Miguel brings her meals and books. He’s nervous and shy, refusing to look into her eyes or engage her in conversation.
“Did he forbid you to speak to me?” she asks him.
He shakes his head.
She says gently, “Then it’s OK for you to talk to me. I won’t bite, regardless of what he tells you.”
Still, Miguel keeps mute, looking shyly at her from beneath his thick lashes.
She says, “Would it be too much for me to ask for some clothes?”
She has not been given any clothes to wear. She has taken to wearing her towel and some sheets she found in the closet.
Miguel shakes his head, clearly troubled. He says haltingly, “Sir . . . he no want you wear clothes.”
Oh, so the boy speaks. She feels sorry for him.
“Miguel, can you please tell me where we are?”
He looks away and begins clearing her empty tray. “Sir . . . he no want me talk to you. No ask me no more, please.”
Is he local? She can’t place his accent, but she thinks he’s Central American. Not Mexican, but one of the smaller countries. Then again, it’s hard to tell. She hasn’t been out of America before, thanks to her brutal self-imposed working schedule to rise to the top. How meaningless it all seems now – this rat race she has put herself through. And now look at where she is. From a successful, high-flying corporate executive, she has been reduced to the role of kidnapped sex doll – her body subject to the whims of powerful men.
Worse still, despite the obvious danger she is in, she finds it perversely exciting to be the object of desire. To be in the tug of war between two identical, completely dominant alpha males. She is going to get killed for this, but at the same time, she has never been more alive than before.
What does that tell her about herself?
Just when she thinks she would die of worry and loneliness, Hugh comes on in the third day.
“Your boyfriend hasn’t replied,” he remarks.
She’s actually glad to see him. To see anyone, actually, in her isolation. But she’s also frightened. Hugh is a whipping electrical livewire – a dangerously unpredictable mess.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Really?” He struts to her. She’s wearing a bath towel, wrapped just above her breasts. He strokes her face. “Of course. My big brother doesn’t do love and affection. He doesn’t do romance either, or anything women claim they crave. But that doesn’t stop them from flocking to him. From loving him.”
He dips his hand to the swell of her breasts.
“As I’m sure you do.”
She nods warily. He runs a finger over the skin of her right breast just above the towel. His voice is husky and his eyes are dark.
“Why hide your beauty under this?”
He loosens the towel. It drops to her ankles. A shiver passes through her – mostly fear. But there’s also that skein of buried desire in it, deep and very, very complex. Hugh has a face she adores after all. A body to die for. Even if his mind is unstable and the soul that resides within is not the one she loves.
The thing is . . . how unstable? Would he strangle her right now – his possible cash cow? She’s his bargaining chip after all. The trouble is she doesn’t know him. The same way she doesn’t know Channing at all, come to think of it.
How did she get herself into this mess?
He caresses her breasts. Their tips, so pointy and inviting. Her nipples harden despite her misgivings. All she has to do is look into his eyes and imagine . . .
Submit.
“Tell me what he likes to do to you. He likes to make you dress up, that’s for sure.” Hugh bends his lips down to nuzzle her neck. “What else does he like to do? This?”
This is followed by his mouth on hers, his tongue insistently probing through her moist lips. If only he knew what Channing really does and does not to do her . . . but she’s not going to tell him. He licks her mouth and sucks at her tongue. She wishes she can say he feels exactly like Channing . . . but she doesn’t actually know how Channing kisses, so she has no comparison. She finds herself responding to the kiss nevertheless. She lets his tongue invade her, roll all over and across her inner cheeks.
He doesn’t let her come up for air. He seizes her face and kisses her savagely, tipping her head backward. She’s drowning in his kiss. Almost drowning, but for the little voice that screams at her to rein in, to stop enjoying this intimacy with this madman.
He senses her pulling away. He pauses.
“I’m not a monster, Susan, in spite of what he tells you. Nothing is as it seems.”
