Tears of Tess

As much as I didn’t want to admit it—I did care. Not for Q’s safety, but for my own. If Q submitted to men like the Russian, my gilded cage would fast become a dank dungeon.

My body swung in the bindings, and I clenched my abs to stay facing Russian Lumberjack. He moved too slowly, as if thinking about something other than getting food.

My skin erupted into goosebumps as instincts kicked in. The same instincts that screamed not to go in the café in Mexico. I didn’t like this. What’s not to like? You’re mostly naked, hanging from a ceiling for five men to perv at while they eat.

I hated the whole scenario, but something about the man in the white jumpsuit did not sit well in my gut.

The Russian moved suddenly, carting a plate full of marshmallows and a little pouring jug overflowing with melted chocolate. He made to go back to the table, but at the last second changed his mind, bee-lining for me.

I twisted in the cuffs, trying to back away, but it was no use. My eyes shot to Q, imploring him to pay attention and stop this, but his head was bowed deep in conversation with Grey Moustache.

The Russian stopped at the bottom of the pedestal, gawking at me. Up close, his skin was pockmarked from acne and shone with grease. His buzzed hair looked coarse, and smelled of too much hair product. He shifted, smiling with a few gold capped teeth. “Privet, krasivaya devushka.” He caressed my knee through the filigree material. “It means, hello, pretty girl.” His voice rumbled, sending fear into overdrive. Where he touched, my skin crawled, and if skin could throw up, it would.

Again I looked at Q, disbelieving he’d let the man touch me. He didn’t seem to notice or care. His body twisted away, hands clasped tightly on the table as he nodded at something Big Nose said.

He shut me out with a bear of a man who gazed with unbridled horniness. It wasn’t a sensual kind of lust like Q; it was a savage need to rut. To cause pain. I had no doubt he’d enjoy my screams.

With a sadistic smile, the Russian reached for the jug of melted chocolate, and with a calculated gleam, dribbled some on my thigh. The chocolate teetered on the edge of too hot; I hissed between my teeth.

Q shifted, but didn’t turn to look. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t know if I’d be in deeper trouble. Maybe by not looking, Q gave the Russian permission to do what he wanted.

Russian Lumberjack grinned and placed the plate of marshmallows on the floor, but kept the small jug of chocolate.

Oh, f**k.

“Don’t. Leave me the hell alone,” I demanded, voice shaky.

Q’s pale green eyes landed on me and skin prickled with relief. He wouldn’t let this man taunt me.

My mouth parted as something white-hot passed between Q and I, then he turned away.

My heart stopped, betrayal coated my tongue. He cut me out with one twist of his powerful body.

Tears rushed as the Russian chuckled, reaching with fat fingers to grasp my thigh. Holding me in place, his big wet tongue licked chocolate off my skin, dragging saliva over flesh and dress.

I shuddered in repulsion, trying to wriggle from his grip, but he pinched harder. “No struggling, pretty girl.” With the jug high, he poured another dollop, on my foot. With a gross grin, he dropped and sucked it off. I tried to kick, but I needed toes on the ground to stay stable. I didn’t want to spin out of control like I did with 1920’s Man. At least he’d been kind and secured me. This man would probably make me spin, disorientating, making me sick.

The Russian stood, drizzling chocolate on my stomach. It trickled down my front, hardening quickly, but not fast enough. It oozed onto my lower belly, dangerously low, way too close to my core.

“Not low enough, huh, pet.” He grunted, capturing me in meaty arms, pulling me to his mouth. I squirmed as he licked the chocolate, leaving a cold, slimy trail from his tongue. He shifted, ducking his head; one lash of his tongue caught my clit. My entire body wanted to disintegrate from shame and the grossness of being tongued by a gargoyle.

“You’re a f**king bastard. You won’t get away with this.” Images of slicing his neck and throwing him into a roaring crematorium helped endure his touch. All the wetness Q conjured disappeared, leaving me dry, unwilling, completely sick to my stomach.

My eyes widened in realization. My body reacted to Q despite what he did—because of what he did. But I shut down when another touched me. If Q had been the one to lick, I would’ve shuddered in erotic torture, hating it, but secretly loving it. But the Russian behemoth repulsed me. The very thought of him anywhere near my body brought me out in dry heaves.

The revelation my body reacted for Q, despite everything, brought equal measures of torment and peace. My body wanted Q’s, but at the same time it wanted nobody else. Had he trained me so well, without my knowledge? Or had I given him my sense of touch so willingly? Please don’t let him own that, too.

I hated the Russian with a fire that would never burn out, whereas my hatred for Q seethed and simmered, hot enough to melt my body. I may want to kill Q for ruining my life, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill myself so he would never have me.

The Russian’s fat fingers pried my thighs apart and his heavy breath wafted me in garlic. He pushed, and I lost my footing, swinging wide. He stepped onto the podium, catching my swinging body when I slammed against him. He deliberately faced me away from Q, putting himself between us.

Facing the other wall, my eyes widened at the most fantastical mural painted in browns, blacks, and shadow. A cloud of sparrows decorated the wall. I could almost feel wind from fluttering wings as they flew from the grips of a black storm cloud. Freedom beckoned in the patch of blue sky by the ceiling. The painting made my heart weep, needing the same freedom. I couldn’t count how many little birds, but each one was unique, coming to life with perfection.

Russian’s hand grabbed my breast, twisting painfully. His mouth clamped down on my ear.

I opened my mouth to scream, to demand Q to claim me, but an obscenely large hand clamped over my mouth. Blocking nose and mouth, just like Leather Jacket had done.

My lungs seized, and I fought. He chuckled as my feeble attempts made a repulsive hard c**k wedge between my ass cheeks. My eyes flew to the sparrows. I wished I could sprout wings and fly. I tried to lose myself in the painting, willing my mind to leave.

Fumbling between us, he withdrew something, bringing it to my stomach. Something icy cold bit flesh. I gasped, heart bucking.

“Hush, little whore. This is between us. You cost me a lot of money, you know. I think it’s only fair I sample you.” A fat hand fumbled on my lower belly, and the loathsome sound of dress ripping filled me with black dread. My eyes rolled, trying to see below. What was the icy thing slicing through the material?