Captive

by R. J. Lewis

  “We’ve been through this,” Nixon replied, staring fixedly at me. “I don’t want anyone else, Vix.”

  “Well, you should!”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  Frustration bubbled inside me. I raced to the window and flung the curtains wide. I turned to him, screaming, “What if I threw myself out the window? Is that the only way you’ll let me go?”

  When Nixon didn’t answer, I grabbed the lamp on the table stand beside the television and ripped the cord out of the wall. I flung the lamp against the window and watched it crash into a hundred little pieces.

  The window didn’t even crack.

  “Like I said the last time you did this, the windows are bullet proof, baby,” Nixon explained.

  I was panting now, trembling everywhere. “You won’t even let me kill myself.”

  Nixon’s jaw clenched now, the patience finally leeching out of him. “You’re never going to harm yourself, kitten, I’ll make sure of that. I had it done so others can’t hurt you.”

  Defeated, I flung my arms up in indignation. “I can’t keep living like this, Nixon. You have to let me go!”

  His face remained steady when he answered simply, “Never.”

  “Never?!” I fumed. “Are you trying to make me go crazy? Do you like seeing me like this?”

  He came to me then, and I shook my head, determined to keep him at arm’s length. I grabbed whatever there was on the nightstand and threw it his way. He dodged the comb, the clock, the fucking box of tissues, and he kept moving. I smacked his hands away when he reached out, but he was just a wall that kept on coming. He wrapped his arms around me, and this time I broke. I slammed my fists into his chest, sobbing as he forced me into his embrace. He ran a hand through my wet hair, holding me tightly even as I thrashed at him.

  “Shh, baby,” he murmured into my hair. “Baby, baby, baby…”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  But like usual, he shushed me, rocking me back and forth, using that fucking word of endearment. It had never felt generic coming from him. He said it with so much feeling, it almost felt like my name. I began to settle down, sniffing into his chest, breathing his scent in like it was a drug I couldn’t get enough of.

  I wasn’t aware he was leading me back to the bed until he stopped to pick up the dress. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he only tightened his hold on me.

  “Let me go,” I growled.

  “I want you to get dressed –”

  “I’m not going!”

  “Baby, you’re coming with me whether you like it or not.”

  “I’ll fucking scream, Nixon,” I threatened, glaring up at him. “Everyone in this fucking hotel will hear me!”

  He looked down at me, the calm before the storm. “Now you know I had these walls soundproof, too, baby.”

  I felt suffocated. Anger ripped through me again, churning my insides. I opened my mouth and started to scream when he suddenly pushed me down on the bed and climbed over me, burying his mouth against mine. I bit at him, cutting the wound on his lip open, tasting his blood. He didn’t budge, though. He kissed me, tongue against mine, swallowing my sobs whole while stroking my hair like I was a feral animal he was trying to tame.

  As expected, it escalated. Nixon knew what placated me. He pulled the knot on my robe and let it fall open. I heard him slide his belt off, all the while he caged me in his grip. I thrashed against him, and he held me down with little effort. I heard his zipper come undone, heard his erratic breathing as he fought to contain me. He spread my legs apart, fighting against our storm, against my limbs fighting him off, and then he slid into me. I gasped as he sheathed himself into me. It didn’t hurt. I was wet already. I knew it was coming.

  “Yeah, you wanted this, kitten,” he growled, his hair unruly now. “You wanted to be punished.”

  “No…” I groaned.

  He slid out of me and then back in, causing me to whimper in the pleasure. He smiled cruelly at me. “Yes, Vix, you did.”

  He fucked me hard, his strokes strong and punishing. He kept shushing me gently, riding out my tantrum until I had no energy left in me. I sagged, sobbing aloud, gripping my fingers into his shirt to me. No longer pushing him away, I groaned long and deep, fighting now to keep him to me.

  I ached still from last night. It hurt so much, tears sprang to my eyes. He was swollen and thick, and as wet as I was, it burned every time he pushed into me.

  He kept telling me I wanted this. Kept telling me I needed to be punished and used.