“I know you tried to burn us alive,” she whispers.
“I burned his house down to give him a warning. I didn’t know you were in it.” He flops her head back, exposing her neck. He bends down to kiss her throat.
“I don’t believe you,” she says softly. His mouth sucks at the soft skin of her neck. Delicious tingles spiral down from his love bites, moistening her sex.
Her heart is beating very fast. Why is she responding to him? Why does her body betray her so?
“Believe what you want. I don’t care.”
“You must care. Otherwise why are you doing this to your brother?”
He grabs her breasts and squeezes them with mounting pressure. “Because of what’s fair.”
He pushes her down on the bed. Her hair spreads out in a tangled fan and her stomach clenches. He’s extremely strong. He snares her right wrist to the bedpost and takes a red piece of cloth out of his back pocket. He binds her there.
He does the same to her left wrist.
“He lies to tie you up, doesn’t he?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, I’ve done my research on him. Apparently, he’s spent the last ten years of his life going to bondage clubs and picking up women who would let him do this to them. He can have his pick of any woman he wants, and yet he only goes for a certain type.”
Yes, she suspects as much.
He seizes her ankles next and bends her body double. Her trepidation increases. He secures her right ankle to where her right wrist is. He repeats the maneuver with her left. Her legs are now positioned in a very embarrassing and helpless ‘V’, as are her arms. She tugs at her bonds, but he has tied them too tightly, but not tightly enough to cut off her circulation.
She can see the desire light up his eyes. It’s a desire matched by the sudden and florid spurt of juices in her pussy, something that both surprises and mortifies her greatly. Her sex is so exposed, so open to his hungry gaze.
He says, “Tell me. Does he like to suck your tits? Your cunt?”
Channing has never applied to his mouth to her erotic parts before. He has always been more of a finger person. She has never minded because he has brought her to the edge every time and more with merely what he chose to do. If there has been one thing she’d wanted from him, it would be for him to kiss her on the mouth.
But why is she thinking of Channing in the past tense?
She watches Hugh with a mixture of fear and desire as he undresses. The desert rose tattoo is very prominent above his right nipple.
“What really happened?” she says as he lowers his mouth to her pussy. “What did he do?”
He does not reply as he slathers his tongue over her quivering nether lips. A thrill flowers within her warm wedges, especially as he laves her glistening clit. She is doubly sensitized because she is so open. Her juices are pouring in a deluge from her hole.
He doesn’t seem to care. He laps her creams and pushes his tongue into her slit. She lets out a gasp of pleasure. Her fists bunch at their tethered posts.
He continues to assault her folds and orifice, sliding his tongue in between her labia and clit and digging in mercilessly. Paeans of erotic sensation stream and undulate all over her pussy. Oh, it has been so long since a man has gone down on her. She has almost forgotten what it’s like. His tongue strokes are clever and very, very invasive. He adds his fingers into the mix, twee
zing her clit and inner lips and wriggling into her hole.
She starts to pant. Her senses are being stimulated all at once by the morass of his probing body parts. Her climax is starting to build. He massages her clit, squeezing its tender little morsel of a hood now and again. Each time he does that, he sends a wave of exquisite pleasure cresting throughout her pubic mound, so much so that it becomes a slow, wavelike build – each wave buoyed by a gradual increase in its peaks.
She arches her back and sinks into the bed. Her bonds are very tight and her legs are very stretched. This proffers her pussy to his skillful lips and tongue even more. He licks, sucks, nips and nibbles, and all the while he is thrusting two fingers in and out of her pussy in a semblance of fornication.
Oh, she’s going to come. She writhes and wriggles, whipping her head back and forth on the pillow for the sheer pleasure of what he’s making her feel. She has no right to feel this way. He is after all her tormentor and a deranged psychopath.
A killer.
Just like Channing.
Her road to her orgasm mounts. Rising, cresting, rolling upwards like an unstoppable wheel with enough momentum to reach the top. Her breathing escalates – little short sharp bursts of hunger.
