by Celia Crown
“I will be back by lunch,” he mentions offhandedly.
I nod again, and he frowns.
Vasari runs a finger down to the front of my throat, tenderly caressing and kneading it. My earlier sense of danger has disappeared; now, I feel doubt about my well-being.
“I have fenugreek seeds in the cabinet; make yourself a cup of tea.”
I’ve never heard of fenugreek seeds. Given our conversation, I assume it is something to help my voice.
His thoughtfulness doesn’t match with his domineering commands from just a few minutes ago.
He stands and slowly buttons his shirt.
Disappointment hits me faster than I can blink. I want to ogle his thick muscles, and it takes all my self-control not to run a hand down his black trousers.
He looks so sexy when he is wearing a suit.
“Be a good girl for me while I’m gone,” he says as he runs a gentle hand through my hair.
I’m a pet, I think. The revelation sits appallingly well with me, unsettling me at the same time.
He leaves the master bedroom before I find my voice. The silence leaves me sitting limply on his bed.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring into space, but a bird sailing over the wall breaks my train of thought.
I wash up in the bathroom and make my way to the walk-in closet. Coming to a halt, I realize that I don’t have any clothes here. Rummaging through his clothes won’t do any good.
I feel elated as I rub the skin Vasari had just touched, and my pulse races.
Seriously, why am I happy?
Shaking my head, I enter the kitchen and find a healthy breakfast sitting on the counter. The flavor explodes in my mouth as I take the first bite.
I’ve always thought a man is more attractive if he can cook, probably because I can’t. I want to be taken care of, and his culinary skills wonderfully satisfy that need.
After cleaning the dishes and putting them away, I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. Making myself at home in his house is ridiculously disrespectful of his privacy.
I could explore the common areas and entertain myself with the telescope. But a strangely voyeuristic desire steers me in another direction.
My knee bangs into the coffee table, and a passport falls to the floor. As I pick it up, Vasari’s face grabs my attention.
His attractive features are unfairly striking. Everyone knows that passport photos are not usually the most flattering.
Everyone at the club wonders if “Vasari” is a first name or a surname.
A giddy smile comes to my lips. I know one of his intimate secrets now, and it is mine to keep.
“Ah,” I hum awkwardly.
I see his birthday under his name. Oh, oh. Today’s his birthday.
I drop his passport on the coffee table with chaotic thoughts running through my head.
My fingers are tingling, and I have a perplexing desire to make a birthday cake for him.
He’s letting me stay here until they catch the perpetrator. The least I can do is make a housewarming gift. I will use the kitchen and only touch the things needed to make the cake.
I nod with determination as I stroll to the well-organized kitchen stocked with fresh ingredients.
I remember my mother’s famous tiramisu cake. She had a taste for bittersweet food, and I learned to love it as well.
As I make the dessert, the silence is peaceful and cozy. The sunlight shines through the massive windows with a view of his gorgeous backyard.
The beautiful dessert sits on a platter, tempting me to take a slice.
I grin proudly at my masterpiece. I also managed to keep the kitchen relatively clean.
A familiar nip at the top of my head makes me lift my eyes from the cake. Sputtering in shock, I stagger back at the sight of Vasari loosening his tie.
“W-welcome back!” I squeak. “I was just—”
“You made a cake,” he comments dryly.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I twist my cocoa-stained fingers.
“What are you sorry about?” he questions as he steps to the kitchen counter.
The open collar of his white dress shirt reveals the ink on his muscular chest.
“I made a mess of your kitchen,” I admit sheepishly.
“I did say you should make yourself at home,” he reminds me with a raised eyebrow.
“How long have you been watching me?” I ask.
Vasari doesn’t answer right away, and I squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I continue with a shaky smile.
I didn’t plan on turning his kitchen into a war zone. He’s back a bit before lunchtime, so it’s safe to assume he’s worried about another arrow coming at me.
Or he just finished his business early, the logical side of me notes.
“I don’t.”
I echo slowly with a bashful flush on my cheeks, “You don’t.”
“I know my limits; protecting you is part of our arrangement.”
Alright, we’re on the same page. I am just paranoid about the mess in the kitchen.
“Oh,” I mumble to fill the silence.
I clear my throat. “I made you a cake.”
“Why?” he questions.
I scratch my cheek warily. “I accidentally knocked your passport off the table and saw your birthday.”
I thrust a fork at him and grin as he takes the utensil. He digs into the beautifully presented cake and brings a piece to his mouth.
I wait with anticipation.
“I just went by what I thought you’d like,” I blurt.
His lips lift with mischievous interest. “What do you mean?”
Nothing shows on his face as he digs into the cake for another bite.
“You remind me of Carolina Reaper pepper and bitter melons,” I confess carefully.
He hums with approval. “It’s not sweet enough.”
Well, that’s a surprise.
“I didn’t expect you to have a sweet tooth,” I note with a curious smile.
He puts the fork down and runs his tongue over his lips. “Your cake doesn’t meet my standards.”
The distracting motion puts me into a trance before I snap out of it. I could’ve embarrassed myself in front of my boss. He’s the last person I want to see my awkward side.
