by W Winters
“You’re always wet for me,” I utter the words beneath my breath as my cock hardens. My fingers trail up and down her shaved pussy. Her lips glisten with arousal and her breathing hitches.
I unbutton my collar and pull my shirt off first, dropping it carelessly to the floor. Every second that passes, Aria’s breathing gets heavier. The sofa groans under me as I shift my weight to move my shoulders between her thighs.
Gripping her ass to hold her in place, I start with a single languid lick of her tempting cunt. When I look up and find her lips parted, her eyes wide and her cheeks that beautiful hue of pink, I decide I won’t stop licking, sucking and tongue fucking her cunt until she can’t fight me any longer.
And then I’ll have her writhing under me, cumming on my cock like she was made to do.
Chapter 24
Aria
* * *
This isn’t what life is supposed to be like. Not for someone like me. Surrounded by luxury and chained to a gilded cage, I shouldn’t wake up feeling at ease.
But that’s how I feel. I know that so long as I obey Carter, I’ll be all right. I’ll be safe and pampered even.
While my family is murdered, and I do nothing.
I can’t allow it. I won’t.
I have to remind myself with each kindness he offers me.
Like last night. I was holding onto a deadly combination of hate and hope. Desperate for a way out of here so I could warn my family, or a way to convince Carter to be on my father’s side to present itself.
And I slipped into sleep knowing I needed to do something. That today I would act and find a way. But each kindness makes me weaker.
I’ll never forget the way he held me. Gripping me to him as I lay on my side. My heart raced, and fear was real in my veins. As real as anything else. Sleep still held my eyes tightly shut until I heard his voice, recognized the deep measure of his determined words. “Come back to me.” His breath was hot on my neck, his hand strong as it splayed across my belly. He held me so close and so tightly, I couldn’t move when I woke up.
I could still feel the drum of my racing heart as he flipped me onto my back and buried his head in the crook of my neck, kissing me ravenously, as if he’d been deprived of it. And I pined for his lips on mine, but he didn’t give them to me. I was still blinking away sleep when he whispered, “If you’re going to scream a name in your sleep, it’ll be my name.”
I woke up wondering if it was a dream if he hadn’t really taken me from a nightmare and fucked me into a deep sleep of desire. But he was still holding me the way he had when I woke up and there was no denying it was real.
“You stopped humming.” Carter’s deep voice pierces through my thoughts and I look up at him from the ground beneath his feet. Rolling the black charcoal between my fingers I lie to him, something I know I shouldn’t do.
“I’m just thinking about what I’d like to draw next.”
He knows my response is a lie. His eyes narrow, but he allows it. I don’t think he wants me to go back to the cell any more than I do. Although part of me wonders if one day he’ll start fucking me on that mattress and I’ll be confined there.
The only thing that relieves that thought is the knowledge that Carter enjoys others seeing how I’ve become his. How I obey him while he gives me this freedom. If you can call it that.
My gaze wanders across Carter’s office and lands yet again on a bench that doesn’t belong. It peeks out from under the bookshelf across from me and it simply isn’t supposed to be there.
The wood is old and unfinished, at odds with the dark polished shelves housing beautifully covered books.
The hinges have a hint of rust. I tap the charcoal in my hand against the paper and stare at it. Wondering why Carter would allow it to stay.
“Where did the bench come from?” I ask him on a whim. I haven’t asked him anything. Not for a single thing. Nor have I initiated conversation. But if I have any hope of changing his mind about my father, I have to be able to speak up. And it starts right now, with that bench. Craning my neck to look at him over the desk, from where I’m seated on the floor in front of him, I wait for his reaction.
“Bench?” he questions, although I already know that he knows what I’m referring to.
Pointing straight in front of me, I answer him, “It doesn’t look like it belongs.”
I can hear his chair creak as he leans back, and I know he’s debating on telling me something, although I don’t know what. It’s only an old, beat-up bench.
“Do you want to see what it can do?” he asks me, and the tone of his words catches me off guard. He must sense the hesitation because as he rises and makes his way to the bench, he adds, “It’s a safe box.”
The charcoal in my hand makes a small thud as it hits the paper and I watch Carter open the lid to what I thought was just an old bench.
“It’s bulletproof, and it can only be locked from the inside.”
“Someone could just pick it up…” I state my thought absently and he gives me a small, sad smile.
“If they knew you were in there, they could try, although it’s heavy. So heavy I couldn’t lift it with Daniel the day I got it.”
I let my eyes graze over Carter’s shoulders then back to what I thought was only a bench. I take a quick breath, ready to ask him if it was from his childhood. It’s obviously far too small for him. Although I know I could easily fit. But I don’t question him.
“The lock is here,” he tells me and fiddles with something inside of it that clinks. I have to stand up to see and since I’m standing, I walk closer to him and to the contraption.
“Is it really safe?” I ask him and he’s quiet until I look up at him. His eyes question mine. “As safe as a box can be.”
Now that I’m closer to it, I’m certain I could fit inside. It would be tight. As if reading my mind, Carter tells me, “You’d fit. You’d be safe.”