And then he stops.
Oh fuck, she thinks.
“Let me guess,” he says. He looks up at her from narrowed blue eyes, his chin slick with her creams. “He doesn’t eat pussy.”
She wonders how much he knows about his brother. Her heart is still thudding so hard that she is sure it will break her ribs. Will he hurt her? Will he fuck her? Will he hurt her as he fucks her?
“To answer your question before I was so enticingly engaged by your cunt, he tried to kill me.”
She breathes in. This is where she must exercise judgment. He blames me for something I didn’t do, Channing’s voice echoes through the cavern of her memories.
“How so?” she says.
He pushes himself up her body so that he’s right on top of her. His eyes bore into hers like drill bits.
“We were in Iraq. It was the last days of the war. There was killing everywhere. Looting, pillaging, raping. Channing was a captain in the US army. Decorated war hero.” Hugh’s tone is bitter. “I flew in as a freelance photographer to capture what I can. That’s when the news trickled over that someplace east of Baghdad, a warlord – a mighty rich one sitting on an Iraqi Fort Knox of gold bullion – was drowning women who didn’t obey his commands in swimming pools. Word has it they were his wives.”
Channing has never told her the story in such detail before, and she now listens with bated breath. Hugh’s magnificent cock is poised at her entrance. She tenses. Her pussy is wet for him even as her mind rages against what he is about to do. It’s such a dichotomy.
He spears into her. The rush of hot flesh expands her walls so suddenly that she shrieks.
“Channing rounded up a posse. I tagged along. The US military to the rescue again.”
He begins to thrust into her without allowing her to get used to his cock’s width.
“We arrived there at the citadel, expecting a blood bath. Instead, the warlord welcomed us with cautious but open arms. He knew Baghdad would fall. He wanted to be on our good side so that he can keep whatever ill-gotten gains he siphoned off the people during Saddam’s reign. Or so he reckoned.”
He’s panting slightly as he talks. It’s amazing. She hasn’t met anyone who can fuck and tell a story at the same time.
“Everything we heard about the drowned women were lies, he told us. He showed us several women covered in burqa and assured us they were his wives. He could have shown us the maids for all we knew and we wouldn’t know the difference.
“And then out came his daughter, Alia.”
His breath stills as he says this. This is significant, she knows. Another major jigsaw piece falls from the sky.
“The warlord nicknamed her Desert Rose. She was as beautiful as the setting sun. She was his favorite.” His tone is one of awe.
She looks into Hugh’s eyes, which are now distant. Oh my God, she thinks, her pulse slamming against her neck. He must have loved her. Susan pictures her face, dusky and exotic in the moonlight. She must have been beautiful, slender.
Hugh continues, “Alia was no wilting flower who would blend into the background. She held an astrophysics degree from Stanford. She had an IQ through the roof. We both fell in love with her, Channing and I. As fate would have had it, she fell in love with both of us.”
His face twitches with pain.
“But more with Channing, I believe. He was the commanding officer. He was dashing in his uniform, brimming with authority and American G.I. power. We both fucked her in secret. She came to both our rooms at night, trying to keep her affair with either one of us secret from everyone else. Including the both of us. But we both knew, even though we never spoke about it.
“Channing had his own agenda in mind, and it was not exactly in line with the US army’s. We were supposed to declare everything we found to Uncle Sam so that our government would take it . . . nah, steal it . . . so they can buy more arms and sack more countries. Channing thought Uncle Sam should spread some of the spoils.”
His fucking escalates in rigor. His breathing comes out in gasps now. In this position, the head of his cock is angled at her G-spot. It knocks into her repeatedly, each slam a sledgehammer of purpose. Oh, oh, oh, oh. She grunts each time he thrusts into her.
He’s getting rougher.
