Some of them love it.
No one is allowed to touch me but him. Although that doesn’t mean they don’t watch. They love watching. Snickering and grabbing their own crotches while I was on my knees sucking his. While he yanked my hair and garnered grunts of approval from the guards when he said, “This, gentlemen, is what makes me king. Not that motherfucker but me. Only me. Right kitten?”
I had no choice but to nod. Because I know what happens when I don’t agree. I’ve learned very quickly how much worse it will be for me if I don’t say yes.
But I’m not his kitten. I’m not his wife. I’m not his anything. I’m yours. Damn it! I’m YOURS!!! Whether his cum is on me or in me, I’m still yours!!!!
I think about you while he’s gone.
Two entire days I don’t have to worry about what he’s going to say or do. Not fear how he’ll hurt me. Not agonize over what torture he plans for me.
Ignoring him while he kissed my cheek good-bye, I tried to jerk away from his mouth on my skin. He grabbed me but didn’t smack me like he normally would. In a rare good mood, he chuckled instead and said, “Now don’t be that way, kitten. I know you’ll miss me, but I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”
Fuck him!
Like I’d ever miss that monster. Yes, I know exactly how he’ll make it up to me but I refuse to think about that. Right now I’m going to enjoy the next forty-seven and a half hours to think about you. Submerge myself into our little world of only you and me. Where he doesn’t exist. Not him. Not his guards. Not anyone.
I’ve snuck to one of the guest rooms so I don’t have to smell him on the sheets and blankets. Or see his belt draped across the back of the sofa issuing a silent threat. Or touch the bullet he left on my pillow as another warning. Reminders of too many things I don’t want to think about. When all I want is you on my mind.
I’m wearing a t-shirt and leggings one of the maids gave me. Some of the women are actually nice here. Helping me when he isn’t around to catch them. I guess Tara’s as tired of seeing me shiver in the lingerie he always makes me wear as much as I’m tired of wearing it. Absolutely ridiculous being half naked all the time. Always dressing me like a whore. Well, treating me like one too.
Now I’m finally warm and comfortable. Not just from the clothes. But from this little taste of freedom. Without the constant fear throbbing in my muscles, all I can feel is the ache for you. Which makes me want you so much more. I’m going to revel in our memories for as long as I can. Relive each amazing moment with you so I don’t have to tolerate remembering the terrifying ones with him. That fill my thoughts when I’m alone, griping me with fear that tries to strangle me. I refuse to panic. I refuse to let him win!!!
Anyway, this is about you and me. Even if you never read this I hope you’ll always know what’s in my heart.
This decor in here is surprisingly plain compared to the rest of the mansion. Bare white walls contrast with the heavy French cherry furniture. Black leather covers the thick vertical channels of the headboard, the only decorative element of the entire space. Still smooth and flawless from lack of use. An unexpected reminder of the chair I first photographed you in.
The seat was an absolute splurge for my fledgling business, but when I saw the lavish piece at that estate sale I had to have it. I knew it would be perfect. It was—for you. With a wide cushion, broad back, and thin wooden armrests, the ebony fabric highlighted the round silver feet.
You owned that chair. You owned me too... once you stopped being such a grouch. LOL!
Grouch isn’t even a strong enough word to describe you. The very first time I meet you, and you strode into my old house, all brusque and terse, with such an impatient air. Indignant when you realized this was the tiny, insignificant studio your Marketing Director booked for your headshot for your company’s annual report. Nothing but the best for the CEO. And my place definitely wasn’t the best. At least you didn’t think so and made sure I knew it too.
Tucked into my little house—I admit old and a little bit shabby, but definitely clean, organized, and professional. Nothing for me to be ashamed of. I kept on preparing for the shoot while you phoned her. So arrogant as you insulted me and my talent and my workshop while I set up less than five feet away.
Finally, you quit arguing with her and tossed the cell onto the table. Blowing out a long sigh, haughty and exasperated. Unbelievably smug yet still too damn sexy for your own good when you told me “I’m only here because you came highly recommended.” I think I shocked you when I paused in adjusting the settings on my lens, looked you straight in your gorgeous brown eyes, and told you, “Well, you’re only here because I need the money.”
Actually, I know I shocked you. For a second I was proud of myself for defending my skills against your boorish behavior. Then just as quickly, I regretted my insult when your relentless gaze blazed into mine. Stealing my breath with your ferocious intensity. Causing a raging blush across my cheeks as you inspected me more than anyone ever had before.
Until your lips twitched, and you tossed your head back and laughed.
Long, deep, genuine, and captivating as hell. I impressed you, and for some inexplicable reason I couldn’t explain, I was glad. Even worse, you boosted my confidence with your approval. Which I’ve never needed or wanted from any man except my father. But, with you...your reputation preceded you, and the idea I could hold my own against a magnate as domineering as you thrilled me.
