Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Anissa
And they say men can’t find the G-spot.
Holy fucking shit, he’s found it, and he’s assaulting it with the wooden tip of the pool stick. A spasm of pleasure rushes through me, and my hips are off the bar, my breath strangled in my throat.
“Fucking soaked,” he growls, half approving, half angry in my ear. “You act like you hate me, but this fucking greedy little cunt knows who owns it. Good.”
I bite my lip to hold back. I don’t wanna give him the satisfaction, but the wood inside me’s unyielding, pushing me to the edge, pushing me closer to bliss. It feels so fucking good. My cheek presses against the cold wood of the bar as my body stretches around the thickness of the pool stick.
“You wanna come, little witch?” The varnished end of the pool stick throbs inside me.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My back arches in my throes. “Little brat’s been playing fucking games for weeks, but the second I’ve got her pinned down, the second I get this greedy little cunt’s attention—she’s fucking dripping all over my fingers.”
Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off, but all that comes out is a whimper.
He leans over me, his breath hot in my ear, and he nips my earlobe hard on his exhale, and a shudder of pleasure runs through me. “Beg me. Fucking beg me,” he growls.
“Fuck off,” I spit, my voice shaking. A part of me wants this, and a part of me wants to fight. I’m confused and aroused, and I want him so fucking bad.
Slowly, with agonizing deliberateness, he pulls the stick out until just the end rests at the edge of my pussy. I can feel the varnished edge, and my body clenches to be filled. But even now, I want his thick heat inside me—not just the damn wood. “Try that again, you fucking little brat.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite back a grin. I love getting under his skin.
“Please,” I say in the smallest, tightest voice I can.
A sharp slap lands across my ass, his palm rough and mean. “Fucking pathetic. Not good enough.” He bites my shoulder, a punishment that sends a delicious shiver spiraling through me.
“Please, fuck me. Please let me come.” My voice breaks, little raw sobs tangled in the plea. I’m laying it on thick. “I need it. Please.”
“Is that better?” He slides the stick back in deeper until I’m pinned between it and the bar, so full I can barely breathe. His free hand slides under my body, fingers curling around my clit—rough. Ruthless.
“That’s my girl,” he purrs. “My lying, running, fucking little bratty girl.” The combination of the crude pressure of the wood, the brutal circles over my clit, and the weight of his body pinning me in place—it’s too much.
I explode around the stick, screaming loud enough to rip my throat raw, my body convulsing.
He fucks me through it, working me like I’m his personal plaything until I’m slapping at him, begging him to stop and never stop, all in the same breath.
I don’t know what I want. It’s too much.
It’s perfection. And then my legs give out, and I’m nothing but a limp, ruined mess on the bar.
He pulls the stick out, dripping and slick, and tosses it to the floor with a crash.
His fingers tangle in my hair, dragging my face up to meet his.
Holding my gaze, he licks his fingers, savoring my taste.
“We’re not done here yet,” he says, wicked promise in his eyes as he yanks the belt off my wrists. “That was your first lesson.”
I’m still shaking, my body boneless and fucked out, when my survival instincts kick in and my brain catches up.
Shit.
Run.
I slide one trembling leg off the bar, then the other, my fingers fumbling for balance. My thighs are soaked, my pussy ruined, my skin hot and raw. Fuck.
But I only need to run.
I lean across the bar, grab a bottle, and, in one quick motion, smash it. Liquid pools over my hands, but I quickly swivel the broken glass in my grip and swipe across his arm. Blood instantly wells at the site.
“What the fuck?” he growls, but it’s all I need. I slip again, and I run. I run as fast as I can. I’m smaller, faster than him, and there’s no way he’ll get through that tiny bathroom window.
I dive into the bathroom just as I feel him at my heels and slam the door in his face.
I press the flimsy lock, knowing it’s not enough to keep him out for long.
I only have seconds. I leap onto the sink, heave myself up, standing on the porcelain edge, and reach for the window above. There it is—my freedom.
I go to hoist myself through the window, but it’s locked.
I hit it with my elbow. Glass shatters, and I push myself through just as I hear him breaking the door below.
He’s gotten in. He tries to chase me, his fingers snatching at my ankle.
They clamp down just as I kick him hard.
I scream and twist, and I manage to shake him off me just as I drag myself through the tiny window and out into the street.
I barrel-roll, ignoring the pain as glass bites into my side.
“Going somewhere?”
This guy in front of me is young, cocky. We’re in the dark alley behind the bar, alone. I’m on my feet, panting like a victim—like a fighter about to jump into the ring—when the guy reaches for me. He wraps his hands around my wrist and drags me closer.
