by Lana Sky
Drives.
Me.
Wild. Wild like a thunderstorm with deadly lightning. Wild like a fucking tornado. He rips me to shreds. Tears me apart.
And I never stood a chance.
Chapter 18
“I see you,” I croak out again, relieved that I don’t hear another cruel advance—just silence and my own frantic breathing. Does he believe me? Does it even matter?
“Me,” he echoes in a heart-stopping undertone. “Then show me.”
Alarm jolts through my skin, clashing with the building orgasm. I’m obeying him down to the fucking T: I’m getting myself off with touch alone. Something I’ve never, ever done in front of another person. Or because of another person. My head swims with the conflicting sensations. I can’t think…
“Look at me.”
My eyes fly open and, this time, I watch him approach. He comes directly between my spread legs, staring down at my still-moving fingers.
When his eyes meet mine, my hand quakes, presses harder. Faster.
“You’re thinking of me?” He laughs in that sinister, awful way, slowly shaking his head. “What about me?”
He flings the question at me like another test, but this time, I know the answer by heart. My eyes drift shut again and I focus on the image taunting me, feeding the heat building in my blood. God, there are too many fucking answers. My mouth opens, but only a million broken words and fragmented sentences spill out.
“Your face,” I hear myself croak. But there’s more. “You with the belt—” My entire body jolts as if remembering the biting sting of each lash. The look in his eye. The sounds he made. “Your voice…your—”
“I get you off?” He phrases the statement differently this time: colder, harder.
The mattress shifts. Suddenly, my hair is in his grip, and when I open my eyes, his face is inches from mine. Those eyes are midnight, his mouth a snarl of bitter confusion.
“I get you off?” he repeats. “Or is it the pain?” His nails dig into my scalp, drawing a gasp and making my eyes well up and sting.
Fuck. The burning pinch alone is too much. I shiver, feeling my own finger slide inside me, desperate for friction—only to be violently ripped away.
“Do I get you off?” Maxim asks, snarling the words into my face one by one as his grip threatens to snap my wrist.
All I can do is nod. “Y-yes.”
For the longest time, he stares into my eyes. Stares through me. Beyond me—maybe as far as his fucked-up past. I don’t know what finally drags him back. It could be the moan that sticks in my throat when his weight begins to press into my lower half. One of his knees nudges my inner thighs. God, the friction. I can’t take it.
“Prove it,” he commands, his breath harsh against my earlobe. “Let me see that greedy fucking cunt weep for me.”
His voice…the gritted cadence of it sets me off. Like. A. Bomb.
I explode. My head flies back, my teeth seizing my lower lip to trap every strangled cry threatening to break free. I fail. I fall. My spine curls, my back arching, my fingers thrusting in a poor imitation of his cock. Two. Three. Four. It’s never enough. Not thick enough. Violent enough.
I need…I need…
Teeth. I feel them first, grazing my outer lips before his tongue plunges inside me. He swirls. Tastes. I glance down and see him on all fours, crouched between my legs, devouring me. Three brutal thrusts and I’m higher than the fucking ceiling, shooting off into orbit. I see stars, galaxies, but when I finally come down, nothing matches the sight of his eyes glaring up at me from over the ridge of my belly: two gaping black holes, swallowing me whole.
He lunges, ripping his jeans down. I go limp and find myself pressed beneath him, his hips between my thighs, pistoning… He doesn’t even have to batter his way in—my body drags him deeper. Too deep. I have to wrap my legs around him to preserve the fit, riding every hard, sharp thrust. They start off brutal and punishing: a devastatingly timed tempo. Deep. Hard. Deeper. Every bit of raw, sliding friction makes me see stars. My mouth is open, my tongue slithering along my bottom lip in a frantic search for air—but it’s a bad move. I wind up tasting sweat, salt, skin. Him.
I drown in his scent, and each thrust gets sharper with every taste, slamming back, back, back until my head hits the headboard—his hand flies up and slams down over the ridge of it, clenching the wood.
