by Tillie Cole
As something big, something so intense, built between my legs, the man pulled back. I gasped for breath as the sensation began to fade; then a wave of frustration swept in and I regained control.
“No,” I protested almost silently, most certainly reluctantly.
The man’s hands still roamed over my body. I heard his sharp exhale of breath. Glancing down, I saw his face was upturned. I stilled at the strange expression on his damaged face. I could not read what he was thinking. His scarred cheeks were flushed, his nostrils flared, and his eyes were so bright that I felt they could see into my soul.
Shaking his head, he clenched his jaw, then demanded, “Name.”
My body was taut, in need of something, reaching for something I didn’t understand, but I let my head drop as I answered, “Elene.”
His bright eyes frosted, and he dived for my other breast, sucking the plump flesh into his mouth, his hot tongue lapping at the raised bud. I moaned; then the noise got trapped in my mouth as his hand journeyed south. With his mouth occupied at my breast and his hand dragging down the center of my torso, my senses overloaded. I tried to bend my knees to relieve the ache, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t move.
Removing himself from my breast, he focused his attention on my eyes as his hand drifted lower still. His roving fingers stopped as the hair between my legs began. My heart thundered so hard in my chest that I could hear its heavy beat pounding in my ears. I studied every inch of his face; heat pooled at my core when his teeth ran over his full bottom lip. A frustrated groan rumbled from deep inside when the pad of his index finger began tracing the perimeter of my triangle. Heat sliced up my spine. But this did not compare to how my body burned when the the man flicked out his tongue and lapped around my belly button.
“I’m begging you,” I found myself confessing.
Crystal blue eyes looked up at me, and he asked, “What, Elene?” while sliding his free hand around my back until his rough palm landed on the flesh of my behind. I yelped as his hand met the flesh.
Unconsciously my body jerked. “I’m begging you … I don’t know!”
The man stopped, and lowering his head to the lowest part of my stomach, he sighed. “Then give me your name, kotyonok. Your real name, and this all can end.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, but tears tumbled down my cheeks. His hand squeezed my behind again, and his finger slipped low, stroking toward my core. Lips parting, my eyes flew open and I released a strangled moan. My body shook with the unfamiliarity of my most private place being caressed, so freely and unbidden. Yet, darkly and treacherously, I wanted that finger to travel lower. I wanted the spring, currently wound so tightly, to be released. I wanted that something I just knew was out of reach.
In my inner turmoil, I had not seen him rise to his feet. One of his hands was still at my behind, the other still skirting just above my core, but now his face, his flushed and hungry scarred face, was directly before mine.
“Please,” I begged again, looking beyond the three harsh scars to see patches of smooth and milky skin.
He shook his head, his long black eyelashes fluttering as he blinked. “Shh,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. I felt the finger now playing at the top of my pubic hair move down to the crease of my thigh. I caught an apprehensive moan in my throat. I confused at my breasts aching for his calloused touch and my nipples hardening against the monster’s naked broad chest.
“Tell me, kotyonok,” he whispered, and pressed his lips against my cheek, “have you ever been touched?”
I dragged in a quick breath when he slipped the finger at my behind lower toward my core. “Answer me,” he said roughly.
“No,” I admitted, voice trembling. “I have never been touched.”
His head reared back slightly. The hunger in his expression intensified tenfold. Lips parted, his pupils dilated and his bare shoulders rose and fell in quick and exaggerated movements. His breathing was erratic and the truth struck home.
He liked that I was untouched. This man relished that I was a virgin.
At this moment, lust blatantly pulsed from him in waves, and I felt it, too. Clearly seeing something in my eyes or the heavy blush of my skin, he pressed his chest against mine. Then he raised the hand that had been caressing my behind to cage me in and rest above my head. The finger running along the apex of my thighs continued onward. He pressed his lips to the corner of my lips and murmured, “You are so beautiful.”
For a moment I hated myself. I hated what hearing him call me beautiful did to the rhythm of my heart. I had liked it. I had liked this man calling me beautiful.