My eyes drift to the brass locks on the inside. There are only two, but they travel along the entire top edge. A long rod of steel falls down and slips into place when locked. I imagine you could open it with a welding torch, but with all this metal, the person inside would be burned, scarred, maybe killed before the box would actually open.
“Can you breathe in there?” I whisper my question.
Carter nods and runs his finger along small slits in the box, designed so they can’t be seen from the outside, but light filters through them.
I swallow thickly as Carter places a hand on my lower back and asks, “Do you want to get inside?”
I should say no, the fear inside of me is there at the forefront, screaming that the small space is dangerous. It may look like safe, but the cell was much larger, and it was instrumental in my downfall.
But the fear is so minuscule. So quiet. It’s hard to be scared of something so… insignificant when my life is in the hands of a man like Carter. And I think he’d like it if I got inside.
I nod once and as I do, I’m already lifting my right leg. With Carter’s hand to balance me, I slip inside easily.
“The locks are here, but you’ll have to feel for them when the lid is shut, it’ll be dark.”
“Are you going to close it?” I ask him and my heart pounds. I don’t want him to leave me here. He towers over me and answers, “You’d be the one to close and lock it, Aria.”
“Right. Of course,” I say then shake my head and reach for the lid. As if it’s the obvious thing to do. It strikes me then as odd that he would grant me this, a safe place to be away from him. But I could only stay in here so long.
This box is meant for hiding. The thought occurs to me as I lower the lid. It’s meant to hide, to stay quiet and not be seen.
My heart thumps once as the lid shuts tightly and a tiny ray of light shines through. It’s filtering in through a small slit. One that can’t be seen from the outside, but I can see it clearly.
My fingers trace the locks as they slip into place, a heavy thump from the steel rod falli
ng causing my body to react by bucking back.
Thump, thump. My heart hammers.
It reminds me of the door being kicked in when I was hiding in the closet.
My throat closes and my eyes water as I clearly see my mother through the slit. Just like I did when I hid in the closet. The memory is vivid. It’s too real.
“Stop!” I scream and struggle against the lid. Panic consumes me. I can’t stay here, I can’t be quiet and let him murder her.
Screams rip through my throat. “Stop it!” I scream and it’s only then that I hear Carter.
His fists pound above me.
The tears that stream down my face seem to burn my skin as I fumble for the locks.
“Carter, please!” I beg him.
“Lift the locks!” he yells at me, but I can’t. I can’t see them. All I can see is him holding my mother down, stabbing her over and over. The blood was everywhere. He was too fast. I couldn’t save her.
“Please,” I beg him and feel the entire box lift from the ground only to fall hard on the floor beneath me. Jostling me and reminding me where I am.
“Open it, Aria!” he yells at me and I try to find the locks. It takes me a long moment. Each second, images of my mother pass before my eyes. The way she tried to fight him. The way she tried not to scream. I know she didn’t want me to hear or to see.
But you can only hide so much.
Finally, the locks slip back into place in my shaking hand and the mechanism opens with a loud thunk. Carter practically rips the top open. His strong arms pull me up and I’m safe in the light of the office. The images fade and I find myself huddled in his arms, feeling foolish and unable to explain what happened. My body won’t stop shaking.
I hate the box. I hate it. I hate it more than the cell.
“Shhh,” he shushes me and brings me to his chair. I think he’s going to set me down in it, but he doesn’t. He keeps holding me tight in his arms. My body shudders and I wish I could calm myself down and take it all back.
I can’t stop crying.
I haven’t had a panic attack in so long. It’s only been night terrors for years.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble the words and brush my tears away furiously. They’re hot and I can already feel my eyes becoming puffy. I can hardly breathe.
“I hate the box,” I push the words out as if I could blame it.
“It’s okay.” Carter’s answer is soothing. He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t push me for anything.
He only holds me and comforts me, running his hand up and down my back. His warmth and strength and scent surround me. And I want more of it.
I would die for more of it.
A knock at the office door startles me. “Hush, songbird,” Carter whispers against my hair before calling to the door, “Come in.”
It’s Jase. It’s almost always Jase.
He stands in the doorway, gripping the knob and not letting it go. I get the sense that he doesn’t like to stay when I’m around. Like if I wasn’t here, he’d have taken a seat. A shudder runs through my body, and I bury myself deeper into Carter’s arms, wishing I could go back to just a minute ago.
“I just wanted to let you know, the dinner is set to go as planned.”
Seeing Jase, reminds me of everything once again. Like being woken from a deep sleep. Back to realizing all of this is wrong and there isn’t a piece of it that should feel right.
Back to the fact that I’m nestled in the arms of the man who’s set to destroy everything I am.
The thought of dying for more of Carter’s touch is still vibrant in my mind. And it withers like the petals of a broken flower in the scorching heat as the sane side of me remembers what I really am and who he really is.
“He’s coming?” Carter asks and there’s a deep rumble of anger hidden beneath his words. It’s enough of an edge that my body stills in his embrace.
Jase nods, his gaze moving from me to Carter. “He’s coming.”
“And are we still on for tonight?” Carter asks Jase in a tone quite different. A tone that makes me curious. Curious enough to peek at Jase.
