Mikayla
Pretend. Sink into a numbing abyss and fake it. Pretend, Mikayla, pretend!
The credo I told myself to live by died after the first exaggerated moan. And that was prior to Jagger placing me in bed!
He kissed me until fireworks sparked, causing “pretend” and “numb” to fizzle, leaving only scorching desire.
I steadied my mind as much as I could while he teased my nipples, leaving me achy, distraught and biting my tongue.
Tiny moans slipped from my lips before I had the chance to take them back and recall that I should indeed be offering faux moaning and groaning.
Jagger just bit the crap out of my inner thigh. Then he dug right in like Willie the one-eyed mechanic, who has frequented my mother’s soul food restaurant for years and only ever eats the smothered pork chops with extra gravy. He laps me up like a side of biscuits to boot!
The pain that just zapped through my leg faded fast. An aching desire to have all of Jagger fills my body and has torpedoed through my nether regions.
I grip the sheets, doing exactly what I vowed not to do.
I’m not numb. I’m not pretending to be in a euphoric state. This shit is real.
I feel everything. The way his tongue drags ever so softly around my tiny pearl and dips inside to delve for more of my nectar.
I feel lighter than air. Shiny. New. More gorgeous than words can express and desired beyond any woman’s wildest dreams.
I’m shouting and screaming as Jagger finds the hiding spot in my valley which sends a dam of...
“Malva,” he groans, his breath caressing against my labia.
“Jagger!” An earth-shattering cry slams out of me as he tears up my pussy. “I’m cumming…”
I burst into tears. I’m overwhelmed with the power and newness of pleasure like this.
“What? What’s wrong?” Jagger is on his elbows and then he is sitting at my side. His hair is such a mess that my fingers desire to touch and comb it into place. But I’m a sobbing mess of … happiness.
“Mikayla,” he growls.
“It felt good…no, great.”
His gaze is like a summer rain as he assesses me from head to toe to confirm the truth of my declaration.
I rub away the tears of elation which are instantly turning sour with thoughts of my friends. Jagger murdered my friends.
“Mikayla, are you–”
“I’m happy,” I lie. Pulling myself together. I need to get my head back in the game.
Him eating me out felt like traveling to the pearly gates of heaven. The fresh tears I had started to cry were good. But now my mind is on Cree and my family.
I did this for them. I have to force myself to believe that. I have to, or I’ll break, and that’s not an option.
I hate myself for not staying in character. Acting as if Jagger has a good head game.
His is superb at it. But I’m better… not at it, yet, at the art of manipulation.
Now, he’s exactly where I need him to be.
I climb onto his waist. “This felt so good…” My hips gyrate, and I grind against the anaconda of a cock that’s in his pants.
“Mikayla, we,” his head falls back with a huff. Those blond tresses are begging me to push them behind his ear as he ends with, “can’t.”
I grab the handcuffs which I previously cuffed one side to the under part of the bedpost and quickly clasp it onto his wrist.
“No, we cannot.” My tone is perfectly numb. “Although, I should predict that if I weren’t a virgin, giving it up to you would be rather easy. You are a disgusting, vile, evil…”
He yanks at the cuffs. “Mikayla, take this off!”
The boom in Jagger’s voice has me falling off the side of the bed.
“Evil—I said evil— but I meant pure evil. Rude.” I shove on a red lace thong. “Oh, these would have been perfect for the photos.” I turn around and slap my ass cheek.
“What fucking photo!”
I cackle, snatching up the matching bra. “You groomed me and intended to auction me off to the highest bidder! You’re a sex trafficker, there’s a special place in Hell—“
“I’m not a fucking sex trafficker, Mikayla!” Jagger’s bicep and forearm flex as he pulls against his restraints. “What are you going to do, kill me?”
“Fat chance. You told me about your guns,” I remind him.
“I purchased more from–”
“The Trick!” My eyes brighten.
“It’s not ‘the’,” Jagger huffs, obviously realizing this is meaningless. “Mikayla, I’m not selling you—”
“You said so yourself, while we were leaving Caesar’s Palace. Look me in the eye and tell me differently,” I argue.
“I’m fucking telling you the truth, Mikayla.” His eyes darken like sin. “You are the princess of Nivean! I was sent to bring you home.”
Why? There’s nothing he can say to convince me. Hell, I don’t need to listen to his warped mind at all. I change the subject with the real reason I requested we dine at the buffet from The Palms. I may have just played myself for a fool, but earlier today, I did investigate and learn something. “Jagger, you’re a white male so I’m assuming genetics came into play. You have type-one diabetes.”
He makes no move to refute the diagnosis.
