Chapter 18
HIM
She’s still grabbing onto my shoulders.
I can feel her fingers—desperate—clawing through my skin. Her whole body shaking against mine, lungs stuttering around air they almost never got back.
I let her cling to me a little longer than necessary. It’s a tactical decision. Nothing more. A woman in shock is unpredictable, and unpredictable means harder to control.
I need her present—functional. Aware of every single thing I’m about to make her face. She needs to be awake for all of it.
Her breathing slowly steadies. The gasping softens into something more controlled, and the moment it does, I feel the shift happen in her body before she’s even conscious of it.
The second her lungs stop screaming, her mind comes back online, and with it, the realization of exactly whose arms she’s been clinging to.
Her fingers go rigid against my shoulders, then they release.
I step back first—unhurried—putting distance between us before she can be the one to create it. Small thing. Insignificant to anyone watching. But control is built from small things, and I don’t surrender inches to anyone. Especially not to her.
She treads water while staring at me, her chest still rising and falling unevenly. That look in her eyes—the one caught between fury and something she doesn’t want to name—makes my cock twitch.
I turn and move toward the pool steps.
“Out,” I order.
I climb out first and reach for the tactical bag I’d hidden at the pool’s edge before any of this started. I pull out a towel and press it to my face—the balaclava is soaked through, cold against my skin—but it stays on.
Behind me, I hear her pull herself up the last step, followed by the soft slap of wet feet against tile. Then everything goes quiet except for the steady sound of water dripping from our bodies onto the concrete floor.
I turn to watch her as she’s standing at the pool’s edge, arms wrapped around herself, and she’s looking at me the way she looked at me in the pool—like the answer to something is buried somewhere behind two inches of exposed eyes and black fabric, and if she just watches long enough, she’ll excavate it.
She won’t.
But I let her try. It costs me nothing, and it keeps her mind occupied with the wrong problem.
“On your knees,” I order again.
She looks up at me from where she’s still standing, water still dripping from her hair onto her skin. Something moves behind her eyes. Calculation? Pride? Fear? Who knows, but she’s working very hard to keep below the surface.
Three seconds pass.
Then she goes down. Slowly, like it’s a choice she’s making rather than a command she’s obeying—and I let her have that fiction because it doesn’t change the outcome.
Her knees meet the cold wet floor, and she settles back, spine straight, eyes still holding mine with that infuriating steadiness that has no business existing in someone in her position.
I don’t move. I stand over her and look down without saying a word, because silence is a weapon most people don’t know how to survive. Most people destroy themselves trying to fill it. She lasts longer than most.
“What do you want from me?” she finally asks.
I crouch down slowly until we’re eye level. The balaclava is still cold against my jaw. Her eyes drag across my face the way they always do—searching, cataloging, trying to reconstruct a full picture from two inches of exposed skin.
“Everything,” I say quietly. “That you and your friend took from us.” The silence that follows is a different kind entirely.
“But right now, I want you to open that pretty mouth and stick your tongue out.”
She obeys instantly, tongue outstretched, eyes fixed on me with that quiet surrender. I step closer, lift the balaclava up over my mouth, and let the spit fall slowly onto her waiting tongue.
“This is what you deserve from me.” She holds it there, eyes still on mine, waiting. “Now swallow.”
She does without hesitation. Her throat moves once, and then she’s still again, kneeling, hands resting on her thighs, waiting like she has all the time in the world.
Such a good little kitten.
I let the silence stretch while my attention drifts across the room to Cain, sprawled where I left him with slow, even breathing. Or at least—that’s what he wants us to think. I know the difference between Cain sleeping and Cain pretending to sleep. I learned that a long time ago.
“I think your buddy’s been out long enough.” I nod toward Cain. “Wake him up.”
She rises from the floor slowly, legs not quite steady beneath her. Each step toward him is careful, hesitant—like the floor might give way. When she finally crouches beside him, her hand trembles slightly as she reaches out toward his shoulder, and I click my tongue.
“Ntz. Ntz.”
I raise the gun slowly, letting it drift into the edge of her vision. A reminder, in case she forgot.
“With your mouth, kitten. Not your hands.”
She hooks her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, hands still trembling, and begins to pull them down.