“Fuck,” he growls, his voice gravelly. Then his hips start to roll, forsaking control in exchange for speed. Depth.
Insanity.
Mangled Russian trickles against my throat, giving way to thickened English. “Beautiful,” he grits out, pressing his chest against mine with the next shove inside me, feeling my nipples graze his flesh. “So tight. Greedy…bitch. Fuck you. Fuck you. Kill you…”
His hand leaves the headboard and clutches my throat instead. Air becomes a commodity he controls: fucking it out of me, no matter how desperately I suck it in.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s not a game this time. It’s fucking survival; I cling to him, trying to breathe.
His other hand palms my ass, yanking me from the mattress, slamming me into him. Violently. Again. Faster. Nails break the skin, drawing blood. I feel it fucking up his grip. He has to kneel, propping me up with one knee, the other braced beside me on the bed, my body slammed against the headboard.
Sounds I never knew a human being could fucking make tear from my throat. Moans. Whimpers. I break his unspoken rule: I grab him; I have to. My hands cling to his shoulders while fireworks explode inside me. The orgasm starts up like a controlled demolition, but the moment I clench around him, Maxim slams into me. It’s brutal, unsteady. A low growl tears from his throat—one I’ve never heard from him before.
It’s primal. And then he bites me, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as if to prevent himself from making any more of those sounds. He fucks me in a frenzy to finish himself off. When he finally comes, the first few spurts spill inside me. Then he pulls out and flips me over. Two hot lashes strike my lower back, every bit as painful as the whip.
I’m in a daze when I feel him hovering over me, finding my ear, and nipping the lobe.
“You are a good liar, kotyonok,” he breathes into my flushed skin. “This time…” He licks me, drawing a whine I can’t suppress, before rising to his feet and heading for the door. “This time, I almost believed you. But know that, if you lie to me again—” He cocks his head back at me. Then he smiles in a dangerous array of porcelain teeth and dark, confused eyes. “I will kill you.”
He leaves me here, breathless and senseless on his bed.
And I don’t dare crawl out of his room until the next morning.
When the fifth day comes to an end, it’s like being kicked out of a nightmare without being allowed to fully wake up. Maxim barely acknowledges me. The only time he does is when Lucius arrives. He stalks his way across the foyer to shove something into my hands: an envelope.
“Count it,” he tells me before turning away. “Every last cent. Think carefully before you come back.”
He leaves the room, entering his studio without another word. All I can do is follow Lucius out of the suite, and like always, the real world returns like a bitch-slap hello. The moment the car pulls up to my battered house and I step over the threshold, I know that something is wrong.
First off, Daisy’s seated on the couch in the middle of a goddamn school day. There’s a man beside her, and not only that, but the fucker has his hand on her thigh. She’s too pale, staring down at the floor.
Rage washes through my body. I don’t think. I just head for the baseball bat we keep under the sink. No. Fuck that. The knife. My only coherent action is to spit out a question on my way into the kitchen. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m your new daddy, girlie,” the man says as I wrench the knife drawer open and grab the biggest one. When I turn around, he’s smiling, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth.
“You have five seconds to get the fuc
k out,” I tell him. “Whoever the hell you are.”
The bastard laughs. He looks like the same brand of asshole Melanie usually goes for: greasy hair, dirty jeans. She must be with him for his money. He probably got a settlement from some dumbass lawsuit or money from his dead wife—something good enough to make her fuck him. A man after her own heart.
“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” He looks me over, licking his lips, and I can’t help the way I cringe.
I’m wearing one of Maxim’s dresses. I still smell like roses. Today, he even braided my hair, leaving my neck exposed—the perfect doll.
“You want to find out?” When I lift the knife, only Daisy is smart enough to jump up and back away. “Four seconds,” I tell him. “Three.”
Laughing, he stands and swaggers toward me, raising his hands and flexing the fingers. Come at me.
Any other day, I might have called the police instead. Thought about the consequences. Today, I go at the motherfucker with the blade, swiping it through the air.
