Ravage
Page 12
I closed my eyes, trying to fight how good she felt against me, but as her ass shifted and dragged along my cock I knew I wouldn’t move, couldn’t move. I wanted her, Georgian or not, flush against my body. I needed it. I wanted my dick sliding in her wetness, and I wanted to feel her moans coming deep and strong as I massaged her limbs.
The female sighed, causing me to still, but then she leaned back against me, her head dropping to lean on my shoulder. Every part of me was frozen. This close, I could feel her breathing. This close, I could feel her racing heartbeat. This close, I could smell her sweet-tasting skin. Unable to stop myself, I pushed her hair over one shoulder and licked over her racing pulse—she tasted perfect.
The female shifted in front of me, her ass rubbing against my hard cock. A rumble built in my chest. My eyes rolled as heat built in my veins.
I placed my hands on her arms and began circling the muscles, bringing the blood back to her starved limbs. Her body sunk farther against mine. My hands explored her body, up and down her arms, until they moved to her waist. I didn’t stop. I continued kneading at her flesh—over her stomach, her torso, until my hands came to her tits.
My hips rolled when the kotyonok’s back arched. Her pussy slid along my dick, and I groaned at the feel. I palmed her tits harder, until the Georgian’s breath stuttered and strained.
Her feet planted next to mine in the mattress and, with her eyes closed, her hips rolled some more. Unable to stop myself from groaning, I grazed my teeth against the crook of her neck, before biting down and sucking her sweet skin into my mouth.
Needing to feel more of her body, I dropped my hands from her tits and moved them down to her thighs. My hands spread on the outer muscle and massaged in. She turned her face into my neck, her warm breath washing over my face. Shivers darted down my back at having her face so close to mine. For a second I entertained the thought of turning my face into hers. But I stopped myself. I stopped myself from giving that much to the victim in my arms.
She was the gateway to my hit. I knew she could never be anything more. My stomach tightened as I considered those words. As my hands explored her silky skin, a deep need inside wanted me to possess her and take her as my own.
I’d never had anything of my own. Even my sister wasn’t mine anymore, ripped from my arms when I was twelve, never to be held again.
This female writhing in my arms was bringing warmth to my cold dead heart. Her strength and courage as she took both pain and pleasure, destroyed the hatred I had of Georgian females. She was nothing like Mistress. This Georgian was a warrior queen compared to that sadistic whore.
Kotyonok suddenly moaned. I realized my hands had moved to her inner thighs. Now aware of how my touch was making her react, I closed in farther to her pussy, the heat of her skin showing me the way.
Flicking out my finger, I brushed it over her clit—it was swollen and ready. As I touched the raised nub, the female shuddered and cried out. Her hands, previously lying to the sides, slammed to land on my forearms. Her fingers gripped deeply into my skin, her fingernails breaking open my flesh.
Flames soared in my body, an intense heat, an unbearable need, commanding me to take her. Leading by feel and need alone, I wrenched apart her legs and pushed my dick through her pussy lips, her hot cream wrapping me in its heat. Using the grip on her thighs, I powered forward until the tip of my dick dragged against her swollen clit.
She moaned in my arms, her head rolling from side to side against my shoulder. But my vision blurred, and a single-minded determination took hold of my body—to make us both come like this.
Just like this.
Pulling her legs even farther apart, I thrust faster and faster, until a pressure built in my thighs. The female’s breathing labored, her skin scalding to the touch. Unable to resist, I turned my head toward hers until my cheek lay across her forehead, Her skin was damp. I pressed my lips to her face. Her head pulled back, and wide shocked brown eyes slammed into mine. I was locked in. Couldn’t look away as my dick pushed against her harder.