“What? My cake is delicious; I’ve been making it for years,” I protest with an affronted gasp.
“I don’t doubt it.” He nods while smiling roguishly.
“It’s my mother’s recipe. You can’t insult her secret recipe like that,” I grumble as I glare at him.
“My taste,” he says as he snags my chin, “is you.”
Pulling me over the countertop, he presses his lips to mine.
I taste the bittersweet cream first, and then his rich taste follows. It hurts as he nips on my bottom lip, but he soothes it with a sly curl of his tongue.
Pressing my hand against his chest, I feebly search for air as he hums my name.
The sound of a clasp closing reaches my ears, and a cold sensation takes over my wrist. Begrudgingly, I yank my lips from his addictive ones to look down.
“It’s a gift,” he rasps against my forehead.
It’s a gorgeous platinum bracelet with his name etched on the inside.
“Thank you,” I whisper impulsively.
I don’t want to go there, but my mind is already warning me.
Softly laughing, I trace the design with my finger. There must be a way to bring it up without sounding ungrateful for the expensive gift.
Like a mindless idiot, I joke, “It’s a collar for humans.”
What else am I supposed to think?
He put the bracelet on my wrist without telling me, engraved with his name. If that’s not physical ownership, then I don’t know what is.
“I didn’t notice,” he says.
He doesn’t bother to hide the lie, not when his stormy gray hues darken with delight.
&nb
sp; His wicked smile is even worse as my heart blissfully soars.
Chapter Six
Vasari
It’s been over a week since Emmy started living with me. The club has reopened, and the police are still useless.
I live in a safe neighborhood with excellent security, but I don’t trust her to walk outside alone. The house down the street could contain a sadistic bastard with a penchant for young women for all I know.
I don’t interact with my neighbors. I have better things to do than listen to their nonsense as they try to one-up each other.
I’m not oblivious to the whispers about my lack of participation in the community. They falsely assume that I am involved in illicit activities because I own several nightclubs.
They even wonder how I can afford my expensive home if I am not trafficking in drugs.
Why is it so hard for them to believe that nightclubs can be extremely profitable?
I hold my clubs to the highest standards because their reputation reflects on me. I don’t want my name associated with illegal conduct or drugs like Ecstasy.
As a vilely possessive man, I have no problem stooping that low in private. For the sake of my sanity and Emmy’s safety, I have to take action.
I don’t want her to think my despicable behavior is her fault.
I will forgive myself for tonight’s actions.
My bedroom door creaks open, and the dim light in the hall helps me see. I slip inside to observe the girl sleeping in my bed, under my comforter, and touched by my clothes.
I’m jealous of clothes. Fucking hell, this is embarrassing.
Closing the door, I can’t see a thing after the hall light disappears.
Carefully walking in the darkness of the bedroom, I extend a hand to touch anything that will indicate my location. I make it to the bed, clenching a metal case in my hand as I sit with a heavy sigh.
Why am I not talking myself out of this?
Am I that sick?
I know I’m an awful man. The thought of chaining Emmy reveals my despicable intention to make it a horrifying reality.
The admission doesn’t shock me; this has been imprinted in my genes.
“You’re lucky it’s me, little girl,” I murmur as the night lamp gradually lightens the room.
The shadows on her face elongate as I keep the light low enough to avoid disturbing her sleep. I want to see how much of a deep sleeper she is.
The possibilities of what I can do to her are endless.
“You’re a monster,” I chastise myself.
Touching Emmy’s soft hair, I wrap the loose strands around her ear. Leaning in, I inhale her delicate scent.
As expected, she doesn’t stir.
I stifle a growl of dismay as I focus on the task I’m here to perform.
Opening the metal box, I see the syringe that is the remaining symbol of my morality.
It is the last chance to change my mind, but Emmy’s Vasari is not an upstanding citizen.
I pick up the syringe and hold it up to the night lamp.
I flip Emmy over with her back facing me and brush her messy hair to one side. My finger traces the grooves of her spinal cord before stopping at the base of her neck.
Contemplation comes over me once more. It is not for an internal moral debate; I am just thinking about what will be most convenient later.
It’s a risk I won’t take; I’m not medically qualified to mess with her spine.
I choose to insert the needle into the muscle that is four inches down from her left shoulder.
Putting the syringe back in the case, I close it and set the box on the nightstand. I stare at my phone until the screen lights up with a red dot blinking scornfully at me.
It is a temporary situation; I don’t plan on keeping the tracker implanted in her for long. Just until I am sure the arrow incident was a one-time thing.
I can’t keep an eye on her if she’s adamant about going back to her condo. If my implied threats don’t keep her in my home, I will have no choice but to confine her.
My home is a cushy prison for her.
My phone clangs against the metal box as I set it down. The sound doesn’t wake her up, not a muscle twitches. So, I feel empowered to do more.
How could I not?
She’s practically asking me to take advantage of her. Our relationship is now established. She can call it whatever she wants, but saying she is my girlfriend sounds childish.