Laughing, he dodges, quicker on his feet than I was expecting. “Your mommy was right, little girl,” he tells me. “You kids need a daddy’s touch.”
I see black. This time when I swing my hand out, the knife catches him deep, tearing through the flesh of his arm.
“Bitch!”
I see his fist come for me from the corner of my eye. The next second, I’m on my knees. Wham! My vision blinks on and off, but I don’t let the blade go. I keep it raised, my teeth gritted, my eyes narrowed.
“You want to go for round two?” I croak, spitting out a mouthful of something that tastes like blood. “Get the fuck out!”
Clutching at his arm, the bastard finally heads for the door. “You better watch yourself, bitch.”
I lift the knife even higher so that his blood gleams on the edge. “Likewise, buddy.”
The moment he leaves, I toss the knife aside, hearing it scatter across the tile. Then the world starts spinning. I can’t get my bearings and wind up on my hands and knees. Shit. Pain throbs through my skull. I reach up and run my trembling fingers over my right eye. Double shit. It’s tender; the sucker’s going to bruise.
“Are…are you okay?” Daisy’s standing by the couch, wringing her fingers together. I don’t see a mark on her, but she’s wearing a sweater, so I can’t tell much.
Still, I’ve never felt this kind of fear before.
“Did he touch you?” I jerk my chin to the door.
When she shakes her head, the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding escapes in a rush.
“Good.” It’s the only thing that fucking matters. I can’t waste energy on anger. I can’t…
The money. That’s all I focus on as I stand and stagger over to the fridge. I yank open the door and reach for my stash—but it’s gone. All of it. I feel around the back of the fridge. I look under a carton of milk but don’t turn up even a fucking penny.
“You gave it to her.” The words stick in my throat. I have to spit them out, but hearing them out loud stings worse than the itching suspicion I’ve had all month. “You gave that bitch more of my money.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry. It seems to be the only fucking thing Daisy can say. There are tears in her eyes when I turn around to face her. Her bottom lip trembles. She looks like Melanie now more than ever. Guilty as shit.
“You’re sorry?” I can’t stop myself. Can’t contain the anger. I’m in front of her in an instant, my hand flying out, striking her cheek. “You’re fucking sorry! Do you know what I had to do for that money?”
What I sold.
Who I became.
“Frankie—”
“Shut up!”
Think. Think. Think. I can’t. Not when I dig my nails into my arm. Not when I bite my lip. I have to snatch another knife from the drawer, swiping at my wrist. Deeper.
Fuck.
“Frankie! What the hell are you doing—”
“Go pack your stuff,” I snap when a hint of clarity peeks through the chaos in my mind. It’s enough to help me refocus. Bright-red drops drip down to splatter the floor, but I squeeze my eyes shut rather than notice them. Breathe. Just breathe. “Now!” I add when I don’t hear her moving. “Ainsley’s and the boys’ too. Go!”
Knowing Melanie, the bastard she was shacking up with now probably had plenty of “friends” who wouldn’t hesitate to help him beat his new “wife’s” family into submission. They’d come back. Take the house. Take the rest of the money.
Everything.
And.
I.
Don’t.
Fucking.
Care.
When Daisy finally staggers down the stairs, carrying a pile of bags slung over her arms, I don’t go through it all. I just lead the way out and hail a cab once we’ve reached a main road. Then I head in any random direction until I find a hotel. I go pick the other kids up from school myself, and that night, the six of us wind up sharing one room. Ironically, it doesn’t seem to faze them too much that we don’t head home.
But, when the others have fallen asleep, Mikie creeps over to me and presses something into my hand: a wad of cash.
“I kept most of it on me,” he whispers. “Daisy only gave Mom a couple hundred.”
I swallow hard, clinging to the bills like they’re the only fucking thing I have left to hold on to. Maybe they are. “Thanks…”
In the end, a part of me knows I shouldn’t even care about the money. My latest envelope from Maxim is in my pocket. By the end of next week, I’ll have even more.
