It would be cruel of him to make me say the words out loud, to make me ask him to fuck me like I need. Like I deserve. And perhaps my husband senses that, because he’s spinning us around, pressing me against the wall. Caging me in with those powerful, thick arms as his lush lips caress my throat. I sag into him, let myself believe that there’s no use fighting him. As his cock hardens against my belly, pinning me in place, I almost forget that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
There was a time when my biggest fear was that this violent killer would take me against my will. But I have new fears now, buried deep in my gut. Fears that I don’t dare give voice to, because then I’d have to acknowledge that they’ve already come true.
Javier could never force me, because I will never not want him. No matter what he’s done, no matter what he will do, I belong to him as thoroughly as a woman can belong to a man. He knows that. He’s always known that. And as he lifts me to his waist, fingers digging into my hips, my legs locking instinctively around him, it feels like I’ve always known that, too.
“Please,” I breathe against his lips, and we both know exactly what I’m pleading for. I lie anyway. “Please don’t.”
He’s setting me on the countertop, hands groping wildly at my tits, my ass, the already-soaked spot between my legs. God, I missed this. My spine curls as if it’s been years instead of days since I felt his touch. I’m an addict, and no matter how close I keep coming to an overdose, I refuse to quit. I’d rather die than live without the feeling of this man pressing hard against me, taking, taking, taking.
“You’re mine, princesa,” Javier growls, pulling my pants down with a violent jerk, making me gasp as he shoves me against the empty cupboards. “I own you, every part of you. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Javier,” I squeak as one hand curls around my throat, keeping me captive in this position, and the other one slips into my panties. Without preamble, he shoves two thick fingers into my tight opening. I’m wet, but I still feel the violence of the act, feel the sharp pain that inexplicably tastes just like pleasure. I cry out, back arching, the movement pressing my throat harder against his palm. I can’t breathe for a moment. I can only feel. And it feels glorious.
His fingers thrust into me at a punishing pace, and then he adds another. He hasn’t even touched my clit yet and I’m already close to coming. It’s all in my head, I know it is, and that’s the most fucked-up part. I’m getting off on the idea of him violating me, taking me against my will. Abusing that ownership over me that he shouldn’t have but does. I’m turned on by the idea that he wants me so badly he’ll do anything to have me. Which is not completely untrue, and as my vision goes white and I can’t control my thoughts for a moment, I can’t deny that I’ve always been turned on by that, since the first second I saw him breaking into my home.
“Javier,” I try again. To what end, not even I know. I’m gasping for breath, my body spasming against his tight grip. I know what I want. He knows what I want. We both know I shouldn’t want it.
He doesn’t tell me to shut up. He makes me, removing the hand from my throat and instead forcing his other hand against my face, shoving the fingers that were just curling against my G-spot into my mouth. I shudder as new heat floods my body. I’m already sucking on his thick fingers, tasting myself, moaning at the way his eyes roll back into his head. This is so dirty, so fucked up, so hot.
I whimper as he pulls back, leaving me empty, untouched, alone. But in an instant he’s back on me, lifting me into his arms, throwing me over one shoulder like we’re in some old fashioned bodice ripper. I play my part, thrashing against him, uselessly pounding my little fists on his muscled back.
He tosses me down on the unmade bed, flipping me over onto my stomach before I get a chance to look at his face. I grunt a little at the impact, but he’s already back on me, pulling my wrists over my head with one hand, the other reaching under me and thumbing my clit. He’s gentle, even as my shoulders protest his rough grip and my body shudders against the immobilizing weight of his body on top of me. This time the orgasm is slow, not an all-consuming flash, but an ecstasy that creeps in on me like the tide, until all I can feel is pleasure reverberating through me.
“Say what you want to say, Selina,” he murmurs in my ear after I’ve come down, his low voice sounding unexpectedly sincere. He’s still pinning my wrists above me, and I can feel his erection pressing between my thighs from behind. “Say it.”