Then the female’s eyes fluttered. She choked in a breath as her body stilled. A deep red flush ambushed her cheeks and chest. A loud cry ripped from her throat. As I felt the entrance of her pussy clenching, searching for my dick, a rush of heat took me captive until I roared out in release. Light burst behind my eyes as I came harder than I’d ever come under Mistress’s commands. I fought for breath as, darting my gaze down between the little Georgian’s legs, I saw my release coating her inner thighs. I stared and stared at the sight. A wave of possession rippled through my body.
I stayed still, unsure if I could ever move again, when I felt a hand stroke along the long scar on my right cheek. I threw back my head. Even with this sharp movement the female’s hand never moved. I swallowed and watched as her finger began to move again, down my face, following the path of the scar to its end point, on my chest.
I loosened the grip on her thighs, grunting when she sat on my softening dick. My heart beat faster than ever as she reached down to cover her hand with my own. My eyebrows pulled down in confusion when, taking her small hand, she lifted my hand and brought it to the center of her chest. Her eyes never left mine as she took control of my index finger and ran it over her skin until it stopped on her shoulder.
The female blinked, and blinked again, until she pressed the pad of my finger farther down her skin and silently began to move my finger in circles. My breathing paused when I knew I was feeling the rough skin of the scar on her shoulder. I exhaled deeply and she moved my finger across to her other shoulder, repeating the action.
She watched me like she wanted to speak, but her mouth stayed closed, her lips unmoving. Finally, she journeyed our joined hands to the third scar I knew she had on her hip.
This time, as my finger ran over the skin, she whispered, “We both have scars.”
My skin pricked at the understanding in her voice. She’d spoken to me. She hadn’t talked at me or through me or commanded me. She’d talked to me. Like I was someone worth talking to.
Like I was human. Not a killer beast.
She waited for my answer, her skin gradually returning to its olive tone from the flushed red. Unsure what to say, I nodded my head.
A flicker of a smile hooked on her upper lip, and the coil that was wound tight in my chest began to loosen.
Ducking her eyes, she peered up at me through long black lashes to say, “We are both damaged.” My nostrils flared and my pulse raced when she added, “I think we are not so dissimilar, you and I.”
My lips parted as she uttered those words and a rush of air escaped my mouth. Her finger moved again, tracing back up the scar, when it suddenly took a detour, to move across my identity tattoo.
Her black eyebrows pulled together as she traced every number. When she reached the end of number “4,” she looked up at me, sadness in her expression. Then she asked, “What is your name?” Only this time, she hadn’t spoken in Georgian. Instead she had spoken in perfect Russian.
Questions circled my head as she spoke to me in my native Russian. Mistress and the Gvardii never spoke to me anymore in my mother tongue. Without my sister, I had no other to speak to in my language.
Kotyonok was Georgian, yet she spoke to me in my language and as if she saw me as a human.
I had no idea what to do next. Her red lips rolled together and I saw the pulse beating fast in her neck. She was nervous. As I remained silent and unmoving, she asked, still in Russian, “Where you are from, do they call you by this number?”
I could hear the sound of my teeth grinding together echoing in my ears, but I found myself nodding my head. The female’s eyes filled with sadness, and she whispered, “One, nine, four.”
As my number was read aloud in Russian, something inside of me snapped. Lurching forward, I gripped at the female’s arms and flipped her until her back hit the mattress and my body hovered over hers. Shifting my grip until I held her wrists, I pulled her arms above her head and straddl
ed her waist.
My face lowered until it was merely an inch above hers. “Pozhaluysta,” she whispered, begging “please” in Russian.
My heart missed a beat at the fear in my throat, and I hissed, “Don’t ever call me by that number again, Georgian bitch.”
Her eyes widened, then filled with water, and she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I—” I increased the grip I had on her wrists, but she asked, “What is your name? Please, tell me your name?”
Inching closer, until my forehead pressed against hers, I replied, “What is yours, little kotyonok? And don’t lie. I’m getting tired of your lies.”
Swallowing, she opened her mouth, then with sagging shoulders whispered, “Zoya. My name is Zoya.”