Once you got over your surprise and finished your authentic chuckle, you put up your hands as if to say “what next?” Feigning a confidence I didn’t feel, I nodded to the chair. Pretending I couldn’t even bother to use words while I continued to fiddle with my aperture. Although I already knew the perfect f/stop for the background, I just wanted to see how much I could control you. How far I could push you before you pushed back.
But my poise shook as much as my fingers when I looked up. God you were mesmerizing. Sprawled in the chair with your legs spread and extended. Back straight yet relaxed. Elbows on the armrests with your palms on your thighs. Absolutely zero doubt at all that you’re the boss. And damn if my panties weren’t wet. That had never happened to me before either. My body responding from a simple look as if being touched.
I lied and told you I was doing some test shots. But they were genuine and perfect and only for me. Sure, I’d take the boring and expected head and shoulders professional pose. But, these candids were the real you that I wanted to capture for myself. The lick of your lips, the lift of your chin, the tilt of your head as you interrogated me. Still trying to figure out why Liliana hired me in the first place. Unaware I had taken photos of her children that she utterly adored, and she convinced me to branch out from my normal repertoire. Expand beyond my usual clients of babies, high school seniors, and families. Never expecting her encouragement to lead me to photographing a reputed mobster with a dubious character who battled my every choice and direction while I made sure the light and angle and backdrop were perfect.
Which gave you time to learn that I graduated college three years ago and used the inheritance from my Dad to follow my dream. The only requirement he insisted upon for me to receive the money was to use it to launch my career. I may have been able to open my business because of him, but I would do everything possible not to fail. Him or my company. To keep going and make him proud. To prove his legacy to me was well spent and never wasted. So even though I didn’t owe you an explanation, I revealed why I purchased this bungalow and lived upstairs to save rent.
The severe pinch of your brow attested to your complete dislike of the justification for my situation. Swiftly rising to your feet and stalking through the small room with such a purposeful grace and presence. I caught up with you at the top of the stairs where you shook your head from the door I used to separate my home from my work. This is unacceptable you pronounced. You’re not safe you decided. I argued with you until you mentioned the worry my father would have, and I realized you were right. Creat
ing this set up, I’d left myself more vulnerable than I should have, and I was embarrassed you had to be the one to point out my mistake to me.
A long finger lifted my chin while your knuckle ran down my blazing cheek. Hot from shame yet quickly morphing into a different kind of heat from your touch. I shivered from your whisper of liking my blush. Of being rosy and sexy and fiery for you. Wondering where else I was pink.
I should have slapped your smug face for your audacity but before I could respond, you tugged the end of my braid and said I would be even more gorgeous with my hair loose. Finally, I found my voice and reminded you this wasn’t a date. I was working and corralling my long hair made things easier without the stands falling into my face.
For as long as I live, I’ll never forget what you said. Smooth, cocky, and irresistible. “No, rosy girl, the date’s tonight, and I don’t want you to be easy for me. I want you to be sexy. I’ll be here at seven to pick you up.”
I didn’t even get the opportunity to respond. Or, finish our session. Your lips brushed my flushed skin, and you strode down the steps and out the front door. Leaving me to wonder what the hell just happened between us. And if I was actually going to go out with you.
Nope.
No way.
Absolutely not.
I would definitely not be going out with you. I would definitely not be here when you arrived. I would definitely not be seeing you ever again.
Which I knew were the three biggest lies I’d ever told myself. I knew before I finished that futile argument in my head I would be waiting at seven wearing my favorite dress and sexiest heels. With my hair in a bun because I wanted see what happened when I defied you as much as when I obeyed you.
You arrived at six fifty-nine. I’d been ready since six thirty with a heart pounding full of anticipation I couldn’t deny. I smirked when I twisted slightly to show you my chignon. You nodded with indifference, and I can’t lie. I was slightly disappointed you didn’t fight with me about my defiance. Instead, you cupped my cheek again and whispered, “You’re magnificent rosy girl,” and I melted into your hand faster than rich chocolate on my greedy tongue. Unaware at the time we’d argue about my insolence later, and you’d pull the pins from my French twist in the most seductive, most possessive touch I’d ever experienced.
Since you’d been nothing but a jerk since I met you, I expected more of the same for our evening. Once again you surprised me. Tucking me close as we walked to your obviously expensive sports car. Opening the door for me and waiting patiently until I buckled my seatbelt. Hustling to the driver’s side not to leave me alone for longer than necessary.
I should have jerked my hand away when your fingers curled around mine once you slid into the driver’s seat. I’d spent all of an hour with you at that point, and your forwardness was offensive. But also kind of nice.
Actually, really nice.
I’d never had anyone take me out who was so protective, who behaved like such a gentleman. Guys in college, even ones who were good hearted for the most part, felt the pressure to impress their friends and treat me more like a trophy than a date. A means to an end—dinner for an invite to my bedroom afterward. Which of course never happened, and my virginity embarrassed me to no end at the time. Before that night with you, I regretted not taking a chance, not giving myself to anyone. Maybe I was too picky like my friends accused me of. Maybe there was no such thing as the perfect guy or soul mate. Maybe I was hanging out with the wrong kind of people.