“Javier,” is what comes out of my mouth when I part my lips. I’m not sure what it is, what he wants me to say, what he thinks I want to say. I can’t think clearly enough to formulate any words at all. I can feel his thick head at my entrance, the minor contact shooting new fire through me. “I can’t— Please—”
And he’s inside me now, buried to the hilt in one thrust. He stills for a moment to let me adjust, but I can feel his need in the way his fingers dig into my wrists, in the brush of his teeth against my shoulder. A sound escapes me, something guttural and probably not porn-star sexy, but composed entirely of arousal. From this angle, he’s hitting spots I didn’t even know I had, and the way my legs are still pressed together creates a tightness that we’re both gasping at. He begins moving against me, the sensation so acute that I know neither of us will last much longer. He releases my wrists and fists my hair instead, the rough possession triggering my third orgasm of the night. I know it won’t be the last. The feeling of him inside me, on top of me, surrounding me should make me feel unsafe, but instead, I feel more protected than I have in days. I am his, and I’m beginning to understand exactly what that means.
He ruts into me faster and faster, impossibly deeper, and I no longer have the energy to hate him, or myself. All I feel as we come together, moaning and gasping for breath, is love. Inexplicable, irrational, infuriating love.
Reggie Andrews had imagined this day ending with the arrest of Javier Vega, a shocking press conference that would fuel the Atlanta gossip rags for weeks, but most importantly, the Chief of Police eating crow. He certainly hadn’t expected to find himself bound and gagged in the Palacios estate’s wine cellar, at the mercy of the very man he’s spent the last several months trying to put away.
The former detective was one to roll his eyes at locker room talk from the old timers, and he’d been bested in training by many a female officer, but he has to admit that getting his ass kicked by Selina fucking Palacios stung a little. He’d been right, in a way—everyone underestimates the little bitch. Even him. She’s going to get away with it, isn’t she? The whole city only sees her as the troubled party girl, the tragic orphan, the society princess, and that’s how she’s going to get away with it. A ruthless criminal, walking amongst them, drinking their champagne. And instead of being the hero who took her down, he’s just going to be another tally mark in her body count.
No, he can’t say that this is how he’d wanted his mission to go at all.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been down here, which had certainly been their intention when they left him here in the dark. Judging by the major crick in his neck, he must have dozed off at some point. His wrists are beginning to chafe, his throat aches with thirst, and honestly, he’s getting pretty fucking bored of sitting here. Andrews isn’t used to being on this side of a hostage situation. That’s the kind of shit that only happens to cops on prime time procedurals—not that he’s a cop anymore, technically. And if he even gets out of this alive, it’s time to accept that he will never wear a badge again. He wishes they would just hurry up and get it over with, whatever their intentions with him are.
The click of a door opening, the blinding brightness of the lights finally coming back on, and the thudding of boots on the walnut staircase. When his eyes adjust, the figure staring him down isn’t Palacios, or Vega, or even the blond jackass that brought him here. It’s a woman, with the sort of smooth, melanated glow that can’t be bought, and thick curls that her tight ponytail can barely contain. No, it’s not just a w
oman, it’s the woman. Though the blurred security footage couldn’t capture the high arch of those untamed eyebrows, or the tiny dimple on her chin, that mess of hair and vicious stance are unmistakable. This is Vega’s right hand.
“Do you know why I’m here?” she asks, and her voice sounds exactly like he thought it would. Throaty, rich, warm. Andrews frowns. He hadn’t realized he’d formed any opinion of the woman in the photo, let alone one so detailed.
“I assume you’re here to punish me?” he manages, though it comes out sounding a lot less like something Bond would say and more like what a Catholic school boy might squeak.
Andrews tries to remember what Vega had called her. At the time, he’d heard “Miguel,” which was in retrospect perhaps a sexist assumption. Whoever said only men can be sent to torture disgraced detectives who stuck their nose too far into the gang’s business? Something with an M, though. Mila? Or was it more like Mel?
