheart." I skim my teeth over the soft skin of her throat. "You will beg me to stop, but I won't." I twist her hair and knot it into a messy bun, and she trembles violently at that touch. I place a soft kiss on her jaw, trailing my finger over her scarred back before I turn away.
I unbuckle my belt and drag it through the loops. "You will cry for me, Evie," I murmur before swinging the belt at her back. The second the leather makes contact with her skin I almost groan. This isn't BDSM or any of that prissy shit. There are no rules, no safe words. I do not want her willing submission. I want to drag it from her, screaming and crying. I want ultimate power over her, and while she's here in this room with me, I want to own her, body and soul.
As the belt bites Evie's back, she doesn't flinch, she doesn't make a sound. I strike her harder, and again she doesn't move a muscle. I clench my jaw as I strike her with more force, right on the border of drawing blood. Nothing. The part of me that craves power roars at me to break her, even if I have to bleed her dry to do it.
"You will beg me to stop, but I won't,” he growls against my neck. His coarsely sophisticated British accent makes the threat somewhat beautiful. I try to breathe; I attempt to control the urge I have to scream. The sudden silence makes my frantic heart pound harder and panic sets in. Out of instinct, I yank against the restraints and the sturdy leather cuts into my skin.
I remind myself why I am doing this, and when I do, I see her.
Hannah’s wearing an expensive looking red dress. She has on new jewelry. She smiles at me, her eyes flashing. "Actually, I got a promotion."
What kind of promotion can a prostitute get? I swallow at the thought.
"Evelyn, I'll make five thousand dollars a night. A night! And the men I will have access to..." She smirks. "Sinners."
This man is the same man who gave Hannah that five-grand a night deal—the same five-grand a night deal he's offering me. And that deal is what lead to her death.
"You will cry for me, Evie," he whispers, and then I hear the loud smack of leather on my back just before I feel the shock. The pain radiates up my back, causing my eyes to water. The slap of the belt echoes in my ears again, and I brace myself against the splintering pain. He strikes me with such brutality. I'm scared that he will break me, that he will kill me, but the sinner in me relishes in each cruel blow. I close my eyes and as the next lash lands over my backside, I smile because it's been forever since I've been forgiven of my sins like this. Forgive me for my sins. And in the pain, I feel my release. Prayer does not touch what pain does. I feel as though all the sins over the past four years wash away from me. I find freedom with each strike, with each sharp bite of his belt. I can't stop myself from tossing my head back and smiling at the divine forgiveness stinging its way through my body. This man is granting me things I have longed for, and I feel connected to him in a way I shouldn't.
There's another crack of the belt, and aside from that, the only noise I hear is the even sounds of his heavy breaths. Although my body flinches away with each strike, I need more. I have many sins I need a release from and this man... this man will grant me the penance I've sought for years. I stand taller, spreading my legs wider apart as I prepare for him to hit me once again. I want him to hit me; I need him to hit me. I was raised to believe pain equates to forgiveness and, as deranged as it may sound, I do believe this more than anything I've believed in my life. It is the one part of my religion that makes complete sense to me. You do something wrong; you need to be punished. Punishment teaches you to obey, and, when it doesn't, you, at least, are paying for what you've done. I think of the day I killed my father. I replay the image of his bloodied body lying on the kitchen floor, and I will Ezra to beat me harder.
The metal buckle clinks when Ezra drops it to the floor. My back is on fire, and the muscles in my arms ache from the tight restraints. I press my forehead against the cold wall and bask in the atonement just granted to me.
The heat of his body scorches through me as he steps closer and yanks my hair out of the knot. Jerking my head back, he presses his body against mine. The cotton material of his shirt feels like sandpaper over my abused skin, and I'm tempted to thank him for granting me absolution. His warm heavy breath blows over the back of my neck.