The pads of my thumbs pressed on the pulse of her wrist to detect the lie. But her pulse never changed—she was telling me the truth. Loosening my hands around her wrists, I pulled back and questioned, “You tell the truth?”
Face paling, she whispered, “Yes.”
“Why?” I snapped. My muscles bunched at why this little kotyonok, this little warrior who had resisted that question for days, gave it up so freely.
Inhaling, she slipped her hand through my loose grip and laid the shaking hand on my right cheek. Her thumb gently ran over the bump of my scars. She said, “When you took me, when you brought me to this hell, I believed you to be a monster.” Her eyes lowered, but she blinked away her fear and stared once again at her thumb on my scars. “When you hurt me, when you asked me questions, I did not want to give you the victory of breaking me. But now…,” she trailed off.
“But now what?” I pushed, my voice rough and low.
Skin flushing once more, the female dropped her thumb to run along my lips and added, “But now I see you are just like me.” She ran her fingers under my eyes, only to drop them and run them over the collar around my neck, and said, “You are in pain. Your life has not been your own, is still not your own.” She sighed sadly. “Just like mine.”
Ice-cold chills ran through my body as I stared at this little solider beneath me, slight but with a heart of steel. Lifting her head, she pressed her forehead to mine and said, “We are different. Me weak and you strong. Me a Georgian and you Russian, but our broken hearts are tired and old. Our spirits are low, though not broken. But our souls, though thoroughly tested and hardened through pain, are resilient.” Her lips twitched, and she added, “They are the same.”
Her head fell back to the mattress. “That is why I give you my truth. It is why I give you my real name.”
The female wrapped herself around my heart like a warm blanket. It beat with the hope, with the surreal feeling, that she knew what it felt like to be me. She knew loss and grief.
She too harbored a scarred soul.
My hand lifted, and I lowered myself farther against her body. I groaned as my naked flesh met hers. I ran the back of my hand down her cheek and murmured, “Zoya.”
Zoya’s cheek flushed and she smiled. Catching my hand in hers, she asked, “Can I know your name? Do you … do you know your name?”
I frowned. I hadn’t been asked my name since I was twelve. But I remembered it. I remembered everything; my mind never forgot even when the drugs made everything hazy. I had seen many men brought in and out of Mistress’s prisons throughout the years. But where they had fallen prey to the drug Mistress forced us to take, I had fought it with every ounce of my being. I had pretended. I’d played my part, but I kept hold of my memories. My name was locked in my heart.
“Valentin,” I found myself admitting in a quiet, raspy voice. “I am Valentin.” I rolled my tongue in my mouth, the name so unfamiliar on my lips.
“Valentin,” Zoya whispered, her voice like a balm to my inner rage, and whether I wanted to or not, I failed to control myself.
In two seconds flat, I’d crushed my lips against hers.
It was my very first kiss.
11
ZOYA
It was working. I was getting through to him. What I wanted was going according to plan. Or it had been, until hearing how broken he was turned all my planning turn to dust.
I had let him touch me. I had given in to his every whim. As I hung from the shackles, I decided to let him have me in any way he had wanted. To weaken his resolve.
I had not expected my resolve to weaken to this extent, too.
I’d found myself a slave to his touch, moaning and surrendering to the pleasure he was wringing from my flesh.
When he returned from the chamber, something in him was different. He appeared defeated. His proud hulking shoulders were low and slumped.
When he’d come back for me, uncuffing me from the shackles, bringing me to a real bed he’d pulled from the wall, then holding me in his arms, his eyes had found a new state—compassionate.
My head ached as I wondered if this was yet another trick, but something in my gut told me it was real. I had broken through his high wall.
He was gentle yet firm. When he brought himself to pleasure in tandem with my own, I knew something was different. The air had charged with static, and there was something new in his touch—tenderness and exploration—that had calmed and soothed my heated blood.