Well, the name of the woman who ultimately offs him probably doesn’t matter much in the long run, Andrews rationalizes as the woman shrugs off her leather jacket, revealing toned arms and a Glock that should have been the first thing that drew his eyes. Not those thick, sculpted biceps, marred by a ridged scar on her inner arm that is only visible for a moment, before she crosses her arms across her chest. And definitely not the way that motion deepens the hint of cleavage her faded t-shirt reveals.
Andrews decides to blame this clear lapse in priorities on the lack of food and water in his system. But then again, focusing on her gun instead of her tits makes it a lot harder to act like he isn’t the most terrified he’s ever been in his life.
“You threatened Javier Vega’s wife,” she says, drawing his gaze back up to her face. There’s a brightness in her eyes visible even in the shadowy cellar, a shine that could almost be mistaken as glee, were it not for the knife she has seemingly produced out of thin air. Or maybe it is some kind of dark, twisted joy, he thinks as he watches her handle the blade with the casual playfulness of a child with a toy. “I’m here to kill you.”
“Seems like a bit of an overreaction,” Andrews stammers, unable to keep himself from pushing backward in his chair as the woman steps closer. “I mean, I didn’t even touch the b—… woman.”
“From what I hear, she kicked your fucking ass.”
“That’s fairly accurate,” the former detective acquiesces, eyes darting between the rapidly approaching knife and the wild glint in her eyes, with only a brief pause to check on her tits. “Which seems even less of a reason to kill me. I’m clearly not a real threat to anyone.”
The woman shrugs, now running the tip of the knife lightly down his arm. The sensation makes Andrews forget how to breathe.
“Eh, I don’t really give a shit about reasons,” she says, those plump lips twisting upward into what could pass as a smile on anyone else’s face. “All I know is I get to kill you, and I get to take my time with it.”
With that, the knife is piercing the flesh of his left arm, red hot pain searing along the inside of his bicep. Andrews is pretty sure that’s his voice shouting in pain, but it’s hard to tell over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. His arm is throbbing, pumping blood down his sleeve and to the floor at what has to be an unhealthy speed. Despite the agony, he can still feel the tickle of the blade on his right arm, teasing all the way down to his wrist and then back up again.
He sees the next cut in her eyes before he feels the knife break skin, but then a deafening explosion from above knocks them both to the ground, and Andrews blacks out for the second time in as many days.
I spend the night in Selina’s hotel suite, though neither of us gets much sleep. My wife lies still and placid in my arms, her small body curled into mine, but I can tell from the erratic pace of her breathing that she’s still on edge, still too wary to let her guard down around me. And I, well, I won’t allow myself to sleep if she can’t.
At some point our exhaustion must finally kick in, because one moment I’m resisting the urge to cop a feel, and the next I’m blinking blearily into the midday sun.
“Wakey wakey, sleepy head,” Selina’s light voice chirps above me, and I roll over to see her standing in the doorway, still wearing the leggings and oversized t-shirt she fell asleep in. Somehow, it’s so much hotter than the silky numbers she wears to bed at home.
Home. The word slips easily into my mind, and the sharp pang that immediately follows it is all too familiar. I push the thoughts down and sit up, running my hand through my messy hair.
“I haven’t slept in this late in years,” I say, cracking my back and letting myself take in the moment. Selina has a mug gripped in both hands, her face clean but unmade, her own hair still bearing evidence of our fuck last night. That, paired with the casual way she greeted me, feels too good to be true. This is what normal newlyweds do, not criminals who are engaged in nuclear war both in and out of the bedroom. The cheer of Selina’s greeting doesn’t extend into a smile or even a twinkle in her eye, though. I guess she feels it too. Only our fucked up relationship could be somewhat mended by an act of violence and some dark bedroom games, but we’re still a long way from fully fixed. Can something that was never whole even be healed?
“We’re going back to the estate,” I announce, swinging my legs off the bed and grabbing yesterday’s pants off the floor. “Clearly you’re not safe here.”