  “You do, you want to be punished, baby.”

  Somewhere along the way I conceded. I told him I did, and when he asked how good it felt for him to be inside me, stretching me wide open, I whimpered that I was going to come.

  And I did. I came hard around his cock, uttering his name like a curse.

  When he came, growling deep in his throat, his forehead plastered to mine, something within me gentled at the sight of his distant eyes looking desperately into mine.

  He was searching.

  Always searching for that connection.

  As I lay panting beneath him, he wrapped his arms around me and scooted me up the bed, resting me in his lap, kissing me softly, his semi-hard cock still inside me.

  We’d been through this song and dance too many times now.

  And just like before, he forced me back into my cage, held the door wide open and waited patiently for me to climb in.

  I climbed in, hating him and myself, though I didn’t know which of the two I hated more.

  My body trembled and the tears fell endlessly. I buried my face into his chest, nuzzling into his warmth. The beast I was trying to get away from ended up being the one I was using to soothe me.

  It was so messed up.

  Finally, I calmed down, and he kept on stroking me, lulling me into a light sleep. I didn’t know how long I was out for, but when I woke up, he was still there, still holding me, still buried inside me.

  My throat hurt from screaming. My eyes ached from crying. I felt…embarrassed for losing my shit.

  Why was he enduring my outbursts? How could he remain so cool with me when I saw what he was like with everyone else?

  Nixon was awful.

  He was cruel and violent.

  He had absolutely no issues killing people with his bare hands.

  Yet he was using his hands now to calm me.

  It was bewildering.

  I almost wished he was cruel to me. If I feared him, I might not react so carelessly.

  “This is your fault,” I found myself saying, stubbornly.

  “Is it?” he replied, inertly.

  “You let me throw my fits.”

  “Do I?”

  I glowered, turning to look up at him. “You do.”

  He looked down at me, and my breath stilled for a beat. There was blood all around his mouth and cheek. The gash in his lip looked worse than ever. Below his jaw, there was a trail of red scratch marks, ending just below the collar of his shirt. My fingers flew to the marks and up to his mouth. I tried to wipe the blood away, but he took my hand into his own to stop me.

  “Nixon,” I breathed out, feeling wretched inside. “I’m so sorry.”

  For all of Nixon’s faults, he never inflicted pain on me to hurt me. He had never been violent or abusive.

  It was such a clusterfuck to be humanizing my kidnapper. I knew it didn’t make sense. I knew, on some base level, I had lost my marbles. This… this toxic dynamic festering like bad meat between us became our norm. Somewhere along the way I had snapped, had reacted in a similar manner, and he hadn’t hurt me for it.

  And now it was all I could do when the cage felt too small.

  “You can make it up to me later,” he said lightly, swallowing my breast in the palm of his big hand. “Right now, I want you to wash up again and get ready.”

  My eyes dimmed. I let out a defeated sigh. “Why do you drag me to these things, Nixon?”

  He pinched my nipple, his
cock stiffening inside me. “Because I like when you’re near me.”

  “So you can control me?”

  “So I can show the world you’re mine.”

  4.

  Vixen…

  I bathed quickly, rinsing off the come between my legs. Nixon simply zipped himself up, even when I told him he stunk of sex. He just smirked at me, not put off at all by it.

  I’d spent so much time losing my shit, I didn’t have enough time to do my hair. I let it fall in dark wet waves down my back. Then I slipped into the dress Nixon had placed back on the bed.

  It was a white, lace, plunge V-neck that ended just above the knee. It hugged me tightly around my waist and hips and left little to the imagination in the cleavage department. Luckily my hair was long enough I could cover the exposing cleavage and not make it so obvious.

  I applied a light layer of make-up and then slipped into high-end brand heels. Another purchase from Nixon. Everything in my wardrobe had been chosen specifically by him. I was his doll, something he could dress up and show off.

  Because, as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, I was very aware this person looking back at me wasn’t me.