Another press of his lips on the corner of mine came next; then he asked coldly, “Do you find me beautiful? Do you find this fucked-up beast beautiful, too?” Pushing his hand off the wall above me, he leaned back until his body came into full view—a plethora of name tattoos, a smattering of scars, and that black inked “194” dominating the center of his chest. As always, my focus dwelled upon the collar fixed around his neck. There was a seam at the side, heavy metal hinges keeping it tightly in place. His face was hard, his expression, as well as his voice, mocking. But before I could help it, an answer poured from my mouth. “Yes,” I said shockingly but honestly, “you are beautiful to me.”
He stilled as though he did not expect my answer, his black eyebrows pulling down in a threatening frown. I kept the truth in my expression when I caught the briefest flash of vulnerability in his gaze again. That flash immediately unlocked something inside me, that one-second lapse of control striking something in my heart.
The man’s heavy muscles bunched, the raised muscles on top of his shoulders twitched, but I could see that my reply had unnerved him. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. His head tilted to the side, scrutinizing every part of my face. When, abruptly, his expression changed, losing its harshness.
Groaning, he flew at me, causing me to brace. For a moment I feared he was about to strike me, that I’d read him all wrong. I feared that the man who had caused me pain for days and days had returned. But, instead, his hand threaded through my hair and his lips pressed to the corner of mine. His touch was warm and I could feel that warmth travel from my head to my toes.
Pulling back, he ran his finger down my cheek and rasped, “You did not lie, kotyonok. You think me … beautiful. Me?” His eyes flared and his head shook as though in disbelief. His hand left my face to take its place at the apex of my thighs once again. I cried out as his finger traveled lower this time, and he added, “It is the first time since I stole you that you did not lie. I am an ugly beast, yet you did not lie.”
Tears fell again. A part of me didn’t want his touch, but at the same time I wanted it more than anything else in my life. It was that tone of disbelief in his deep voice, the tone of vulnerable disbelief, that made me want to know him more. Made me want his touch more. To show him he wasn’t just the monster he believed himself to be.
The finger, just centimeters from my core, was lighting me with fire. His reaction to my truthful admission encouraged me to tell him everything he wanted to know, just to have his fingers on me. Just to have his fingers relieve my ache.
But I knew I would not betray Zaal. I knew I had to stay strong.
“Do you want me?” he asked, causing my hands to flex and curl.
“No,” I whispered, unable to meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to know how much it was true.
A smirk spread on his mouth, and putting his lips at my ear he said, “You lie. I know when you lie, Elene. I can see the deception on your beautiful face, can hear it in your soft voice.” He stepped back and truly met my eyes. “I know your body now, little Georgian. I can see that you want me.” He stepped closer. “Like I want you.”
Fire and ice struggled for supremacy. But as his finger slipped into the seams of my core, its tip tracing along my entrance, fire was victorious.
He growled as I cried out at the feel, yet he pulled his finger immediately away and broug
ht it to his mouth. I fought for composure as he ran the finger around his lips, before pushing it into his mouth and sucking on it hard. His eyes blazed as he withdrew his finger and ran the pad around my lips, too. He watched his finger in rapt attention, before leaning in and saying, “If you do not want me, kotyonok, then why is your pussy so fucking wet?”
Tremors racked my body at his crude words and gruff tone. I stayed silent, knowing not what to say in response. Then he smiled wide. My lungs seized at the stunning sight of his damaged face looking so bright, then his hand slipped back between my legs. My hips instinctively pushed forward, chasing his touch.
He only smiled more.
He traced his tongue along my cheek as his finger began flicking back and forth along my seam. I tried to keep my eyes open. I tried to show the strength of my resistance to his intimate touch, but my eyes closed on feeling the heady sensation.
“You are drenched, kotyonok,” he murmured, his Russian accent thick and fueled with lust. “Have you ever come before? Have you ever touched yourself and made yourself come?”