“Girlfriend”’ implies delicate feelings, infatuations for children to explore.
My feelings for Emmy are more like a world of deadly mania, too deep and dark for those who’ve never experienced finding “the one.”
“My little girl,” I murmur as I turn her over.
Her lips aren’t the only supple thing that I want to kiss, to eat. I’m hungry for her, greedy for her sweetness to roll down my throat while I make her lovely body shake.
I shut the night lamp off and climb under the comforter. My hands grope her supple thighs; their softness lets my fingers sink into them.
She smells of a sweetness that's being tainted by my rich scent.
Her slumbering form relaxes as I inch my fingers under her frilly panties. I bought them for her, in white lace. They should remind her how perverse an obsessed man can be.
They are a symbol of her innocence, untouched forbidden territory. I am the sin that will bring carnage to her delectable pussy.
As I slide the panties down, her potent scent makes me delirious. Without wasting more time, I settle myself between her spread thighs and inhale her deliciousness.
My head is pounding as I growl in frustration. A lapse in judgment shakes me to the core as I shove my face into her little cunt. Her thighs twitch under my hands, her needy clit quivering against my nose as I breathe deeply.
I’m a fucking filthy pervert.
Her virginity sweetens my tongue as I lick from her untouched little hole to her sensitive clit.
I shouldn’t push my luck, but I can’t help it. I’m a weak man when it comes to Emmy. My little girl is ripe for the taking, helpless against the yearning of my raging blood, and ready to be mine.
Pulling back requires a lot of mental discipline, and my wandering hands urgently push her thighs down to the bed.
I lick her tiny wet slit, flicking the soft folds apart to dip into her tight hole. My imagination is deadly as my cock lurches at the thought of her glistening pussy begging me to stretch my fat cock inside her.
I would lose what little control I have left if I turned on the lights and saw stringy slick clinging to her pink cunt.
My tactical decision is saving her tonight.
She should be grateful.
My stiff fingers spread her little folds, and the sticky mess smudges my fingertips. The intoxicating scent causes dizziness as I suck on her swollen clit.
She shifts with a whine, loudly enough to hear from under the comforter.
Life wouldn’t be as fulfilling without taking some risks, right?
I lift my head and release her tiny clit from my lips to throw the comforter off. The midnight air cools my skin, but it dilutes the pungent scent of her cunt.
I reach for the night lamp, putting it on the lowest setting as my eyes adjust.
Returning to my place between her thighs, I’m once again breathless. I didn’t expect such an exhilarating sight, nor was I expecting her pussy to be so drenched.
I underestimated how enthusiastic I have been about finally tasting her honey.
I pull apart her juicy folds to witness a trickle of clear slick drooling out of the reddened hole.
Gathering up the spilled wetness and slowly inching my finger inside her, I listen with heightened sensitivity to track her whimpering.
I tear my eyes away from my wet finger to gaze at her pretty face. Sleep has a stronger hold on her than the pleasure I am giving her right now.
Her rippling muscles on my finger get my attention as I wiggle the digit jestingly. She mewls s
oftly and buries her face into my pillow. Her light pink cheeks turn a lovely shade of red as I push another finger inside.
She’s too soft, and the sponginess squelches as I fuck her with my fingers. The rough fingertips scrape and stretch her virgin walls in preparation for my cock.
Not tonight, though.
I’ve trained her enough for now. I fear I’ll become the monster I promised myself not to be, especially not at the risk of losing her.
She softly moans my name in her sleep.
Caution fades away as my thumb crushes her swollen clit with rolling strokes in tandem with curling my fingers to hit the squishy spot.
Her spongy walls suck my fingers with hot gushes of cum flooding through the quivering hole I’m plugging with my thick digits. She sobs quietly as she writhes on the bed, still oblivious to my shameful exploits.
“I’m not hurting you, little girl,” I murmur, congratulating myself for the faint trace of virtue.
Integrity is overrated.
It’s not the real me. I will take and take until she asks me to stop, but then I’ll ask her to give me more.
My selfishness knows no bounds; boundaries are just a nuisance.
“You want me,” I whisper as I kiss her below the ear.
Her pulse skips a beat in response to my unspoken question. I grin against her flushed skin as my sharp teeth mark her. She doesn’t bruise easily, so that gives me a fairly wide range to handle her roughly.
“It’s fine,” I mumble in a haze of delusion. “I want you. You’ve been a good girl. You waited for me, didn’t you?”
My jaw aches as I clench my teeth tightly.
“I can’t,” I hiss huskily. “I can’t; I don’t want to hurt you.”
She mumbles incoherently and turns her face to the other side, her lips kissing my cheek as she whispers my name.
It’s gone. Everything’s gone. The sound of my laborious breathing, the dimness of the light, and the delectable taste of her pussy—everything vanishes.
Before I can come to my senses, my hand is around my cock, and the tip is inside her sucking hole.
I can still fix this and turn my mistake around.
“Vasari,” she mumbles irresistibly.
I can’t. It’s too late, and I’m not strong enough to stop the slurping tightness from swallowing more of my thick cock.