"Do you like that, sweetheart?" he asks. "Does it make you wet?" His lips caress the side of my neck, sending chill bumps over my skin. He tugs my hair even harder than the last time, forcing my head to the side before his teeth sink into my neck.
That sensation makes my pulse pound in my throat. For the past four years, I have always been in control with a man, but this... I have no control over this. I am at his mercy, and he just purged me of my sins. I am white as snow, pure and innocent and chained to a cross in front of him. My breaths are too ragged, my mouth too dry to answer him. He takes me by the hips and drags my body against his. I can't focus on anything aside from his hard dick pushing against me through his pants.
He fumbles with the restraints on my left hand and violently jerks the buckle like he's angry. As soon as the restraint opens, my hand falls to my side. Pins and needles tingle over my fingertips as the blood rushes back to them. Ezra steps toward me. His black eyes gleam as one by one his fingers wrap around my throat, and with one swift movement, he rips me from the cross. Despite that my right hand is still suspended above my head, he slams me against the wall. The cold plaster feels like a bed of nails against my tender back, and I choke on a gasp.
His body rubs over mine, his fingers twitching over my throat. At this moment, when his hand is wrapped around my neck, his eyes locked on mine, I drink in each precise detail of his face. The clean shaven lines of his facial hair are meticulous, making his high cheekbones pop. He styles his dark blond hair in a way that looks messy. His lips have a perfect dip in the middle that I shamefully want to run my tongue along. The broad muscles in his shoulders and chest strain against his shirt. This man is breathtaking like God's glory surrounds him, but then, when I look into his eyes, I know he's of the devil because all I see is depravity and squalor. His eyes scream sin and hell, and I close my eyes. This man is everything I despise. I'm terrified of him because he could easily end my life right here, and since Hannah is dead and gone, no one would even miss me. Slowly, I open my eyes. There's a beat of silence before he growls and tightens his grip around my throat.
"You're supposed to break, little killer. What is it going to take to make you cry? Do I need to make you bleed?" His lips pull up in a small smile and his eyes flash dangerously at the thought.
My heart sits in my throat; sweat coats my body. I will not grant him my tears. I save those. I do not cry for any man, and I most certainly wil
l not cry for this one. There's a tense moment of silence. The hard beat of my pulse bangs through my ears as his fingers tense. I envision my lifeless body as he throws me into the Hudson River.
"Fuck!" With one final squeeze, he releases my throat and drops to his knees in front of me. He forces my leg over his shoulder, and then his warm, sinful mouth is on me. All over me. I flinch away, but his hands pin me in place, refusing to let go. My bare back presses against the wall with nowhere to go. This is wrong. This is a sin because it feels good. And things that feel good are unholy. He groans against me, blowing his hot breath against my pussy before thrusting his tongue inside of me. My legs threaten to buckle from the warmth of him on me—in me. Pain, I want the pain. I do not want this. Just as I close my eyes to fight the feeling of lust he's stirring inside me, the warmth disappears. He's gone.
My leg drops to the ground, and my eyes remain closed because I cannot look at him. I hear his heavy footsteps as he storms across the room. The hinges on the door creak.
"Phase two. Friday. Ten o'clock." His deep voice echoes from the walls.
And the door slams shut.
I wait several seconds before opening my eyes. Ezra has left me naked, beaten, with one arm cuffed to this cross because he knows I need punishment. And for that I am grateful.
The carpet burns my knees when I fall in front of the altar. My heart is still racing even though it's been hours since his hands were on me.
Closing my eyes, I look for the words I need to pray, but I'm at a loss. Instead of holy thoughts, all I can think of is him. Ezra. He is beautiful, stoic, perfect, but beauty is the work of the devil. I see that now. The image of his thick tongue flicking over my clit fogs my mind, blood pools between my thighs and parts of me throb, parts of me that I shouldn't feel while on my knees in a church. I want to cry, and I dig my nails into the stair, trying to ground myself.
He's a means to end, Evelyn. A test. That is all he is.