Sara

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Peter carries me upstairs, and I hide my face against his shoulder as Ilya walks into the kitchen below. I don’t want to know what Peter’s colleague thinks about this madness, don’t want to think about anything at all. I bared my soul to my captor because I wanted him to forgive me, but now that I have, I feel raw and broken, a mess of shame and need, rage and desire. I hate myself for what I’m feeling, and at the same time, I can’t stop myself from clinging to him, from wanting him as much as he wants me.

When we get to the bedroom, he deposits me on the bed and begins to undress, and I watch him through half-closed eyelids. I feel strangely out of it, as if I’m still drugged, but I know it’s just the need he awakens in me, the dark, potent desire he evokes in my body. My yearning for him is all-consuming, stealing away all reason and common sense. I want him to hold me and touch me, to take me and possess me. I want his darkness and his twisted love, and most of all, I want him.

I want everything from him, no matter how much it terrifies me.

He’s coercing you into this. It’s a tiny voice of sanity whispering in my mind, reminding me that I’m doing this so Peter wouldn’t cut me off from contact with my parents, that I opened up to him for that same reason. My tormentor is too perceptive; he would’ve known if I’d lied to him or pretended to have feelings I don’t have. The truth, in all its pathological complexity, was my best bet, only now I can’t shut the spigot off, can’t cover up its ugliness with the opaque veil of denial.

It’s true that I don’t have a choice, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that.

Peter’s shirt comes off first, and I watch with bated breath as the muscles in his abdomen flex when he reaches for the zipper of his jeans. He has a warrior’s body, lean and hard, with powerful, clearly defined muscles and tattoos covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist. Like the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, most of the scars on his torso are faded, but the one across his stomach is fresh; it’s where he was knifed a few weeks ago on the job in Mexico. Those scars are a reminder of what he does, of what he is, and my heart constricts as I reflect again on the fact that I’m sleeping with a killer.

My husband’s killer.

He’s blackmailing you into this.

It’s the truth, and it somehow makes it better when he steps out of his jeans and comes toward me naked, his long, thick cock curving up to his navel. It’s fucked up, but I don’t want to have a choice in this, not when the desire incinerating me is a betrayal of everything I hold dear. Like this, I can tell myself that I’m doing this for a reason… that I’m not completely lost.

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he whispers roughly, bending over me, and I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity in his metallic gaze as he undresses me. The feel of his hands, so strong yet so gentle, makes my body pulse with need, even as my heart bleeds for everything I lost, for everything those cruel hands have taken from me. The tears I’ve been holding back leak out, trickling down my temples, and I shudder as he kisses them away, his lips soft and warm on my damp skin.

He kisses my lips next, then the tender spot behind my ear and the sensitive column of my throat. It’s not until his mouth travels down to my breasts that I realize I’m already naked, my clothes removed while I battled confusing thoughts. His lips close over my nipple, the hot, wet suction making me arch off the bed, and I find my hands buried in his soft, thick hair as my hips shimmy against him, seeking relief from the tension growing inside.

Stop. Please stop.

The desperate cry reverberates in my mind, but I don’t voice it. I can’t. Not because he wouldn’t listen, but because I couldn’t bear it if he did. Maybe if I hadn’t given in before, it would be easier. If I didn’t know what it feels like to have him in me, I might’ve found the willpower to resist. But I do know, and my body wrestles with my mind, undermining my efforts to control my response, to hold back even as I give him everything.

“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes against my nipple as his fingers part my folds and find me slick and swollen, so aroused I can scarcely stand it. “Let me have you, ptichka. Let me give you what you need.” His callused thumb circles my clit as his middle finger pushes into me, and I moan as my inner muscles clench around the digit, my body craving more of the invasion.

Peter obliges, pushing in a second finger, and the moan turns into a gasping cry as he resumes sucking on my nipple, the dual stimulation making my spine curve and my heart gallop in my chest. I’m close to an orgasm, I can feel it, and when the tension finally crests, I come so hard I cease to breathe for a few vision-dimming seconds. My whole body shudders from the relief of it, the explosion of pleasure rippling down to my toes as Peter’s fingers move in and out of my body, stretching me, preparing me for what’s to come.

I’m still in the throes of orgasmic aftershocks when he moves up, his knees parting my thighs as he laces his fingers with mine, pinning my hands next to my shoulders.

“Look at me,” he orders hoarsely, and I dazedly obey, opening my eyes to meet his burning gaze. His heavy weight presses me down, his masculine scent filling my nostrils as his cock brushes against my inner thigh, hard and massively thick. With my hands pinned to the bed, I’m helpless, completely at his mercy, and there’s something perversely exciting in that, something as dark as the need boiling in my core.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His tone is harsh, his expression almost violent. “Lie to me, and I’ll stop.”

My chest heaves convulsively as I hold his gaze, my lungs working overtime. I don’t know why he’s saying this, but I do know what I want, and it has nothing to do with being able to call my parents.

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

I don’t know if I say the words out loud, or if I merely mouth them, but Peter’s nostrils flare, his starkly beautiful face twisting with fierce hunger. His fingers tighten between mine, nearly crushing in their strength, and my eyes squeeze shut as he bends his head, claiming my lips in a possessive kiss. At the same time, the broad head of his cock pushes into the nook between my legs, sliding between my folds until it finds the wet, aching entrance to my core.

He penetrates me with one deep thrust, his thick length stretching me to the edge of pain, and my gasp is swallowed by his lips as his tongue pushes into my mouth, filling me, devouring me, surrounding me with his scent and taste and feel. His possession is rough, his hunger barely controlled, and as he sets a hard, driving pace, the tension inside me spikes again, climbing toward a new peak. It’s too much, too overwhelming, and I wrap my legs around his hips, needing to regain a measure of control, but there’s none to be had.

There’s only Peter and the violent need consuming us.

I don’t know who comes first, or if we get there together. All I know is that by the time the swell washes over me, he’s groaning my name, his pelvis grinding against mine as his cock jerks inside me. The pleasure seems to go on forever, sizzling through my nerve endings, and when it’s over, he rolls off me, gathering me in his arms as I break down and cry, trembling from the intensity of it all… and the guilt that tears at me.

Once again, I gave in to the man who destroyed my life.

It’s only later, when my tears have stopped and Peter is leisurely stroking my back, that something occurs to me, making my blood freeze in my veins.

For the second time, we didn’t use a condom.