Maybe it was wrong to be with you too.
But I was starting to doubt that thought more and more. I decided at that moment it was time to trust my instinct rather than my brain and squeezed your hand back. Which made you smile. Your gorgeous, satisfied smile that warmed me more than the heater blowing on full blast in your luxury vehicle.
At the restaurant, you were polite and amiable with the maître d’ and waitress. Relieving a definite concern for me following your brash demeanor earlier. Alleviating the initial impression of rudeness and disrespect that you quickly abolished with your graciousness.
Actually, you easily blew through my entire checklist for first dates. One mistake and there wouldn’t have been a second. And, of course, there was. LOL! A third and a fourth before you tried to talk me into moving in with you. A fifth and a sixth before I agreed. Because regardless of what we were doing or who we were with, you were always generous and thoughtful with me.
Suggesting a good wine but ultimately letting me choose. My drink, my dinner, my dessert. A realization sparking at the end of the meal that you were only overbearing in the things that impacted me being with you. Otherwise, I could be independent. Relief quickly transformed into comfort. You understood that I can take care of myself, but I liked that you wanted to as well.
For our nightcap, you ordered a dirty, bruised martini. I told you that you were pretentious. You told me I was adorable. I think that’s the moment I fell in love with you. It was too soon, too crazy, too unlike me. You felt the connection too. Yet you were the only one brave enough to act on your feelings. I didn’t have to pretend like I thought you were nuts and no one can feel anything that fast. Lust maybe but not love.
You just smiled and laughed. Already knew me well enough to know I was bluffing. But it was fun. Playing hard to get. I liked being chased. You loved chasing me, and when I gave in, it was the best night of my life.
Which makes me sitting here crying even more pitiful. I miss you so much it hurts. I’m so scared I won’t ever get the chance to make any more memories with you again. Please don’t forget about me! Please don’t give up on me! Please don’t stop trying to find me!
If you even are. I try not to think that way. I try not to think that you won’t come. I try not to think that you’ve moved on. But the doubt creeps in day after day when I’m still here. When you haven’t found me yet. When it seems like I’ve been here forever.
This cannot be my life. I won’t survive it.
I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re thinking about me the way I think about you. I hope you’re thinking about your rosy girl.
I think about you while I vomit.
If you were here, you’d bundle my long hair onto my neck. And rub small circles on my back. Tell me everything is going to be okay. Give me a glass of water and a cold washcloth. Instead, I lie here on the freezing tile all alone.
I think this is the most scared I’ve been since he kidnapped me. Please let it be food poisoning. Let it be stomach flu. Let it be stress. Anything but that. We’re supposed to be pregnant. Me and you! My belly filled with YOUR baby like you always told me. Not his. Not his! Please God not his!!!
I think about you while I lie in bed still shivering from kneeling on the icy ceramic for so long.
Or from fear. Both I guess. Sorry if this is difficult to read. My hands keep shaking despite all the covers piled on top of me. I’m trying to go back to sleep but it’s hard. My mind won’t shut off.
Are you sleeping?
Are you up for your five am run like you used to?
Are you going in early for a meeting?
Are you coming for me today?
Please, please, please come for me today. I don’t think I can do this anymore if I’m pregnant.
I think about you when he calls me names.
He came home early.
He came home early and found me locked in the guest room.
He came home early and told me I’m a worthless, dumb cunt who can’t follow orders and needs to be taught a lesson for thinking I have any control over my life.
I woke up to him flipping me on my stomach and trying to punish me in the worst possible way. But without the lube in the nightstand like he has in his bedroom, he couldn’t penetrate my ass. Not for lack of trying. God he tried so hard and for so long. But I’m just too tight and small to accept his intrusion without help. He finally gave up and fucked my pussy raw while he shoved my face into the mattress. I battled him yet failed as always. So exhaus
ted any more there was nothing I could do except take his abuse and cry. Passing out while he was still inside me.
I woke up bloody, bruised, and chained to the headboard of the bed where he says I’ll always sleep until I die. That’s what he told me, and I’m beginning to think it’s true.
You never call me names and you’re never coming to get me. Are you?
I think about you when he screams at me for being so stupid.
The doctor ignored him as he ranted but I couldn’t. Not when he grabbed my chin and jerked my face toward his. Agony shooting through my mangled arm, making my stomach turn from pain and the concussion the nurse said I probably have. But they can’t be sure since he won’t let them take me to the hospital. I’m getting what I deserved, he told me. My own damn fault he said for running away from him.
It’s his fault!
He should have let me run. He shouldn’t have tried to catch me. Then we wouldn’t have gotten tangled up and flipped over the railing. The entire time we bounced down, slamming into each wooden step, smashing into each stair, crashing into the drywall, all I could hope was the fall would kill me. I would finally die. Since he says you’re dead, I don’t want to live anymore either. I just want it to be over.
But I’m not dead. It’s not over. I don’t think it ever will be.
Dirty, Bruised Martini: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 3