“He found the gold bullion, buried in secret vaults in the dungeons. Then it all went to shit. The warlord found out about us and Alia. He went berserk. He said we had dishonored him as guests. We had broken the laws of hospitality. He threw us into the dungeons. He tortured us and Channing’s men.”
Hugh goes still when he says this, pausing in mid-fuck. She has a vivid picture of the beautiful twins chained to the stone dungeon walls and being whipped, their naked bodies gleaming with sweat.
Oh my God . . . is that why Channing’s sexual needs are so entrenched in bondage and domination? Were the boys compromised in any way during their stint in the dungeons?
“But he didn’t kill us. I think he didn’t want to bring down the wrath of the American military onto the citadel. The warlord decided to cut a deal with Channing as the captain. He let Channing go. What they discussed, we were not privy to. But the next thing I knew, the warlord had let everyone go except for me.”
He turns his dead blue eyes to her and begins to rock his hips again.
“So you see, Channing left me there to rot. And I don’t know why. He has always been the favorite son. He has always been the brilliant one, the popular one. He has no reason to want me out of the way. And yet he still did it.”
Her gut wrenches. She has no doubt that Hugh believes this is exactly what happened. And she can understand why he is so freaking pissed.
Hugh continues, “I don’t quite know what happened next, but there was a fire in the citadel. I was left there in my dungeon. But the fire eroded a portion of the wall and I managed to escape. I have no doubt Channing orchestrated the whole thing. He took the gold, killed everyone – or so he thought – so that there would be no witnesses to what he and his remaining friends did. He left even Alia, who loved him more than life itself.”
Susan’s mind is churning. Even as her erotic senses are being massaged to distraction, her brain tumbles with information overload. Did Channing really do this? But why, why, why? She remembers what Channing told her.
There was a shootout. We lost eight of our men. The citadel went up in flames. Hugh was trapped inside. I tried to find him, but the fire was too horrific, too hellish. We had to run for our lives. So I left him in there and mourned him for dead.
Nothing of what Hugh has said contradicts with this version at all. In fact, Channing left out huge swathes of the story. The only difference – yet unexplained – was Channing’s actual motive.
Did he really do everything Hugh said he did?
<
br /> She doesn’t know Channing at all. Only that she is hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him, God help her.
“So you see,” Hugh says, bearing down on her as he races towards his climax, “your boyfriend is a murderer. And he would very likely get you murdered too.”
His throbbing cock focuses on her G-spot. He cores her so effectively that she has no choice but to send herself over the edge. As her mind explodes in a white-hot guilty frenzy of fireworks and sparks, he bends down his head to seize her mouth in a ravenous kiss.
This is so, so, so twisted, but she has no choice but to let him come inside her too.
I don’t believe Channing is a murderer.
I don’t believe Channing left you and Alia to burn.
I refuse to believe it.
But at the back of her head, a little hammer chips away at her resolve, creating a crater of doubt.
What if everything Hugh said is true?
3
For three more days, she is a prisoner in her room without hearing any updates from Channing. Her soul has withdrawn into its shell. Her heart has broken and scattered in a million little pieces.
Meanwhile, her deadline is looming. If Channing doesn’t pay up, she will be dead in the most creative of ways.
Hugh was right.
Channing doesn’t care about her. Doesn’t care enough to raise half a billion dollars to save her ass, which he hardly knows anyway. Why should he, right? If he has murdered so many people in cold blood, as Hugh said he had, then what is the value of her fucking meager life?
She has lived all her life burning the candle at both ends. Her dreams and ambitions have always been tied up in corporate America. Until she met Channing. And in a whirlwind, she suddenly realized she had never really lived before.
Never really loved before.
But is he worth loving?
Her mind keeps rotating with the possibilities. Is he? Is he not? Did he? Did he not? Will he? Will he not? And after all that, the end result is the same. She’s crushed with not knowing what will happen.
His Indecent Secrets (Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire, BDSM Erotic Romance) Page 2