20. Katya
CHAPTER 20
KATYA
Grief certainly doesn’t make you hungry, hospital food and painkillers don’t help either, but sex? Sex apparently makes you starving.
The next day, I feel like a different person. For one, I hate myself, and I’ve really never felt that way before. I used to hate the world and the fact that I had been left to such a miserable fate, but I didn’t hate Katya. Katya was an amazing ballerina, and Pietro loved her. I never questioned Pietro’s judgment before, so why start now?
Now, I have ample reason. Pietro is dead, so I’m not cheating on him, but what about myself? What about my soul that still belongs to the boy who was my dance partner all those years? Who held my hand and kissed me, helped me through the worst of times, and loved me when no one else did.
Well, my soul seems to be attaching herself to a man more than twice her age who fucked her with a gun. I shiver in disgust.
Pietro’s patience was such a gift. He shared my religious beliefs, but it was hard for him so often with the way we danced and how he had to touch me, yet he never made me feel like I needed to give him sex for him to love me. We planned to get married and make love for the first time somewhere special and start trying for kids right away.
Fyodor hasn’t waited for a damn thing from me, and it stings to know the good guy lost while the villain gets whatever he wants. And even still, it’s hard for me to think of Fyodor that way when he’s ultimately been kind to me and made me feel so fucking good.
What would the boy I loved so much think of the girl who orgasms on guns and not only has sex out of wedlock, but fucks like a dirty slut? I don’t need to imagine too much. I’d heard his opinion of loose women enough times.
The self-hatred compounds as those thoughts make me wet and needy again. Where’s Fyodor to force another round on me, make me take that insane cock and whatever else he wants to put in me? Maybe he’ll choke and smack me again. The pain feels superficially good, lighting my nerve endings up like a fireworks display, and the pain is the least I deserve.
The IV stand beside me thankfully doesn’t beep, so while I’m getting the fluids and medicine I need, I’m not as miserable as I was in the hospital. In fact, other than the disgust lingering in my stomach, I feel stronger than I have in weeks.
It seems the private doctor Fyodor hired is giving me better care than the shitty hospital. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing how they would send their billing department once a day to update me on the absurd numbers my bill reached while I lay there with the audacity to need help without having insurance, but still, I think it’s bullshit.
Eventually, I force myself to sit up. Sweat-soaked piles of cotton surround me. I’m not sure I’ve ever slept on sheets so nice, and I’m ruining them. The room has a little more going on than I realized, but my head is clearer as the infection recedes. A few watercolors of the beach cover the wall, and I realize the soft grayish tone is meant to be sand.
I’m stupidly expecting privacy, some time to think and heal in peace, but I need to get over that idea because fingers drum across the door, and it opens again without anyone asking to come in. I’m of two minds when I see Fyodor standing there, but both the guilty cheater and the horny fool blush for him.
He doesn’t say anything as he steps into the room. It takes me a minute to realize he’s holding things as the eye contact between us is nearly as intense as him being inside me last night. There’s this strange intimacy between us now that I don’t understand.
No matter how much I loved Pietro, I didn’t share this connection with him. Part of me understands why you’re supposed to wait until marriage to have sex—because his presence inside me has changed me on a chemical level.
He moves to the IV stand, still not speaking, and starts to dose medicine out into syringes and then inject it into the ports. Once he’s done, he throws everything into a Sharps container that I stare at with lustful eyes. My reasons for wanting to die might be different now—I deserve to burn in hell—but the urge to leave this world is as strong as ever. Well, except for when he was inside me, and it was nearly entirely gone.
“Look at this fucking container again, and I’ll smack your ass black and blue so even lying there flat is misery.”
“Lying here flat is already misery.”
“You’re on too much Dilaudid for that to be true, Kotyonok.”
“I really can’t feel much of anything,” I agree, appreciating for once that my misery is nearly all internal. Physical pain is shockingly tiring. When you have pain, you can’t escape with rest or any typical methods. It slowly wears on you until you go crazy. It’s been nine weeks, and I’m not sure how to handle doing this forever.
We’re quiet for a long time as he watches the stand. I don’t have a thing to say, but his presence feels so good. Like I’m not so alone in the world, like someone I share something with is still here beside me.
I’m worse than stupid for allowing myself to bond with him over what we did. Haven’t I watched enough shows and movies? Sex is different for men and women, and just because I feel oddly bound to him doesn’t mean he returns any such feelings for me.
He owns me, so the idea that he could bond with me or seriously care for me is absurd. What do I want? Monogamy? From a man who owns me? He chooses where I sleep and what I eat. The only daylight I’ve seen has come through that window. He’s not even brought me back down to those absurd skylights. I’m sure I don’t get any say in who he fucks, and he proved while I was out of it that includes me.
I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, but it must happen because he’s suddenly back in action, removing the tubing from the IV but leaving the port in my arm so he can hook me back up later. I want to ask him what he’s doing, but with my most recent revelation heavy on my heart, I can’t bring myself to bother him for anything more than what he’s doing for me.
“Arms up,” he says, and I obey. I don’t know why, but I can’t help imagining him fucking other women how he was fucking me last night. I don’t dare speak, let a tear shed, or mention any of this absurdity, but I can’t stop my imagination showing me all the women he’s bound to fuck who are not me. Does he come in them too?
