by Abbi Cook
Still, she doesn’t look at me, but I see in her expression what I said bothered her. I obviously don’t look as fucked up as I feel.
Tentatively, she reaches for the bottom of my T-shirt and begins to ease it over my head. “I’ve seen what happens when you’re angry.”
When she finally tugs it off, I look up at her and force myself to smile. “Good. Then don’t do anything stupid.”
Sophie begins to pull back the sheet but quickly covers me again. Sheepishly, she mumbles, “Sorry. I forgot you don’t have pants on after the doctor took them off.”
Dressed only in my underwear, I lean back against the headboard and let out a heavy sigh. Just taking off my clothes with Sophie’s help sapped every ounce of energy I had. If she decided to take off now, I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Then again, I probably wouldn’t have to since the dogs would find her in less than a few minutes and there wouldn’t be much left after they got through with her. The image of her being torn apart flashes through my mind, and for a brief second, I think about warning her again about leaving.
But I don’t. If she’s going to be stupid, I’m in no shape to stop her. Let her take her chances with hungry dogs or Tap. She’ll find out too late she got the best deal she could when I claimed her.
When I look up after daydreaming, I notice she’s looking at my crotch. Filled with curiosity, her wide-eyed gaze doesn’t veer away even when I clear my throat.
“Not today, little one. I’m in too much pain. Another time I’ll get hard for you.”
That pretty pink I’ve grown to like colors her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. Little one liked what she saw. Good.
“Then again, if you keep blushing in that innocent way, I might not be able to control myself.”
For the first time, she lifts her head and her gaze meets mine. Frowning, she says, “I’m not as innocent as you seem to think I am. I’m not sure how many twenty-one year old women you’ve known in your life, but we aren’t virginal schoolgirls, you know.”
The image of Sophie dressed in a Catholic school uniform with the skirt barely reaching the middle of her thighs runs through my mind, and I wonder if maybe I could get hard. Probably not. All the better. I need to recuperate, and I don’t have the energy to fuck anyway.
“I swear to God you’re trying to tempt me tonight, little one. Just the mention of you as a virginal schoolgirl is enough to make me think I can handle doing more than just lying in this bed.”
A tiny smile lights up her face. “Do you believe in God?”
So, she wants to play? Okay, little one. We’ll play.
Pushing myself up against the headboard, I look her up and down and smile as I fantasize about how good it will be when I finally feel better and can act on what’s in my mind. “When I’m balls deep inside a woman and she’s yelling my name, I have to admit I believe in God then. When my face is drenched with a woman’s juices after I finish eating her pussy and her thighs are quivering against the sides of my head, I believe in God then. And when a woman’s mouth is taking all of my cock down to the base and she flicks her tongue over my balls, I believe in God then. Other than that, I don’t see much evidence that God is anywhere around these days.”
By the time I finish, her brown eyes are as wide as saucers and her mouth is hanging open. I like this look on her. She looks cute when she’s shocked into silence.
“Did I say something to offend you, little one?” I ask, enjoying how teasing her makes me feel better.
Or maybe the drugs the doctor claimed would take the pain away are finally kicking in.
“No. I’m not a child, so you talking dirty like that doesn’t affect me one way or another,” she answers, but I can see she’s clearly flustered.
“Oh, that’s not dirty talk, honey. If I was talking dirty, you’d be dripping wet and close to coming.” Looking down her body, I let my gaze settle on her pussy. “Or maybe I was. You tell me.”
“You don’t have that kind of effect on me. You’re not my type.”
I sense she likes talking about this subject, even though she doesn’t give me much to go on. That’s okay. This is a hell of a lot better way to pass the time than lying in bed and watching bad TV.
Looking up at her, I ask, “And what’s your type, little one? Let me guess. High school football team captain. Acts like a badass but in real life he’s just as clumsy as the other boys. He thinks he’s got the moves, but unless he’s been blessed by God with a giant cock, he spends most of his time fumbling around your pretty little panties trying to find your clit.”
Sophie rolls her eyes and grimaces at my mention of the senior class jock. “Nice pun. No, thanks. I prefer men, not boys. And the men I like create things like music and art.”
I cringe at her description of her type of guy. Artsy fartsy douchebags with shitty beards? I think I’m disappointed with where this conversation has gone.
“I thought better of you, little one. Your type makes my dick go limp. The very thought of you wasting your time on that kind of guy makes me think I misjudged you.”
“I’m a little surprised to hear my type does anything to your dick, to be honest,” she says with a sly smile.
“Clever, Sophie. I walked right into that one,” I admit, appreciating how bright and confident she truly is. Too bad she wastes her time with those artistic assholes.
We stare at one another, neither of us saying anything after my compliment until she smiles and straightens the sheets over my legs. “I have a feeling those drugs are starting to work. You don’t seem to be in as much pain as before. Do you need me to do anything or get you anything?”
Shaking my head, I close my eyes as I slide down onto the bed. “I’m fine, little one.”
“Sophie.”
