Don't Let Go (Dark Erotica)

by Warren, Skye

  As I lay on the couch in his arms, his heart beat steadily beneath my cheek. He stroked my breasts and pinched my nipples with lazy movements, staring into the distance. I would have thought him completely unaffected, except I could feel his thick erection at my hip.

  On a particularly cruel twist of my exposed flesh, I whimpered against the damp fabric.

  “You like that, don’t you, pretty girl.”

  Not really a question. I wasn’t fully a person like this. I was an object for him to use, to see. I was like the vintage milk jug on the mantel with its potted daisies. Something nice to look at. Something to care for.

  “No,” he continued, “I don’t think it will be much of a sacrifice for you at all. I bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you? Already drenching that smooth plastic. Getting yourself lubed up like a good girl.”

  Remote in hand, he flipped on the television. My eyes closed in mortification. God. I wasn’t even enough of a distraction for that. He needed more entertainment than me, tied and bared to him. We watched a few minutes of a cooking competition where the chefs put modern twists on ethnic classics. I could have been interested in it if he weren’t constantly touching, plucking, smoothing my sensitive skin.

  His hands were skilled, knowledgeable, and they brought me to a fever pitch with a few flicks. Not only that, I had to admit. The way he tied me up, the way he used me—that turned me on as well.

  He glanced down at his watch and changed the channel again. He didn’t check with me to see what I wanted to watch. I wasn’t even in the equation. Just a thing, with no preferences, no wishes of my own. It was an old action flick this time. We watched a few minutes while he rolled my nipple between forefinger and thumb.

  Slowly, I got the impression he was waiting for something. The clock beside the daisies showed eight seventeen. Not really a time that something typically happened. But then, Ian was far from typical.

  When the minute hand moved once…twice…an interruption came over the screen.

  Breaking News, it said in block letters across the top of the screen. A pretty reporter spoke seriously into a microphone. Behind her, swarms of people crowded a podium set up beside the courthouse. And at the bottom of the picture, a blue information bar claimed, ‘International Criminal Presumed Dead in Aggressive FBI Raid.’

  In smaller letters beneath it, it read: Laguardia has been on the Most Wanted list for 10 years.

  My body jerked in place, unable to move, unable to think. Dead? Of course, he was warm and very much alive beneath me. His hands continued to stroke me but their tenor changed. More calming now.

  Soothing.

  The woman’s voice finally registered, authoritative and clipped. “The alleged drug lord was caught in a massive explosion aboard a steamer just off the Houston Ship Channel after a confrontation with a joint task force involving the FBI, the DEA, and the Coast Guard. Critics are already questioning the lack of due process in regards to the sudden raid, but the FBI spokesperson claims that this is a major win for the Bureau.”

  The video switched to a row of metal rooftops. Above them, a plume of black smoke suddenly rose up. It hung in the air, a hot air balloon made of soot instead of cloth. The newsreel flipped again to a closer shot of the podium. Brody stood behind the microphones, looking smug, speaking nonsense about impressive planning and foresight.

  God. Foresight. As if they could look into the future, when they hadn’t even seen what was right in front of them.

  Lance stood in the background, wearing a suit and appearing very serious. I hoped he got a promotion out of this. At least someone had done been doing his job.

  The TV flicked off, leaving only a black screen. I could still see the images on the dark reflective surface.

  The anchor woman.

  Thick smoke hanging in the air.

  FBI agents, smug and misguided.

  “I did that for you,” Ian murmured in my ear. “That’s what I gave up for you. My whole life. My past. But you’re going to make up for it, aren’t you?”

  I whimpered, unsure what he wanted. Unsure what I could take.

  I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what I’d seen on the news. He’d cut off part of himself, just now, with a staged explosion designed to ensure the FBI left us alone. They had no incentive to keep looking, now that they had their closure. Their fucking commendations.