  During my student life, I used to live off ramen noodles and get my hair cut with a coupon at this shady salon. My clothes from the local thrift store had holes in them, and I bought make-up from the drug store next to my home. It wasn’t much, and I was on my own, swamped with student debt, employed part-time at a coffee shop a short distance away from the very place Nixon robbed. And while that life sucked in its own way, it was my life.

  I didn’t have that anymore.

  I felt as hollow as an eggshell. My insides had been scooped out of me. For two years, I grew my hair out, had my nails done, got my pussy waxed and my clothing picked – all to appease Nixon.

  Apathetic, I stepped out of the bedroom and was horrified to find Tyrone spread out on the leather black couch. He looked like he’d been sitting there a very long time, and when his eyes cut to mine, I saw the knowing look in their depths.

  Fuck.

  My cheeks reddened, and I looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

  He’d heard my freak out.

  Had probably heard Nixon conciliating me.

  “Holy hell,” Nixon murmured, leaving the kitchen to come to me. There was a look of raw hunger in his expression as his eyes lapped me up and down. “Tyrone, tell me I’m not the luckiest man on the planet.”

  Tyrone laughed, studying me. “Then I’d be lying, Nixon.”

  Nixon came to me, his hands grabbing at my hips. He stood over me, his gaze trapped at the plunge in my dress. Then he kissed me harshly, ruining my lipstick, sticking his tongue in my mouth to taste me. His kiss was quick but thorough. He pulled back, a wild look in his eyes. “I want to run you back into the bedroom and fuck you again in this silly little thing.”

  “Then we’d be late to your meeting,” I replied steadily, though my heart hiccupped in my throat at the idea of being savagely tossed back down again.

  I worked hard to appear bored. I didn’t want him to know it was a tempting thought. Nixon, in all his fucked-up ways, had mastered the art of dominant fucking. He made it like I needed it to breathe.

  I was addicted to fucking.

  He could fuck me all day and it wouldn’t be enough.

  I was sure he liked it that way. I had no other way to spend my days. When he was gone, I was tortured with boredom and long hours trying to quench that aching pulse between my legs.

  My kidnapper had turned me into a nymphomaniac.

  If it wasn’t so fucked up, I would laugh.

  “It’d be worth it, wouldn’t it?” he asked me, his voice low.

  I shrugged one shoulder, appearing unperturbed. He smirked at my expression, no doubt viewing it as a challenge. He didn’t like when I acted distant. In fact, it got under his skin more than anything, and even though he hid it well with his arrogant smiles, I knew it dominated his every thought. He wanted my walls down, and he could only do it through fucking.

  I wondered just how much that bothered him right then.

  Tyrone cleared his throat. “Ah, well, if you guys are going to have another round, give me a heads-up. I feel like I was part of a threesome, and in reality, you know how those usually go. Two people fuck madly while one stands by doing fucking nothing.”

  Nixon smiled. “Tyrone, I’d cut your balls off and feed them to you before I’d let you in my bedroom.”

  “Never stopped you sharing before.”

  Nixon’s jaw tightened. “I’m not sharing Vix.” He tried to say it coolly, but I saw the vein in his neck throb. I was strictly off-limits.

  Tyrone chuckled and stood up. He was almost as tall as Nixon but nowhere near as filled out. Tyrone was dark and beautiful in his own way. He didn’t grouch at everyone, or act aggressive, and he was generally less of an arrogant asshole.

  Sometimes I wished he’d kidnapped me instead.

  But Tyrone didn’t kidnap. He was too normal for that. Plus, his dad worked in parliament, and hiding things like a kidnapped victim in a hotel on an island in the middle of nowhere didn’t seem likely to work.

  “You know if Hobbs is here?” Nixon asked as we moved to the door.

  “No,” Tyrone answered, “but everyone arrived the last time I checked.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Yeah, the usual crew.” Tyrone’s eyes flashed back to me, adding with a smirk, “And Doll.”

  I paused mid-step, groaning inwardly.

  I fucking hated Doll.

  5.

  Vixen…

  There was a conference room on the ground floor of the hotel. It was a huge, opulent room with a long cedar table and twelve chairs. The walls were sandy beige with a few overpriced artisan paintings hanging and a sparkling chandelier dangling over the table that looked ridiculously over the top.