I open my eyes and smile. “I’m fine, Sophie. Now don’t do anything stupid like try to escape or kill me in my sleep, okay?”
She avoids answering what was more of a rhetorical question anyway and asks, “Would you like me to fix your pillow, or are you good?”
Her voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away, like she’s fading into the distance with every word she speaks. I consider answering her question, but my eyelids flutter shut and then I’m lost to a drug-induced sleep.
Chapter Seven
Sophie
An agonizing cry like that of a wounded animal wakes me out of the soundest sleep I’ve had since coming here. My feet are on the floor and moving toward him before I’m even fully awake. Working on instinct alone, I stumble into his room and stop next to his bed. His eyes closed, he doesn’t move, but I watch him sleep and wait to find out why he made that sound.
He’s pushed down the covers to around his hips, so his entire torso is bared to me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, seeing his body creates a need in me I’ve never felt before with any other man.
There must be something wrong with me. He’s my captor, and at any moment, he’s liable to threaten me instead of uttering a single kind word to make me feel better. Why would anything about him affect me in that way?
Yet there I stand in the darkness of his bedroom watching his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes, the tattoos on his shoulders illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window behind the bed. I should want to smother him with a pillow, but instead all I can think of is how it would feel to run my hands over his body and if his skin near his hipbones is as soft as it seems.
I didn’t lie when I told him about the kind of man I’ve always preferred. I don’t know if there was ever a time I consciously decided I liked artistic guys, but everyone I’ve ever dated looked about the same and nothing like King.
Thin with patchy facial hair that never quite makes it to a full beard, with bald spots in some places and scraggly, too long clumps of hair in others. They love to talk about art and music and how it affects them deep in their souls. They crave long talks to explain their creativity, spending their nights drinking popular
brands of beer in trendy bars with women like me who hang on every word that pops into their heads and out their mouths.
Not that I’ve ever found any of that sexy. I’ve sat through countless hours of intense conversations with artistic guys, but not a single moment of that time ever made me feel like I do when I look at King. I just assumed I was the problem, that I simply didn’t appreciate men like a woman should.
My eyes roam over his body now as I wonder if I just wasn’t meeting the right men to excite me. But how can someone like King be that kind of man? He’s vicious and heartless. Just because he isn’t as horrible as that Tap psychopath doesn’t mean he’s a good man.
And still need coils tightly inside me with every moment I’m near him.
He shifts his position and quietly moans, tearing me out of my thoughts. I turn away, terrified he knows I’ve been watching him, but when I don’t hear him say anything for a few seconds, I glance back and see that same angelic look he gets when he sleeps.
How is it possible such an evil soul can look so gentle?
It’s like he touches me deep inside in a way that makes me feel weak. Even now as he lies there in bed, his body fighting off infection, strength and power practically ooze out of him, exciting me and terrifying me at the same time.
I let my gaze travel from his tattooed, broad shoulders down over his muscular chest and chiseled abs partially covered by the bedsheet. Never before have I seen such a perfect physical specimen of a man.
My mind drifts to what’s hidden beneath that sheet. The vision of those piercings is fixed in my brain, and question after question bounces around my head. Why did he do that to himself? Did it hurt? Was it part of some initiation into his boss’s group? Do all of the men around King also have cock piercings?
I don’t think I’ve ever been so fixated on a man’s cock before in my life. Jesus, most of the men I’ve slept with I haven’t thought about their cock as much as I’ve thought about King’s in the past few days.
Turning away, I shake my head, trying to push out the last of the images of those piercings still in my brain. This must be some reaction to being a hostage. What do they call that? Some kind of syndrome. It has something to do with Vikings, doesn’t it? Denmark? Is that it? Denmark syndrome?
No, that doesn’t sound right. Copenhagen syndrome? No. That’s not it either.
Stockholm syndrome! That’s it! Stockholm. But doesn’t that usually take a little while before the hostage begins to care for the captor?
I quickly correct myself on that ridiculous idea. I do not care for King. Not in the least. He may be better than Tap or his disgusting boss, but I don’t care for him.
Why I’m borderline obsessed with those piercings I have no idea.
My cheeks heat at that admission, even though it was silent and only I know the truth. I’ve never been the type of woman who spends her time ogling men’s crotches. I went to a male revue show with my friends last year, and even there, where every inch of men seemed to be available for all to see, I didn’t think once about a single man’s cock.
God, now all I can think about is that word! Cock. Christ, maybe I’m going crazy.
“What are you doing standing there? Why are you in here?”
King’s angry voice rips me out of my thoughts, thankfully, and I look up to see him glaring at me. My happiness to not be thinking about that particular part of his body is quickly swept away and replaced by fear.
“You…you were in pain. You ma-made a noise, so I came in, but I saw you were asleep. I didn’t meant to wake you,” I stammer out as he continues to look up at me in pure disgust.
He doesn’t respond to my rambling, terrified explanation. Stretching his leg, he grimaces and groans.
“Are you in pain? Do you want more of those pills the doctor left?”