  That criminal part of him had been hurting him, decaying. But even though he was better off without it, losing it had to hurt. His pain echoed through my body. His loss became my own.

  I expected his anger. I would have preferred it, but his hands were gentle. He turned me so I faced down on the sofa. Implacable and tender, he flipped up my skirt and tugged down my panties. Exposing my ass.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “You’re going to make it all better.”

  He smacked me on the ass with an open hand, causing more shock than pain. Too soft, really. I deserved worse, and he knew it. I heard the snap of leather as he took off his belt. He pressed my wrists to the base of my back. The first blow was fire across my skin, embers underneath. I screamed into the dishtowel, blow after blow.

  I fought him too, but it was too late for that.

  When he worked one slippery finger into my ass, then two, I stilled. It was the least I could do, a small penance for the sins I had made. The pillow dried my tears. I was ready for him when he finally mounted me. I breathed through the burn and bore down on him—and let him in deeper. With my pain and my patience, I soothed him, the way he’d done for me. In the process, I soothed myself, because my heart was still pounding after seeing those news reports. After imagining, for a split second, they were true. That he wasn’t alive and hurting me. Imagining he had died.

  I had to remind myself he was safe. Scratch that. He was mine.

  I may have been the one with my hands tied behind my back. I may have had thick cock pressed inside my ass, pushing and pushing to the rhythm that he liked. It may have hurt, and fuck, it did, it did. But he was mine. I’d caught him. And I was going to keep him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I saw his shadow first, a wavery blur from beneath the water. With a kick and a burst of speed, I broke through the surface of the water and breathed deeply. Island air felt sharper. Cleaner, after spending most of my life in the inner city. We had travelled since leaving Houston. Mexico. Argentina. Egypt. Always staying in warm places.

  Ian stood on the porch, elbows resting on the porch rail. He wore only loose slung pants made from a linen local to the area. The sun kissed the golden skin of his back, the dappled silver-brown of his hair.

  Even from here I could see one eyebrow rise. “What are you wearing?”

  I swam to the edge of the pool. “Funny thing. I couldn’t find my swimsuit anywhere. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to wear that anymore.”

  He liked to watch me swim naked. I would have simply obeyed him…but sometimes disobeying was more fun. Watching his eyes darken in displeasure. Having him use the offending swimsuit to bind my hands. Knowing he got rid of it after that.

  I never did find it. Now I wore a thin tank top instead with thin lace straps. My darker nipples were visible through the wet ribbed fabric. It was a taunt, really. And he knew it.

  “Come here.”

  Flashing him a cowed look, a fake one, I climbed out of the pool. Scratch that. I glided. The gliding part came naturally in the glittering pool with its infinity edge, a steeped plane like a crystal white beach of concrete. The pool was the one nod to overt luxury here. That and the hot tub inside. Otherwise, the house was small and rustic, built with local timber and filled with handcrafted rugs. He’d brought me here for a getaway and I hadn’t yet been able to leave. It was too beautiful, too safe. Someday soon we’d travel again, but I always wanted to return here.

  Lush foliage blocked us from view. Island security took care of the rest. He hadn’t owned a whole island. He
owned part of one. He shared it with an ex-Hollywood director and some sort of oil baron from the Middle East, both of whom were more concerned about aerial snapshots being taken than we were.

  Royalty. That’s how Mia had described his parents’ lifestyle. Glittering parties with la familia. And though Carlos had money, he’d always preferred things understated. He purchased things he’d never been able to get as a child. Privacy. Safety.

  Comfort.

  I understood about that. I climbed the cedar porch steps to reach him. He waited for me with hooded eyes, his body taut. Droplets slid down my skin, caressing me. His gaze dipped to my breasts. He wasn’t unaffected by me. I could tell by the way his hands clenched. And from the impressive tenting of his pants.

  I remembered the grainy black and white photograph from the Bureau. The way he’d stared at the camera. The way he’d stared at me. He looked at me the same way now, in challenge, with wanting.