I expect my wife to battle me, like she always does, but instead she just nods and begins packing up her things. The events of yesterday must have really shaken her, despite the brave face she’s been putting on. Mentally, I add another item to the list of ways I’ve damaged my princess. There was a time when I thought I wanted her broken, but now that I have her that way, I’m not sure I could put the pieces back together if I tried.
Two hired guns are waiting outside the suite door, and they follow us down the service stairwell, where a couple more men are stationed. We slip out of the hotel without any issues, and I make sure Selina is safely buckled into the passenger seat of the Hummer before tossing her overnight bag in the backseat and sliding in behind the wheel.
The drive back to the Palacios estate is silent. I don’t mind. I’m lost in my own head, knowing that I should be mapping out new security measures, strategizing our next attack on El Sombrerón, figuring out what to do about that pesky detective. But instead, all I can think about is Selina. She’s sitting right beside me, but still, she haunts my mind. How can one person consume my thoughts so wholly? I own her. I stole her and bound her to me both legally and not. So why has it felt like she’s the one in control, ever since she walked out of that closet?
Despite my distraction, a sense of unease floods me as we drive up to the estate. My spine goes rigid as we approach the gate, the wrought iron already hanging open and inviting. Shit.
Shit shit shit.
I can feel Selina take note as well, can almost hear her pulse speeding up, but I don’t have time to reassure her. My left hand guides the SUV down the winding drive toward the mansion, as my right hand reaches for my gun.
“Get down,” I manage to grit out, spotting the banged up sedan idling up ahead. I recognize the driver, the handful of men standing over the bodies of my hired guns, and the guy hanging out the passenger side window, but most importantly, I recognize the weapon he’s pointing directly at the mansion.
I was there when El Sombrerón procured the souped-up RPG, I was the one who shot the geek who custom made it between the eyes when he dared to ask for more money. My former boss said he was saving the weapon for a special occasion. If I had more time, I might feel flattered to be considered worthy, but as is, all I can think is that we’re all so fucking dead.
I aim my Glock, but it’s too late. It was always too late.
My adrenaline is through the roof, but the scene still doesn’t unfold in slow motion before me. In the same moment, I watch Alejandro pull the trigger and the explosive speed directly toward the mansion, see the fireball, hear the deafening boom, feel t
he impact blow us back in our seats. In the next moment, I’m shaking off the haze, pushing Selina down in her seat, and pulling my own trigger.
I was never much of a marksman, my strength as a killer lying mostly in my complete lack of regard for human life, but my bullet flies true. Alejandro slumps back in the passenger seat, the RPG falling with a thunk to the driveway beside him.
And then all eyes are on me.
Shit.
I should have just turned the Hummer around and sped away, carrying Selina and myself to safety, but that ship has sailed.
In terms of stress response, I was never much of a flight guy anyway.
“Stay down,” I shout to Selina as I fling my door open, using the hood of the car for cover, and empty the magazine into the men still left standing. I see the mansion burning, the clouds of dark smoke billowing into the sky, the sedan speeding toward me and the bullets flying way too close to me all at once, but I am a machine. I, too, am a weapon custom made by El Sombrerón. My eyes stay on the sedan as my fingers nimbly reload my gun, my hands already moving to aim at the driver and—
The front left tire of the once-golden car bursts, so utterly unexpected that even I’m taken aback as the driver struggles to regain control of the vehicle. Did one of the men accidentally shoot out their comrade’s tire? But no, they couldn’t have, not from back there. Was I moving faster than I even realized? No, my Glock is still about two milliseconds away from being back in the game.
Another shot rings out, this one shattering the sedan’s windshield, though it misses the driver. I take advantage of the moment, though, and send a bullet straight through his head. The car spins out of control and crashes into a grove of decorative trees far too close to us, but now I’m thoroughly distracted. On the other side of the Hummer, my wife aims the pistol I keep in the glove box one more time, and shoots at the guy closest to us, hitting his leg and sending him to the ground.
Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 38