But it’s funny how money never seems to fix things—whether you have enough or too little.
It just makes them fucking worse.
On the day when I’m supposed to return to Maxim…I don’t. I stay in bed. My right eye is swollen, my head throbbing, and somehow, this injury aches worse than any Maxim delivered.
I don’t want to move. Don’t want to feel. Don’t want to have to think. I just lie here in a pile of twisted sheets while the kids watch cartoons and fight over the free shit they want to stuff into their bags before we leave.
Maybe I forget my deadline.
Maybe I think that, away from home, he won’t be able to find me.
Hell, perhaps he wouldn’t even care? I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first girl who disappeared on him, given his tastes. And he all but told me to take his money. Take a hike. Leave. So I don’t think much of it when one of the kids races to answer a knock on the door. I assume they ordered room service—until I hear the voice of the visitor.
“Hello,” the man says in a soft, warm tone. Only the unmistakable accent gives his identity away—and my entire body goes cold. “Is Francesca here?”
“Frankie!” Ainsley calls.
My heart sinks. My right eye is too sore to even open properly…
Shit.
I crawl out of bed. My eyes cut over to the bathroom adjacent to the room. Daisy’s makeup bag is on the counter, but there isn’t enough time.
I feel his gaze on me before I even look over my shoulder and see him lurking in the doorway. Dressed to kill in an ebony suit, Maxim is wearing a smile for Ainsley’s benefit, though his fingers clench into fists the moment he sees my face. Two words are ripped from his throat, chilling me to the fucking core.
“Hello, Francesca.”
Chapter 19
Francesca. Nothing in the world has terrified me more than hearing my name come out of his mouth. Nothing. I rock back on my heels as every cell in my body urges me to slam the door. Grab the kids. Run.
But I’m drawn forward purely by the look in his eye—that dangerous gleam I’ve come to know so well: confusion. It’s like he doesn’t know exactly why he’s here.
“Can we talk in private?” He’s still smiling, his voice deceptively casual. For Ainsley’s benefit, not mine. And a part of me feels grateful for that.
He can do whatever the hell he wants to me. Just not in front of her.
“Y-ye
s.” In the end, I hesitate only a second before stepping out into the hall and wrenching the door shut.
The moment we’re alone, he lunges. One of his hands circles my throat, pressing me back against the wall. I already have an excuse on the tip of my tongue when his fingers drift up, the knuckles grazing my swollen eye. One brush of his thumb and I lose my train of thought.
He doesn’t prod the way he examines the injuries he inflicts himself. He just feels. Acknowledges. When he draws back, there’s blood on his fingertips and his eyes reflect murder.
“Explain.”
That raspy baritone… It sinks into me. Corrupts me.
It wakes me up.
But maybe it’s better to remain in the nightmare.
“I don’t want to go back to you,” I insist, shaking my head. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move, watching me. “I don’t. I don’t! I can do this on my own. I always do everything on my own!”
My voice echoes back to me like a stranger’s and I deflate against the wall. I was screaming. My throat aches and I can’t bite back the sob that rips from it. “Just leave me alone. Leave me alone! I don’t need you.” I meet his gaze, willing him to listen to every word despite the hitch in my voice. It’s the truth. It has to be. “I don’t want you—”
“Tell me what happened.” His voice resonates like thunder, easily overpowering mine but it’s the look in his eye that leaves me stunned. There’s no anger. No hate. Just a primal, raw understanding that cuts me right to the fucking core. “Tell me.”
Like a switch being flipped, my lips part. Words spill out—I tell him everything. Melanie. The money. Her stupid new husband. Everything. He drinks in every rambled truth with no reaction. No frown. No narrowing of his eyes.
Nothing at all.
When I finally trail off, panting, he uses his grip on my throat to angle my chin back, forcing me to meet his gaze fully. “Get…home—to my suite.”
I suck in air. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak in anything but polished, completed sentences. His eyes widen once he realizes, and his fingers shake—and even clench—closing off my windpipe.