Jase’s gaze flickers to me again before he answers, “Yeah, we’re on for tonight.” Patting the doorframe, he nods toward Carter and leaves us alone.
The tears, the flashback, and panic, they seem foolish now. It was only a glimpse at the past. Carter loosens his hold on me as my body stiffens and I hold my arms to my chest.
Why does he hold me and comfort me, when I’m nothing to him but a play toy? It’s so he can make me weak. I know that’s why. I’ll fall powerless to him so easily. And he’ll use me up and throw me out.
I can already see it happening.
“I’ll be gone tonight.” Carter’s voice seems deeper, rougher even. The sound forces me to look at him as he speaks. It’s odd to be at nearly eye level as I sit on his lap.
His gaze is so sharp, I can barely look him in the eye.
“You can get yourself dinner. And wait for me in either the kitchen, den, or bedroom.” I stare at the knob on one of the drawers of his desk, nodding my head in obedience and feeling awkward and too afraid to speak.
My body shudders as he lays a hand on my upper back, between my shoulder blades and working his way down to the small of my back.
“Maybe you need a drink?”
When I turn to him this time, I want to yell at him. I want to hide. I want to cry.
The question is on the tip of my tongue, why are you doing this to me?
But I already know the answer. It’s why Carter does everything.
Because he can. Because he wants to.
Chapter 25
Carter
* * *
The Red Room wasn’t my idea. It was Jase’s, of all people. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, but he created a club that’s the perfect cover-up and a successful business at that. He always stays in the back, where other business is conducted, but nonetheless, Jase’s creation is something he’s proud of. And every time I come here, I’m reminded of that fact.
The music thrums in my veins before the large red glass doors even open. In a gray tailored suit, I don’t exactly blend in with the nightlife. Not like Jase does in his faded jeans and crisp, button-down, open at the collar.
I prefer a suit. Jase prefers to blend in. Each method has its advantages.
“Welcome back, sirs,” Jared greets us as we step into the club, the music at full volume and the smells of alcohol and sex appeal hit me instantly. With the dark red paisley wallpaper that lines the walls and black chandeliers hanging from the sixteen-foot-high black ceiling, The Red Room looks like a nightclub of sin at first glance.
As the alcohol pours throughout the night and the bodies grind against one another, sin is an accurate description. The money flows as easily as the liquor.
Walking past the grinding bodies and kitten eyes from several women holding drinks in one hand and their clutches in another, I ignore it all, listening intently to what Jared has to say.
I stopped everything to come down here with my brother. All because Jared, the club manager, and head of business while we’re away, said he had a girl who would talk.
“You sure it’s her?” Jase asks him.
“Yeah,” Jared nods as we pass the second bar and make our way around the edge of the dance floor to get to the backroom. “She comes in every week asking for it.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Nothing. Just that the delivery is on a delay.” The DJ starts a new set and the dance floor roars so loudly the ground shakes as the steel doors to the backroom push open and then close softly, finally silencing the distractions of the club.
“Thanks for waiting for us,” Jase tells the two men in the back of the room. Mick is one of them; I don’t know the name of the other, but Jase does. This is Jase’s place to run. Everyone knows him, and he knows everyone, so I let him lead and stay quiet.
Quiet is dangerous, and that’s exactly how I want them to see me.
“Of course, Mr. Cross,” Mick says and nods his head at Jase then quirks a smile at me as he adds, “and Mr. Cross.”
The small girl seated at the lone table in the room grips the plastic cup of a pink drink that’s probably got just as much sugar in it as alcohol. Her lips part open with a hint of disbelief and then she licks them, smiling although it’s thin and withered. Just like the state of her body under the too-tight tube top.
“You’re waiting for the delivery?” Jase asks, looking to the left and right as if he doesn’t want to say it out loud and get caught by someone. I’d laugh at him and his display, but he’s damn good at what he does, and I do enjoy a good show.
The girl imitates him, looking over her shoulders at the two hired men of ours in The Red Room t-shirts and black jeans before she nods. “You guys have the best sweets.”
“Sweets?” I ask, and she grins at me like she knows a secret she can’t wait to tell me.
“It’s what the streets are calling it now,” she says and bites down on her lower lip, letting her body sway. Jase and I pull out our chairs across from her, the legs scraping across the floor. Sweets. Plural. Because that fucker Romano has his version out. I keep the small hint of friendliness firmly in place. But I’m nothing but pissed at the reminder
“Sweet Lullaby, you mean?” Jase asks, lifting an eyebrow. And again, she nods.
“You’re buying a lot of this stuff,” Jase tells her although it comes out a question. Her nails scratch down her arms as she glances all around us. She’s jittery and the chair legs beneath her keep rasping on the floor.
“I just need it, okay?” Her words are rushed. The air changes around her instantly.
Noting her hollow cheeks, dead eyes, and pale lips, the humor, and vibe that she’s down to have a good time have vanished.
“Is it really what you need?” Jase asks and leans forward to stare into her eyes. “’Cause we’ve got some other stuff you might want?”
She’s in need of a hit. That’s for damn sure and if I had to guess her drug of choice is heroin. Maybe coke.