  “Strip, love.” His voice was low, guttural.

  Flashing him a look beneath my lashes, I reached down and pulled the damp fabric off. My breasts bounced lightly in the sunlight.

  “No more swimsuits. No more anything. When you’re swimming, I want to see those pretty breasts in the water. I want to see them get tan in the sun. Understand?”

  My nipples tightened beneath his hungry gaze, under the lash of his words. I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Turn around.”

  As soon as I faced away, he grabbed me. He maneuvered my body so I faced the pool, and he put my hands on the railing. Hold on, he told me with a squeeze of my wrists. He kicked my legs apart while his broad hands pulled my hips up. In seconds, I was positioned for him. So ready for him.

  He might have spanked me then, in pretend punishment for my transgressions, but he was further gone than I realized. The blunt head of his cock nudging me was my only warning. Then he thrust inside, to the hilt, a sudden stretch that had me on my tiptoes, crying out.

  His growl filled the air and vibrated his chest behind me. “Does it hurt? It’s your fault for being that way. So beautiful I have to take you.” He slapped the soft underside of my ass, and I clenched around him. “And so fucking tight.”

  He pulled back and pushed back in, so hard and fast I felt invaded. I ached with him, so full and so tender. He told me how he felt with every punishing thrust, how angry he was and how dark. How hard it was to love to me, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t have helped it. We were trapped together in these bonds of our own making.

  With a rough pull, he tilted my hips up. His cock hit a certain point inside that made me moan. My mouth opened around the sound, helpless and hungry. I could do nothing in this position except take it. I could only wait for him to speed up, to move inside me faster and harder, to reach around and pinch my clit so I came around him, wet and hot.

  His body stiffened. His hands tightened on my hips. A rough, guttural sound rumbled behind me as he came. His cock pulsed against my walls, and my sex tightened around him in response. We communed that way, while he rocked through the last of his climax.

  The slow slide of his cock pulling out was enough to make me whimper. He turned me around and pushed me onto the deck. On my knees, I knew what to do. He’d trained me well. I leaned forward and mouthed his half-erect cock, licking it clean.

  “How do you taste, love? Sweet, aren’t you?”

  I closed my eyes as a flush heated my cheeks. He still knew how to embarrass me, and he wielded that knowledge like a weapon. I was forever slayed around him, bleeding and raw. I wouldn’t have thought it possible just six months ago, when I’d been wrapped up in so many layers. He’d carefully ripped down each one.

  I licked every trace of our come from his cock and regretfully covered him up. With gentle hands, he gathered my wet hair and used it as a leash to guide me into the shade. He sat down in the rough Adirondack chair while I knelt on the plush cushion in front of him. I rested my cheek against his knee, curled up at his feet.

  His dark gaze warmed me, because I knew I’d returned his gift of peace. Other people wouldn’t understand. They’d only see the control he used with me, the violence he wreaked. But that was only the outside, the drawbridge and cannons of a fortress heavily guarded. I’d been inside. I knew the truth.

  He took me roughly because it was the only way he could. He spoke to me cruelly because he knew I liked it best. And he held my hips so tightly, he left those finger-shaped bruises on my skin, because he couldn’t bear to let me go.

  THE END

  Thank you!

  Thank you for reading Don’t Let Go! I very much appreciate anything you can do to spread the word including leaving a review or telling a friend who enjoys dark books.

  Yours,

  Skye Warren

  Check out these dark erotic books from Skye Warren:

  TRUST IN ME

  Mia longs for the daily torture to end, but one last task keeps her holding on. In a betrayal of the crime lord who pulled her from the gutter, she’ll free the shipment of human cargo, and if she’s lucky, die in the process. The alternative is unfathomable, even to a woman well-versed in erotic torture. But luck abandons her yet again when she meets the security expert in charge of the shipment and finds herself face to face with her childhood crush. The man she once begged for help. The man who failed her.