As if he doesn’t hear me, King ignores my questions but groans again. I wait for him to tell me how he wants me to help him, but instead he waves me away.
“I’m fine. I’m not in pain.”
“Oh, okay.”
I don’t believe him, but what else can I do? Part of me wonders if there’s any way to escape if only I can get more of those painkillers into him.
But another part I don’t understand craves being near him. How can that be? What the fuck is wrong with me? How could I think something so utterly perverse?
Cringing, I turn to leave, as disgusted with myself as he is with me. Maybe if I spend some time alone out on the couch I’ll be able to get my head on straight and stop thinking these ridiculous things.
“I need a drink of water,” he croaks out.
With a look back at him, I nod and head toward the bathroom. As I fill a glass with the water he wants, I think about smashing it against the sink and running in to slit his throat. He’s in enough pain that I could probably take him by surprise. He won’t know what to do when I come at him, and in seconds, I could be free of him and this place.
The water overflows the top of the glass just as reality rushes back into my brain. Even if I killed him and got free, how would I get by the guards and those vicious dogs that protect the estate?
Dejected, I turn off the faucet and return to give him his glass of water. He eagerly takes it and gulps down a mouthful as I reach for the bottle of painkillers. I tip out two pills and place them on his nightstand.
“Just in case. No use suffering if you don’t have to.”
He looks up at me with a curious expression, so I force a smile. I might not have a plan to get away, but it can’t hurt to have him knocked out. I can’t let him know that, though, or God only knows what he’ll do to me.
When he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, I move to leave, but he grabs my arm to hold me there. “Stay here.”
Confused by his demand, but even more by how my body is reacting to his touch, I look down at him lying there staring up at me with a hint of need in his eyes. My gaze moves to where his hand is tightly wrapped around my wrist. As if to convince me to do as he wants, he loosens his hold.
“Stay.”
The urge to run away as fast as I can fights against one that makes me want to be close to him, and for a moment, I stare down at him as the tug-of-war inside me makes it impossible to move. The touch of his fingers on my skin sends a thrill through me, but the truth of who he is remains uppermost in my thoughts, tempering that urge I don’t understand.
“Okay.”
The word comes out of my mouth like a whisper, like I don’t want anyone to hear me agree to stay there with him. Not that I have much of a choice. We aren’t equals here. I can’t forget that.
Ever.
His hand falls to the bed, and he inches over so there’s room for me to sit. I watch in shock, confused that he wants me so close to him. My thoughts about his body that just made me feel so sickened race through my mind again, and I blush, my cheeks flush with searing heat.
I don’t want to get too close to him, but I sit in the spot he’s made for me. Maybe he’s being nice. I don’t know. All I know is his mood changes too fast for me to risk angering him.
He doesn’t speak as I perch myself on the edge of the bed, not knowing what to say. He’s holding me hostage, even if he does seem like he can’t do much physically at the moment to keep me there.
A low moan fills the space around us, and I look over to see him cringing in pain. My nature isn’t to be cruel, although I wish it could be. The thought of how easily I might smother him with a pillow makes me reach to grab the one propped up behind me, but I think twice about it, remembering the truth that stops me all the time.
I might be able to escape from King, but what awaits me outside this apartment is likely far worse and possibly deadly.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I quietly ask as he writhes in pain.
A few moments later, he seems better and turns his head to face me. “So now you want to help me?”
“I’ve always wanted to help you. Well, maybe not always, but at lea
st since the doctor said you needed medicine to get better.”
My answer amuses him, although I don’t understand why, and he smiles, shaking his head. “Well, well. You must be the little girl with the heart of gold. Here I am keeping you hostage, and you still want to help me.”
All I hear, other than the complete disdain he has for my genuine attempt at kindness, is his use of that nickname I hate. “Is there anything I can do to make you stop calling me that?”
My frustration makes his smile grow bigger. “Calling you what, little girl?”
“That! I thought we agreed to call me by my name. Why do you keep using that nickname I hate?”
Pleasure dances in his eyes as he admits the truth. “Because you hate it.”
“Nice. I bet you would pull my pigtails if I had them too.”
That smile of his turns absolutely sinful, and he laughs at me. “I can’t decide if you’re trying to tease me or you really don’t know how suggestive some of things you say are. Now I’m going to be thinking all night about you in pigtails and me pulling on them while you’re bent over in front of me.”
My stomach flips at the mere mention of the two of us together like that, and once again, he’s succeeded in making me blush. Looking away so he doesn’t see how he affects me, I mumble, “Typical guy. Everything is about sex.”
“I can’t think of anything better for everything to be about. What I don’t understand is why you’re so uptight about sex. I’m betting it’s because you’ve never had anyone do you right,” he says with a chuckle.
Hopeful my face has returned to its normal shade, I snap my head around to look at him and roll my eyes. “Again, so typical. If only a woman can have some of your magic wand, she’ll have a perfect life full of sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns.”
For a second, he just stares up at me, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Even in his injured state, he’s dangerous. I forgot that for a moment.