  The floor to ceiling window boasted an incredible view of the island coast. No boats anchored on this side of the island. Nixon had once said there was not enough shelter for them, and thus, the ocean looked infinite, with the mountains in the distance adding that extra breathless element to an otherwise spectacular view.

  Upon entering, I gravitated to the window first thing. I ignored the faces in the room. Along the way, I scooped up a full glass of champagne on a diamond encrusted tray and took a small sip.

  I was very aware I passed Doll. She was sitting in a chair, her eyes already on me as I went. She was wearing some trashy looking red dress, and her legs were on top of the table, completely uncaring of the view she was letting everyone in on.

  “I see you haven’t gotten tired of your pet, Nixon,” she commented, snickering.

  I threw a bored look her way. Despite wearing that trashy ass dress, despite choosing the most butch position that left little to the imagination, Doll looked like a bronze goddess. She was a Puerta Rican beauty with a dimpled smile and tits to die for.

  Shame she was such a fucking bitch.

  “Watch your fucking tongue, Doll,” Nixon retorted.

  I stopped at the window and hid my smile. Nixon didn’t accept anyone talking any kind of shit about me.

  “I meant no offense,” she replied, delicately. “Actually, I’m thinking of having my own pet too, but I hear they bite, and I wouldn’t be keen on putting one down. Has that ever crossed your mind, Nixon? Having to put your pet down if it bites?”

  “Doll,” a voice said in warning.

  I recognized the voice.

  Rowan.

  He spoke in a business-y tone. I’d heard a lot of their conversations and knew a bit about him. He was a real estate mogul with a lot of enemies. Apparently getting to the top meant getting his hands dirty. You wouldn’t think it by looking at him. He was a tall, solid dude in a suit.

  “Doll, I will put you down if you don’t shut the fuck up in the next ten seconds,” Nixon told her. “Killing you would be so easy, I think it would be fun, and nobody would miss the ice princess.”


  “Calm it down, guys,” Tiger intervened, sitting across from her. He was another dude I’d run into multiple times in the meeting rooms. He was stocky, short and bald. I knew nothing else about him. He kept to himself, his identity completely shrouded in secrecy. “We need to work with each other, so let’s tone it down.”

  “I’m just making conversation,” Doll retorted, defensively. “Asking what to do if a pet bites isn’t wrong, and I shouldn’t be threatened death for it. I’m going to tell Hobbs about this.”

  Oh, my God. She was such a child.

  “Doll, you instigated this,” Rowan said.

  “No, that’s alright,” Nixon replied. “Run to daddy if it makes you feel better, princess.”

  “He isn’t my daddy, asshole,” Doll growled.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Fuck you, Nixon, and fuck your little chihuahua in the corner. You should put it down before she claws your fucking face next.”

  Was she referring to the claw marks on Nixon’s neck? I shut my eyes tightly, cringing. He should have changed into something less obvious, not show them off like little trophies.

  “Baby gave these to me in a different sort of fit, Doll,” Nixon returned cockily.

  My cheeks warmed. Thank God they couldn’t see my face.

  That seemed to be the ice breaker. Chuckles filled the room. Doll let out a hard laugh, her dark mood diffused. “Touché, Nixon, you sexy bastard.”

  I took a bigger sip, waiting for my head to swim.

  These people were so fucking dysfunctional.

  This was my life. Being around people with names like Doll and Tiger.

  Jesus.

  I was sure there would be another dozen more spats before the meeting was over, but they never took it too seriously. They didn’t need to when they had one purpose in mind: to get the job done, get paid and get out.

  And they all had their own purpose for being here.

  People like Nixon and Rowan weren’t driven to get paid – they had more money than they knew what to do with. And Tyrone, who was born in a privileged household and sent off to boarding school while his father immersed himself in his career in politics, didn’t have to be here, either. No, Tyrone was driven purely from a place of rebellion – one taste of the fast life and he was hooked, and he probably got a kick out of living a double life.