“Are you serious?” My voice cuts across the room. “Move faster!”
She wraps her small hand around his half-hard cock and starts stroking him slowly, working him awake inch by inch.
Cain begins to stir, waking second by second, a low sound catching in his throat as awareness returns.
When she finally manages to take him into her mouth, the jerk uses the restraints to his advantage, lifting both bound wrists and pressing them against the back of her head as he buries himself as deep as he can, a feral moan leaving him as the last shred of control gives out.
She makes a startled sound around his cock but doesn’t stop. She keeps going like every moan he gives her is something worth collecting.
Looks like she’s in love.
The thought hits harder than it should. My cock is already aching beneath the fabric of my pants. I grab myself through the material and squeeze hard, chasing pain like it might kill the hunger building inside me. It doesn’t. Not even close.
I hadn’t planned on fucking her tonight. Hadn’t planned on wanting her this badly. But it seems my cock made that decision for me.
“Fuck him, kitten,” I order from the side, freeing my cock and stroking myself, trying to take the edge off.
She looks at me, and behind the fear still shining in her eyes, there’s something else now. Something darker. Something curious.
Looks like she’s enjoying this.
Naughty little kitten.
She obeys again, climbing on top of Cain and reaching between them, searching for his cock with her hand before guiding it to her entrance.
“Fuck… are you sure?” Cain whispers up at her, his voice rough with disbelief.
“Do you want to die?” she shoots back without hesitation.
A grin tugs at my mouth.
Hot and funny.
He’s a lucky bastard.
Then she lowers herself slowly, taking him little by little, letting his cock stretch her as she sinks down fully. Her eyes roll back, her head falling behind her, lips parting on a breath before she starts moving, rising and dropping over him with a rhythm that makes the whole room feel tighter.
The sounds falling from her mouth are unreal. Every moan she gives him lands in my ears like Mozart—sharp, rich—beautiful in a way that could drive a man insane.
I let them have their moment for a couple of minutes, letting the pleasure blur my presence in the room until they almost forget I’m there. Almost.
The monster in me doesn’t stay quiet for long. It keeps clawing higher, drowning out every sane thought until I have no choice but to move.
I step closer, spit into my palm, and close my hand around my cock, stroking once as the need to touch her turns vicious.
“Fuck…” I breathe as I push into her ass.
She tries to turn her head and look at me, but I force her forward until her breasts press hard against Cain’s chest. The bastard understands instantly.
He wraps his arms around her, caging her against him while he keeps moving inside her, holding her tight and leaving me all the space I need behind her.
She gasps the second I’m fully inside, her whole body locking tight for one sharp second before the sound finally breaks free.
“Oh God.” She moans.
Fuck me, princess.
“You love this, don’t you, kitten?” I ask, driving in and out of her while the room fills with the sound of all three of us slipping further out of control.
The room fills with her moans and the rough slap of skin, the sound turning the air thick around us. I’m thrusting inside her ass like a beast unleashed, my own brain betraying me again.
I promised myself I wouldn’t touch her until the right moment. Promised I’d wait until it meant something worse. But the feel of her ass around my cock drags me straight into madness, hot and tight enough that instinct takes over completely.
One final thrust and I empty inside her, pulse after pulse, while Cain drives up into her at the same time and spills into her cunt. For one filthy second, she belongs to the mess we made of her.
I ease back from them, giving them room to drown in the last wave of pleasure. Letting them have one brief second to enjoy the orgasm still shaking through their bodies before reality closes its hand around their throats again.
Then I hear it—the faint scrape of weight shifting behind me, careful and measured in the way desperate men try to disguise fear as courage.
I turn just as Cain moves. The chair comes at me hard, swung with both hands and every ounce of strength he has left. It lands clean across the side of my head as pain cracks bright through my skull, splitting warmth down my temple and making my jaw tighten for one sharp second.
I raise a hand a second too late, making the reaction look real before I let the impact take me down exactly the way he needs. My body crashes onto the floor, heavy and useless, the chair clattering beside me like punctuation to his little act of heroism.
I stay there, breathing shallowly, limbs limp, blood spreading warm across my skin. And while their attention stays locked on the body at their feet, I give them exactly what they want most—a lie they’re desperate enough to believe.