I wrap my arms around his neck because he seems to want me to, not because I’m desperate for the closeness or whatever the hell he’s willing to give me before he leaves and he’s back inside someone else. He picks me up once again, and it takes all my strength not to whimper.
I’m starting to grow accustomed to being carried by him in a way that’s dangerous. I’m already feeling strangely attached, worried about who he’s fucking. I guess I could say since he’s with me without protection it is my business, but in what world do I get to worry about those things anymore? If he wants to keep me clean, he’ll keep me clean. If he doesn’t, he won’t.
There are other crime families in this city, and Fyodor isn’t even the most powerful one, but he’s got more than enough pull to keep someone like me. Though he is around an awful lot for a man with a piece of an empire to run…
Once we’re in the bathroom, he places me on the edge of the gorgeous Jacuzzi tub. He has a bottle of surgical antiseptic rinse waiting, and I’m gagging before I smell it. It doesn’t smell bad or anything, clean, fresh, and like all the worst suffering I’ve ever felt.
He mixes it into a small amount of water, making a lightly sudsy wash, and starts by gently scrubbing my legs. He pulls the plug on the bottom of the tub so the germy, bloody water can easily drain away. The cleanser stings, and even though his large hands are gentle, they’re thorough.
“This is what you were supposed to be doing, Kotyonok. Caring for your fucking wounds to avoid infection.” Where does his anger stem from? How much is all of this costing him? I don’t blame him, but also, why the hell is he doing it?
“I see,” I grit as he works around my left ankle, but I don’t see anything at all.
Once he’s done, he plugs the tub and runs the water again, getting it hot and steamy and pouring more of the surgical cleanser in to turn the water into something antiseptic and healing.
“Come on.” He grabs me beneath my arms and helps me slide into the water. “It’s time to get clean.”
He kneels behind the tub, and I expect him to lather a washcloth or something, but instead, he rubs a bar of soap on his bare hands and slips his lathered palms over my shoulders. His thumbs dig into my muscles, and I moan in shock, pleasure, pain. Fuck.
He continues digging his fingers through my muscles, and I can’t help the moans spilling from my lips. I’ve never had a massage before in my entire life, and I’ve never needed one more than I do now.
He applies more soap to his hands before he moves to my arms and gives them the same treatment. He soaps and massages my whole body before he finally speaks, and I’m nearly panting for him as his hands move.
“There are things to live for, Katya, things to make you feel good.”
I laugh, but it lacks all humor.
“The things that make me feel good are part of why I want to die.” I don’t know what prompts the honesty. Maybe he’s just softened me up so thoroughly I can’t even find my guard.
“What does that mean?”
“The man I love is dead, and I’m here, doing things with you I never did with him. I’m betraying him. I came while betraying him.” I want to do it again.
His hands freeze, and I expect anger, his hands squeezing me, anything but the softest caress.
“I felt like that the first time I was with someone after my wife when she passed. It’s not an easy feeling.”
I want to ask how she died, but I know that’s not my place. I’m lucky he’s shared this much of himself with me and been this kind to me despite how grossly he overpaid for a broken sex slave.
He touches my face again, making me feel small, protected, and slightly threatened. “You need to understand that you are mine in a way that you will never be his, and you don’t need to suffer for that. I did not ask for your virginity. I took it. I made you come, and I came inside you. Those things can’t be undone, and I am the one who chose them. The fact you like them simply means I’m good.”
His words break my heart and make my pussy wet. I don’t understand my own emotions, least of all my body that’s suddenly screaming for another round of sex with him. His line of thinking is working, making me want to hand everything over to him.
“This body is mine,” he whispers in my ear. His hands slide over my chest, finding my very hard nipples. I squeal as he gently twists them, and the sensation shoots to my pussy. He’s showing me so many sensations that I didn’t know existed, that I was waiting to have, and are now all being forced on me. Is it forced if I don’t say no? What if the word no means nothing?
Forgive me, Pietro, I beg just once before answering.
“Yes.” I don’t bother arguing with what we both know is true. This part of me, at least, belongs only to him. I just can’t ever expect him to return that favor to me.
“It doesn’t matter what you want. Does it, Kotyonok? This body only belongs to me.”
I think hard about his question, letting myself be honest about what I want and what I need. Guilt rips my stomach open, pain brings a tear to my eye, and the truth makes my pussy weep.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“Put your hands up on the edge of the tub and let me see that cunt.”
I reach forward, grabbing the porcelain as he instructed, and he reaches into the water to help me adjust my legs and get up on my knees. It aches, but I can take it for now. My ass and pussy sting with cold as they bob above the water.
He doesn’t waste any time, pressing his nose into my pussy and inhaling deep. Hands dig into my thighs and pull me tight against his mouth. His tongue slides into the hole, and I jerk in surprise as he fucks me much deeper than I thought a tongue was capable of. I’ve heard a lot of things about sex and getting eaten out, but I always understood it to involve getting licked. I didn’t realize you could get speared with a tongue like this. My pussy quakes around his tongue.
“You’re too clean,” he tells me to explain his actions. “Needed a taste of your cunt right from the source.”
He follows the line down to my clit, and his nose presses deep in my ass as he sloppily licks my clit and lips. It’s all so good, so demeaning. Is there any mystery left for me and this man? I’m pretty sure if there is, he’ll turn that stone.
“Did that boy ever taste this?” he asks, cruelly ripping pleasure from me.
“No.” A sob rips from my throat. “Just you.”
“Good. Every piece of this body is mine.”