“It will take me ages to figure out how to use the sniper rifle you purchased. And honestly, I don’t actually have to stoop to your level. Death is too good for you. But if you don’t make it out of the cuffs by the time I leave this place and call the cops—“
“Mikayla, uthando lwami… listen to me,” he begins. His long hair glides over the thick muscles of his shoulders and chest. Even in constraints, Jagger dominates the bed and looks damn good doing so.
“Don’t grovel, Jagger, you’re not accustomed to it. You hate fragilities, and that’s one of them. And you hate being a diabetic. So I suggest you save your breath and save yourself before the cops come, or your blood sugar gets too low.”
I grab the rest of the outfit and close the bedroom door as I step out of the room.
Tears prick my eyes as I awkwardly hurry into a super short, crocodile skirt. Next, I’m shoving on the flip flops that Harry purchased since the shoes from the high fashion store are all stilettos and I need to get away quick! The sequence shirt I pull over my head while opening the door to the suite prickles my skin as I shove it over my head.
I hate him, I hate him!
He ruined my life.
Hatred fuels my bones as I run down the corridor past the other double door suites. Placing blame or accusing other people has never assisted me in life, but I need my heart to calcify.
My heart!
I almost trip over my shoes to get to the elevator.
Call me Queen Petty. I’ve seen more death in the last 48 hours than the average person will ever see in the span of ten lifetimes. Earlier, I almost lost myself with just the notion of being physical with Jagger Johansson. The pleasure of it almost consumed me.
“We can come back tomorrow if you’d like,” I mock his words out loud.
Heck, in my attempt to manipulate Jagger, I saw myself slipping into the unflattering Stockholm Syndrome conditions. While learning about it, in an honor sociology level course during high school, the concept went straight over my head. Pft! I am not that type of woman. Easily manipulated by a beautiful dangerous man. No, that’s not me. I can’t fall into that trap. I have to be stronger than that.
I mash my finger into the elevator button and try to convince myself I’m not affected. Out loud I mumble, “How does it look, thanking a man for morsels of a broken ugly lifestyle. I’ve endured too many sleepless nights, striving for stellar grades in college, to give some fucker power over me.”
My heart bangs against my chest as I wait for the elevator doors to open. I’m not asking anyone for help unless they look like me; no, not even then. I will walk my ass straight into the Las Vegas Police Department and tell an officer—no, a detective with seniority, what the hell has happened. Nothing will stop me. Nothing.
I push onto the elevator as a well-to-do man and his wife get off. The woman eyes me with annoyance for not using elevator etiquette and allowing them off first.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my voice breaking.
Tears are now streaming down my face. I begin to second guess myself. What if Jagger doesn’t escape from the handcuffs before his sugar levels start to spazz out? The exclusive elevator is descending as rapidly as my heart slams against my chest with each beat.
I left him…
Mikayla, stop it girl, you are saving yourself. You are a smart woman, and this will be your testimony!
The doors swoosh open.
I take a few steps as the world crashes down around me. This isn’t the casino floor. It’s floor 97. The lower level suites.
“Oops,” I offer a fake grin to the gang of teenagers in swimsuits who are waiting for me to get out, so they can go clubbing by the pool tonight. “I’m still going down.”
They trample inside, and I press back against the wall. My next breath is gulped back down as the elevator drops yet again.
The numbers flutter by in a flash. And I pray that Jagger doesn’t go into diabetic shock and leaves me alone… forever.
An estimated ten minutes have passed when I make it from the tower to the casino floor. The thick, putrid scent of cigarettes funnels into my lungs as I head for the exit which leads out to The Strip.
If he catches up to me, I’ll scream this time. There are too many pedestrians to kill. God willing, some other woman will tempt the schizo. No, I wouldn’t wish him on another woman, and not because I’m jealous about that tongue which makes my body sing. Nope, that’s not way at all.
I’ve just passed the poker tables, when through the crowd of tourists who have yet to let their wild sides out tonight, I see him.
The man from the trucking company. He spoke in a foreign language. At almost forty yards away, all the lights shine down on the guy. I still believe him to be Armenian.
His hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed in a button up with paisleys on it, 70s style. The leather jacket, no doubt, is hiding an Uzi or some sort of huge automatic gun. He replenished his crew, by the looks of it. There are men surrounding him, just as many as Jagger killed two nights ago. They all have on the same suit pants with leather jackets.
The man with the paisley shirt, I recall him well because he stood back near the gates when the rest of them climbed over to shoot at us. I knew I should have run his ass over when directing Jagger’s truck in a U-Turn to get out of the lot!
Jagger mustn’t have noticed him because the slimy snake stayed on the opposite side of the gate the entire time. No doubt the psycho upstairs would’ve terminated this guy, too.
My arms prickle as intuition warns that the Armenian will kill me and Jagger alike, even though I haven’t the slightest idea what is going on.
I stop abruptly. Throngs of people surround me as they head to The Strip’s exit, and part like the sea around my stopped form.
Now, he looks over and notices me…