“You’re not getting away,” he sneers. I look for an escape, but there’s none. I dive to the side, but his grip holds me back.
A gunshot.
No hesitation.
I scream as the man drops to his knees, blood gushing from an open shoulder wound. Matvei stalks forward slowly, his vicious gaze narrowed on the man in front of him. Measured. His knife is already in his hand. I back up until my spine hits the wall, and my skull smacks concrete.
Déjà vu.
We’re back where we started.
“I fucking told you not to touch her.” His voice is calm. Flat. Terrifying. The kind of voice that speaks truth, not threats. “I told you to fucking watch the exit and not to touch her.”
“Please! Please, sir, I didn’t mean—”
Boom.
The gunshot shatters the silence, followed by the wet crunch of bone and flesh. Howls of pain and pleas for mercy fill the small alley. No one comes as Matvei advances.
“I told you not to fucking touch her.”
Boom.
The pleading dissolves into whimpers and gurgling. Blood pools beneath the man’s trembling body as he frantically tries to stop the inevitable.
Oh god. I should be horrified. But all I can do is stand there, my breath shallow, and watch. I should be trying to find a way to escape instead of staring, with my jaw unhinged, as Matvei Kopolov punishes the man who touched me.
Because I’m not scared. I’m fucking mesmerized. His brutality doesn’t disgust me. It doesn’t terrify me.
It owns me.
He did this… for me.
“I don’t. Fucking. Repeat. Myself.”
Every word is punctuated by another bullet.
The man screams, then drops, flailing.
Matvei’s moving closer to him.
He looks up at me, his eyes locking on mine.
Cold. Certain. Possessive.
My hands are flat on the wall behind me as he grabs the man’s wrist, drops his gun, and, in one quick movement, takes out a knife.
Oh my god.
One clean slice—and the hand drops to the pavement. Blood spurts fucking everywhere, a rivulet of crimson.
The man howls, writhing in pain, but they’re the sounds of a dying man. Hopeless.
Matvei unfolds his huge body, stands, and steps over him like it’s nothing. Then he turns and looks at me.
His eyes meet mine.
We stare at each other. I don’t know how to explain the way I feel right now.
I should be horrified.
I am. I am horrified.
Am I?
I should be wanting to get away from him.
But all I can think is… I’m a fucking psycho.
Have I met my match?
He moves until he stands in front of me, so close his breath kisses my cheek. Then he brushes a thumb over the apple of my cheek, smearing blood. "You belong to me, Anissa. Get that through your pretty little head.” He leans in, voice softer now. Almost intimate. “You like this game, don’t you?”
Do I?
He turns, grabs the man by the shoulder, and shoves him through the broken window. His body topples onto the porcelain sink.
Oh god.
My hand is suspended in the air in front of me as if frozen in time. I’m not reaching for him, but I—
Will he walk away? After whipping me, making me come, and viciously murdering a man who dared to touch me?
“You think you’re clever, little brat?” His voice is low, almost amused. “You think you can cut and run, and I’ll just chase you like some rabid dog?”
I say nothing. My breath is caught in my lungs, my eyes locked with his.
“Let me explain how this works.” He leans in until his lips brush my ear. “You don’t run because you want to.” He pauses, dragging me toward him until I’m arched into him. “You run because I tell you to.”
That’s what he thinks. Still, I’m curious where he’ll go with this. I’m frozen in time, eager to hear what he says next. “You want to play games?”
“Of course I do. It’s my favorite.” Why does my voice sound all husky and flirtatious?
His teeth scrape my throat, a mockery of affection. “Good girl. I’ll teach you the rules.”
My heart thumps even as my fist clenches in defiance.
I want this.
No, I don’t.
Yes, I do.
And then his mouth is on mine, and his fingers are in my hair, his second hand on my throat.
He’s covered in blood, and I can still feel the slick heat between my legs.
Our tongues touch, and when I bite his lip, a low, masculine hum of approval makes my pussy clench.
The kiss is rough, consuming, punishing.
And I want so much more.
“First rule,” he whispers in my ear, hand still at my throat, “I decide when the game begins.”
“Of course you do.” I shake my head. “Control freak.”
“You have no fucking idea.” He shakes his head. “Second rule,” he says, backing away. “You can run, little brat.”
His smirk is deadly.
“But you can’t hide.”
He’s not a captor. He’s not a jailer. He’s the goddamn game master.
“Run, little ghost. I’ll catch up.”
In a flourish, he’s gone, I assume to clean up the mess of the mutilated body of the man he just killed for touching me.
Right, right.
My mind races.