I managed to shake my head, whimpering as he ran his finger over my bud of nerves. His finger froze, and I bucked trying to feel the sensation it brought. When I opened my eyes, I saw him waiting impatiently for an answer.
“No,” I confessed, “I have never touched myself before.”
Air swooshed out of his mouth, and he moved closer against me. His hot chest grazed my breasts. His finger slipped from me. I almost screamed in protest at the loss. The pressure in my stomach was too strong to stand. Then his face hardened with determination and the pad of his finger slipped to land back on my clit.
I jerked with the surge of pleasure that rushed through my body. My muscles grew so taut that I feared they might snap. My mouth fell open in ecstasy.
His chest was scalding against my breasts. His mouth dragged along my cheek as his finger pressed harder against me, beginning to move in small slow circles. I pulled and pulled on my arms and legs, my body desperately needing to move, but the shackles held me tight. The man’s free hand pressed on the front of my throat. His firm yet gentle grip pushed my back against the wall.
His finger worked faster at my clit. The hand on my throat asserted his strength, domination, and complete control. His forehead pressed against mine, his breath panting as fast as my own.
I moaned loudly as a wave of pleasure pulsed through my weakened legs. His lips rolled together, his cheeks flushing with red. Edging closer until we breathed the same air, he said, “You like that, kotyonok? You like the feel of my hand on and in your cunt?” My body jerked as his illicit words added to the pressure building in my core. I tried to obey his command. I tried to answer. But when the hand on my face moved to my behind, a cry was the only response I could offer.
His finger on my clit circled faster and faster; then suddenly the hand on my behind slipped through to approach my core. My eyes snapped open when his finger traced around my entrance. Two hands, two of his long fingers placed at the wet center of my spread legs.
Warm breath drifted over my face, and as our gazes collided he said, “I am taking this hot cunt, kotyonok.” I cried out when his finger took hold. A light began building behind my eyes. His breath mingled with my cries, and he added, “I’ll own you.”
I cried out as my legs began to tremble, something beginning to build at the bottom of my spine.
“What is your name?” he pushed, the touch of his two talented fingers seeming to be everywhere—in my body, my mind, and my soul.
Seizing upon a morsel of sensibility, I rasped, “Elene … Melua.”
His chest pinned me against the wall, his fingers increasing in speed, round and round, in and out. A high-pitched moan clawed up from my chest.
He pushed again, “Who is Zaal Kostava to you?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I fought the all-consuming sensations inspired by the orchestrations of his fingers and breathlessly answered, “No one. I don’t know him.”
The fingers increased in speed until I feared the bolts of pleasure shooting up my spine would tear free and consume my entire body. Then suddenly my muscles tensed, my heart slammed fast, and a brilliant light burst behind my eyes. I resisted the combustible tingling between my legs, but the man’s face closed in and he ordered dominantly, “Come!”
Screaming at the crash of bliss taking my body hostage, my lungs burned and my skin dripped with dampness.
He growled before me, and I felt his rock-hard length pressing against my thigh, its wet tip coating my skin. But his fingers didn’t stop; they circled and circled against my clit until I began to convulse. My core was too sensitive. I couldn’t stand his touch. My muscles tensed, testing the strength of the shackles.
My eyes rolled open. On seeing him watching me with a blazing expression, I begged, “Please,” in a ragged voice, “it’s too much. I can’t take it.”
But he didn’t stop; instead he worked his fingers faster and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Elene,” I choked, gasping for breath.
His fingers moved faster still until I could feel the pressure rebuilding in my spine. “No,” I begged, “not again. I can’t—”
But he kept on driving his hands, punishing me with the overwhelming sensations.
“Who is Zaal Kostava to you?” he asked again.
I shook my head, tears slipping down my cheeks. “No one. I don’t know him!”
I choked on a sob as the pressure built again. Just as the blinding light behind my eyes splintered into a million shards, he asked, “Who is your family? Where is your family, little Georgian? Tell me!”