  Tyler Martinez is an undercover FBI agent with one chance to right the wrongs of his past. Thrust deep into the seedy world of human trafficking, he must put aside his guilt over abandoning Mia all those years ago in order to save her now.

  Someone’s pulling the strings in this sadistic play on trust, but Tyler and Mia may not live long enough to see the curtain fall. Trust in Me is a story of erotic pain and incipient romance, spiraling ever faster toward betrayal or redemption.

  “Dark, disturbing, haunting, and beautiful, Skye Warren will take you into the depths of depravity but bring you home, safe in the end.” - Kitty Thomas, author of Comfort Food

  Excerpt from Trust in Me:

  “Come, bitch.”

  His words dragged my body across the floor, invisible chains. I hated him for calling me that way. I hated myself more for going to him. And I went the way I knew he wanted me to—crawling. A layer of grime covered the concrete floor of the warehouse, but it was only fitting to crawl through muck. This whole game was dirty, and so was I.

  Carlos looked down at me from his seat with a half-smile. The guy next to him was speaking in low, urgent tones, but I had his attention.

  Other whores might try coy smiles or a flash of cleavage, but if you really knew El Jefe—and, unfortunately, I did—then you knew all you had to do was drop to his feet. I knew what he wanted and how he liked it, knowledge born of years of training. As long as I behaved, he wouldn’t kill me. I craved the release of death, but I was too well trained to earn it.

  I reached his leather shoes and waited. The same Italian leather shoes that had kicked me only recently, but they weren’t a danger to me now. Carlos didn’t like to get too messy when he had guests. Even though I didn’t like performing, I could be glad this new guy was around today. Then again, I’d probably have to service him next.

  Carlos unzipped his pants.

  The guy sucked in a quiet breath, as if we’d shocked him.

  That wouldn’t stop Carlos. He wasn’t an exhibitionist. He was a sadist, and the only thing better than causing someone physical pain was causing emotional discomfort. Every pinch was designed to humiliate, every blow to subjugate. You’re not worthy, they said, and I lapped up every blow to my shrunken ego like the masochist I’d learned to be.

  Eagerly, I leaned forward and sucked the head of his cock with my mouth. Eager because delays were only an excuse to punish me later, and Carlos was nothing if not creative, and extreme, in his punishments. The whips, the knives, the cage. I shuddered.

  His cock was musky today, but not urine-tinged—I could be thankful for that, too. Finding things to be thankful for kept me sane. It could alwa
ys be worse. It had been.

  I worked my tongue in a swirl and laved under the tip of his cock. Carlos grunted.

  It was almost funny, the way the guy next to him stuttered a few starts, as if unsure if he should continue talking to the infamous El Jefe while he was getting his dick sucked. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the guy, just a brief glimpse of jeans and a black t-shirt. Mostly I noticed a big, strong male body. That was enough. Maybe some girls got turned on. I just got scared. It wasn’t about weakness or strength. This was pure survival instinct.

  “Go on, Martinez,” Carlos said gruffly. “Continue.”

  Martinez started talking again, something about deliveries and security. Carlos put his hands over my ears. Not so I couldn’t hear the conversation. He never worried about trusting me because he didn’t think I was smart enough to do anything about it. That was my one victory, however small.

  No, his hands over my ears were a warning. If I didn’t do it on my own, he’d shove my face down so I couldn’t breathe. I could deep throat before I came here, but two years with Carlos had beaten the skill right out of me. He didn’t train me to do better, he beat me to do worse, until my nerves manifested in performance that could be punished. He loved to hold my face down so I couldn’t breathe, until even a shallow blowjob filled me with panic.

  I pushed my head down, forcing his cock to slide along my tongue and sink deep in my throat. Breathe, I told myself firmly, and whatever you do, don’t gag. Gagging didn’t make him angry, it made him horny. The sadistic kind of horny that led to worse things.