Valentin. His name was Valentin. Such a beautiful name for one so brutal and scarred. For one so vicious. Yet, even though it was dangerous, I felt compelled to reveal my true name.
I knew there was a better man deep inside. Irrationally, I wanted him to know my true name. Because the next time he brought me to pleasure, I wanted it to be my name that rolled from his soft lips.
And then he kissed me.
His lips were soft but firm as they pressed against mine. My heart fired like a cannon as his hard chest grazed mine, every part of my body alight with life and sensation.
Our lips at first were still and afraid, but Valentin slowly parted his lips and began caressing them against mine. I moaned as I tasted his dark spice scent on my lips. Spurred on by my groan, his large hands wrapped into my hair, forcing me closer to him still. Valentin paused, his warm breath filling my mouth, until my hands threaded behind his head and our lips fused. His mouth was hot as we explored, then, to my surprise, his tongue pushed between the seam of my lips, meeting and immediately dueling with my own.
Valentin groaned, his rumbling chest causing my breasts to ache. He kissed and kissed my mouth until my lips felt swollen and tender.
Withdrawing his tongue, Valentin broke from the kiss, his blue eyes bright once again. He hovered above me, his lips just as reddened as my own. My hand left the nape of his neck, and I brought it to my mouth. I ran my fingertip over my overly sensitive lips, then mirrored the action against Valentin’s.
He watched me, his breathing heavy and strained, when I whispered, “You have stolen my first kiss.” A flurry of feelings swarmed in my stomach. Loss and pain warring with delight and lust.
I didn’t know what to feel, I didn’t know whether to feel happiness or betrayal, until Valentin threaded his fingers between mine and countered in a hushed voice, “And you have stolen mine.”
My eyes widened at this simple confession. Valentin inched closer, his nose running down my cheek and along to the nape of my neck. My eyes fluttered to a close at the feel of his dominating frame pressing over mine. Then he whispered, “I have lived eighteen years not as my own. I have had no choices, no free will. I have tortured, and I have been tortured in return. I have given pain, and I have had pain thrust upon me.” He paused, then added, “I have been fucked, and I have been forced to fuck until I could barely stand. But I have never given a kiss, nor had a kiss given to me.”
I didn’t know why, perhaps the sad cadence to his rough voice, but my eyes pricked with tears. None fell, but my throat clogged and an ache constricted my chest. Sighing deeply, Valentin raised his head and confessed, “I have never before been free to choose.” He paused; then, with a deep flush to the apples of his cheeks, he added, “But I chose to share my very first kiss with you.”
I let my eyes drift to view the pulley hanging from the ceiling, directly above the bed, as I held my enemy—my torturer—in my arms. His body was too big, his skin and demeanor too rough, yet I felt strangely safe.
I had thought this man a monster, heavily scarred and violently cruel. Thought him an evil and unfeeling torturer from hell. My eyes tightly shut as my mind drifted back to a story my grandmama would tell, of the folktale monster that lived in the woods behind our Tbilisi estate. A monster so big and so fierce, it was told to children that once captured they would never escape. I remembered sitting on my grandmama’s knee as she told me the tale and asking why the monster wanted to hurt people.
“Because he is a monster,” my grandmama said. “He just likes to hurt people. There is no rhyme or reason.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Why what?” Grandmama replied in confusion.
I folded my arms across my chest. “There has to be a reason. Nobody, not even the biggest and scariest of monsters, hurts people for fun. Something must have happened to make him so mad.”
My grandmama shook her head, smiling, and pressed a kiss on my head. “You are thinking too much, my love.”
“No,” I argued. “He must have been hurt, too.” My eyes widened. “Did the people hurt him first? Did they not like him because he was different? Maybe that’s why he’s so mad. Maybe someone hurt him first and he just wants to be loved.”
Grandmama stared at me and, hugging me to her chest, said, “I love the way you think, my love, but sometimes, people who are bad are simply bad.”