Pain sliced me in half at the mention of my family, more than any dagger ever could. As the torturous bliss burst inside of my tired body, I released two decades’ worth of pain and screamed, “They’re dead! They were massacred right before my eyes! Are you happy?” I coughed on my harsh words and croaked, “Are you happy now that you’ve made me break?”
My heart raced in the aftermath, a mixture of the intense pleasure coming down and the devastating memory of that day now in full view of my mind’s eye.
Sobs racked my body. It took me a moment to realize that the man had removed his fingers from me. His chest no longer pressed against my skin. Instantly I felt cold, my body hanging limply supported only by the chains. Blurry-eyed, I lifted my head to see him frozen before me, watching me, scarred face stern and muscles tense. A sense of incredible embarrassment consumed me when I thought of what he had just done.
But the sorrow it gave way to forced me to whisper, “I am alone. I have always been alone. They were all killed—parents, grandmama, my younger siblings, and my brothers that I adored. I survived.” I steeled my gaze. Without a single tremble in my voice, I said, “Most days I wish to all hell that I had died, too.”
The man seemed to flinch at my words, but his hand lifted. For a split second I wondered if he was going to offer me comfort, to try to touch my face. No sooner had he lifted his hand than he snapped it back to place it at his side.
His mouth opened as if wanting to speak, but with a swift turn of his heel he pounded out of the room. I watched him go. Left alone, hanging from these chains, I replayed the image of his bunched muscles as he left, and his fingers as they alternated from fisted to rigid by his sides. When he’d pushed me for that answer, when I’d screamed how I’d been so alone, something within him snapped. I saw it in his face. I saw it in his stance.
I saw it clearly in his expressive blue eyes.
I now knew he really wasn’t a monster at all. I knew he had no choice in performing these horrible acts. I knew his life had been as impossible as mine.
Knew he wasn’t truly as evil as he seemed.
He was just like my Anri and Zaal. Like me.
Broken.
9
LUKA
A fist of iron slammed into my jaw, snapping my head back on impact. The taste of copper filled my mouth. I spat the blood out onto the floor.
Nodding, I looked at my opponent who was pacing the cage. His eyes were lit with rage, with the fire that I too had burning inside me. Catching him off guard, I ran at full tilt, slamming into his body and tackling him to the floor. Rolling to straddle his waist, I sent two swift punches straight into his face, blood spraying on my chest, before he bucked his hips and I jumped to my feet.
My opponent pushed off the floor. The whole place fell silent as other fighters gathered round to watch. We circled and circled, panting hard, dripping with sweat, both braced to strike. Then a gunshot rang in the air, signaling the end of the match.
I didn’t move. I didn’t take my eyes off my opponent. Neither did he with me. I crouched low, ready to strike again. Then someone stood between us. My blood haze ebbed away, ushering my return to the here and now.
“Break it up, boys,” Viktor called. I took three steps back as I worked on calming down. I glanced across the cage and caught my opponent doing the same. Closing my eyes, I breathed in and out ten times. I thought of Kisa, my wife, and my unborn baby. I thought of our home and my position as knyaz. I had to. I had to remind myself that I was no longer in the gulag. I was no longer a death fighter, a prisoner in the cage.
Feeling a hand hit my arm, I opened my eyes to see Viktor staring at me with a raised eyebrow. I nodded my head, letting my trainer know that I was back. Luka was back. The bloodlust of my alter ego, Raze, had been assuaged, if only for today.
Viktor moved aside and I walked to my opponent, Zaal, whose eyes were closed as he too centered himself.
I waited until his eyes opened and he looked over his shoulder at me. As I held out my hand, Zaal took a deep breath and clasped his hand in mine. I shook it once and released his grip. Zaal’s chest was still pumping fast when he said, “It will take some getting used to, this”—he gestured between the two of us—“resisting the urge to kill. Not drawing out your last breath. Pulling my killer instinct back at the last second.”
My jaw clenched as I instantly related to his feeling. “One day it’ll come.”